I’m sure some of us have worried about a cleaner finding our hidden canes, so this story by a new writer to us should be of interest.

By Jane Scott

I don’t normally have tea and cakes on Saturday afternoon with one of my employers, but this is the story of how one time I did.

I was standing in my bedroom with my underwear drawer open, one of a simple pine chest of drawers, with neatly folded cotton smelling lightly of lavender. I couldn’t decide what the hell to put on. That’s not much like me. I’m a decisive person, but this business had got to me and I could feel the butterflies in my stomach. I went to the toilet again, even though I’d just been.

I don’t go in for fancy underwear, although I have a couple of things that Marty likes me to wear; a thong and then a lacy little black item that was always getting tangled up. In the end I just pulled on a normal pair of white panties. I looked over my shoulder at my bottom in the mirror. The panties had a bit of pink trim round the hem and I knew they showed up well against my dark skin. Then it was just jeans and a t-shirt. Normal summer stuff, but it felt right for the caning I was heading for; my first time.

I better tell you what led up to this. First of all, I’m not some naughty school-girl in some saucy private school like St Trinian’s. My name’s Janey and I’m nearer 40 than 30, with an 18-year old daughter. Yeah, me and Marty started young, but it’s gone OK. We’re still together; he’s a good guy, but not that consistent. He’s always been in and out of jobs. Sometimes he gets building work in London and he might be away all week. After I’d stayed at home with Reba, that’s our girl, when she was little, I started working in cleaning jobs. We needed the cash and there wasn’t anything else around for a girl who’d left school at 16. Anyway I didn’t mind. Believe it or not, I actually liked cleaning and I liked nosing around in other people’s houses. You learn a lot. From starting off with a few hours, I soon got recommendations and I was up to a full week’s work every week.

One of my customers was a guy who’d separated from his wife a couple of years before. He had a job in IT and I’d only seen him a couple of times, when he took me on and once when he had a day off for some reason. Otherwise I had the keys and I did three hours every week. It was easy; he wasn’t messy, did his own washing-up and didn’t leave dirty clothes all over the place, not like some I could name. It was just a question of dusting, hoovering and doing one room a week in greater detail. He’d made clear that I should sit down in the middle of my time and make myself a cup of coffee and grab a biscuit. Sensible of him; I would have anyway, but he made it legit.

Peter, that’s his name, always left me my cash on the kitchen sideboard and a little note telling me which room to concentrate on that week. It was an easy job. Though I say it myself, I’m no slouch. I like to do what I’m paid for. And it was easy because the human contact was easy, not like some idiot fussing around you or complaining about nothing at all.

Two weeks ago, when all this started, it was the bedroom. Quite routine; he always made his bed, but the week I did it in detail I pulled it out and hoovered behind. And there, on the floor at the top of the bed, what did I find? A long, thin stick. What the hell’s that? I muttered to myself. I picked it up and saw it was a cane, a school cane with a curved handle. Well, it was none of my business, was it? Maybe he liked being caned. I’d never seen any signs of a woman there, but maybe he’d got a girl-friend and she liked being caned. We’ve all got our quirks, haven’t we? Like I say, it was none of my business and I should just have put it back and carried on cleaning. In fact, I did just that. But then I pulled the bed out again, picked it up and balanced it in my hand. It wasn’t heavy, it was thin and long. I swished it through the air and it made a whistling noise that made me gasp. It gave me a sudden rush that made me sit down on the bed, staring at the wall.

I remembered my brother (he was a few years older) telling me about getting six of the best at school. When he mentioned it, I asked him about it in detail. I’d been slippered on the bottom a couple of times by the head, but that was as far as it went. I hadn’t thought about it for years, not in all the years of being married to Marty, but now holding that thin stick in my hand and swishing it through the air, it all flooded back how I’d wondered what it would be like to get the cane like my brother and how for several months when I was a teenager I’d lie in bed at night and bring myself off thinking about it, imagining it. What would it feel like, bending over and being striped across my bottom?

Then I got married and it all went out of my mind for 20 years. But here it was again, cropping up in my life like a wicked uncle, in the form of this flexible, thin stick with the curved handle. I stood up and swished it gently against my thigh, then harder against my bottom. It stung alright.

Then I got on with my cleaning – couldn’t stand around dreaming all day. But before I let myself out of the house, I didn’t put the cane back where I’d found it. I laid it across the pillow. I knew what I was doing, but don’t ask me why. It was as if I was in a trance. I just left it there, so he’d know I’d seen it. Well, he’d have known I’d see it anyway. That was his message, I thought. Now I left it on his pillow; that was my message back.

The thought of the cane made me especially aroused with Marty that week. We must have done it every night, which is not so common after 20 years of marriage, I tell you. Often, except in bed, I didn’t think about the cane during the 7 days till I went back to Peter’s, but when I did I went bright red in embarrassment, to think what I’d done leaving it on the pillow. Then I thought, so what. I’d found it under the bed and left it where he could see it and put it away. But I knew in reality he’d know I’d left it there on purpose.

To cut a long, boring old story short, the following week he’d left the cane on the bed. It was the first thing I looked for when I went in, and he’d left me a note in the kitchen that he’d not got any cash on him, but he’d be along at 11.00 to have a coffee break and pay me. You can imagine how I worked, like a robot, nervous as hell, but working twice as hard, like a plane on automatic pilot.

I heard his key in the door.

“Hi, Janey, I’ll put the coffee on and call you when it’s ready.”

“OK,” I shouted. I was with the duster in the living-room.

Luckily he came to the point as he handed me the coffee and we sat down.

“I see you saw my cane.”

“Yes,” I said looking away. “Yeah, I didn’t know where to put it.” I felt silly, schoolgirlish.

I glanced at him, but he was smiling and seemed relaxed. I glanced away, going red. 38 years old and still blushing. What an idiot. Then I looked back at him again and we both laughed.

“It made me think,” I said. “I was slippered at school, but never had the cane.”

God, I don’t know why I spilled all this out. I hardly knew the guy; he was my boss and these are imaginations you wouldn’t tell your best friend, but it seemed natural enough with him.

“It hurts,” he said.

“I bet it does. You had it then, at school I mean?”

“A few times.”

We sipped our coffee, then I spurted out: “So what’s it like then?”

“When you get it at school, it’s horrible. But between consenting adults, when you’re older, it’s something special. It’s the biggest turn-on you can think of.”

“Yeah,” I said, my mind in a turmoil, but I was beyond being embarrassed. “I’ve often wondered what it’s like.”

“We can try it,” he said, just like that.

“Try it?” My stomach was jumping up and down, so I crossed my legs tight.

“Yes, not now because I’ve got to get back to work. Maybe on Saturday?”

“Why not?” I said. It seems strange, but I trusted him. I mean, he’d been direct. There again, I imagine mass murderers can seem trustworthy when you first meet them.

Well, Marty was away, down in Bristol on a job. I was free that week-end. So in my jeans and red t-shirt, there I was knocking on Peter’s door. I’d only ever knocked once before, because after that I’d always had keys. I wanted to run away. He opened at once or I might have.

He waved me in and said in a stern voice: “I understand you’ve been naughty and have come to be punished.”

His tone was unexpected, but I realised this was part of the game.

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on into the living-room and wait for me. I’ll be in shortly.”

He wasn’t long. I was standing awkwardly, not feeling I could sit down. He came in carrying the cane. I didn’t look at his face, just at the cane. This was it, then.

“I’m going to spank your bottom, young lady. And then when you’re warmed up, I’m going to give you six strokes of the cane. While you’re being punished, you will stay in position or you’ll receive extra strokes. Understood?”

“Yes.” I swallowed as my voice came out funny. “Yes sir.”

We hadn’t agreed anything about spanking, but in for a penny, in for a pound. I was there alright, but it was as if I was unable to think, I was just floating.

“Take off your jeans.”


“Spanking, Jane, with your trousers down. You’ll be caned over your jeans, of course.”

Saturday afternoon, 4 o’clock, my daughter out down the mall with her mates, my husband away working and here I was unzipping my jeans and pulling them down to my ankles in front of a strange man.

“Bend over the chair.”

It was a deep armchair.

“Right down. Your face down in the chair and your bottom up in the air.”

I could feel my knickers tight on my bottom. The cool air. I felt embarrassed that Peter would be staring at my bottom, but it was a bit late for shyness, wasn’t it?

He spanked me with his hand, two or three strokes on each buttock, his left hand lightly holding my back. It stung a bit at first, but didn’t hurt. I could feel and smell the fabric of the chair against my face. And then it began to hurt. I was counting the whacks up to 10 or 12, then I lost count as my bum began to catch fire. Suddenly I was crying, sobbing. My whole bottom was aglow and I was wriggling under Peter’s hand.

“This will teach you, won’t it, Jane?” He said.

“Yes sir. I deserve it. I want it. Don’t stop.” I could hear myself and one part of me couldn’t believe what the other part was saying. I was panting, “Beat me. Beat me, sir. Pull my knickers down, beat me on my bare bum.”

I couldn’t care less what he thought of me any more. He did what I said. So who was in charge of whom? He pulled my knickers down and went on spanking my bottom. I was sobbing rhythmically with the spanks. Then he stopped and I just lay there, panting.

“Stand up, Jane. Pull your knickers up.” I could feel the cool cotton on my red-hot bottom. I felt like a cow who’d been branded. “Turn round.” He was massaging his hand, which must have got pretty sore, too. God knows what I looked like, face streaked with tears. My hands were rubbing my bottom.

The he said: “Follow me,” and led me into his study.

Docile cow, I eased my jeans over my sore bum, zipped them up and followed him. He’d cleared off his desk. He got me to bend across it, holding the other side with my hands. I was breathing heavily, my bottom was on fire. I felt I was in a trance. Just reacting. Not unhappy. Everything seemed heightened, the colour of the pot-plant, the white of the skirting-board.

“You’ve been a wicked girl,” he told me. “You’re going to receive six strokes of the cane on your bottom. It will hurt. If you touch your bottom or try to get up, you will receive extra strokes. Understood?”

I nodded, my face twisted to the left on the smooth wood of the desk-top. I could feel my jeans pulled tight across my burning bottom.

“Understood?” He said sharply.

“Yes, yes sir.”

The first stroke seared a line of pain across my bum. The second followed. I gripped the desk and held my mouth shut. I thought then, this is hard but I can handle this. He was tapping my bottom for an age before the third, the cunning sod. I started thinking and the first two strokes were now throbbing like hell. When he finally delivered the third, I cried out. I hadn’t wanted to, I was going to be a brave girl, my mouth tight shut, but I couldn’t control myself. Tears were running down my face and I was sobbing through the fourth and fifth. I couldn’t believe my brother had been through this. He’d had no choice. Even in the middle of my sobs and tears, I knew this was what I’d chosen, what I wanted.

Again Peter waited for the sixth. He swished the stick through the air and I winced. Then, when I wasn’t waiting for it any more, he delivered it. I shrieked.

“It’s over,” he said. “You can stand up.”

God, my bottom hurt like I’d fallen off a horse as I stood.

“I’ll make the tea,” he said. “Go in the bathroom and tidy yourself up. You’ll find a tube of arnica by the basin. Rub it on your bum and it’ll stop the swelling.”

I wished he’d rub it in himself, but despite having shown him all my crown jewels and begging him to smack me, I didn’t feel I could ask him.

I tidied myself up in the bathroom, rubbed in the cream. My whole bottom was red and six weals were striped horizontally across my bottom. They throbbed like hell, but the sight of them made me feel great. I’d done it, hadn’t I?

Then I wondered if he’d want me to carry on working for him. I didn’t know if I wanted to, either. The tea was good.

“Was it OK for you?” He said.

“Oh yeah, absolutely.”

We both laughed.

“I’ll tell you what, why don’t we just carry on as before. I’ll leave your money, you won’t see me, but if you want to repeat, leave the cane out.”

It was just so easy.

“Yeah, OK, that’s cool, Peter. Thanks a lot. Really, thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

Then I asked him how’d he got into this caning stuff and he told me. But that’s another story, for another time. This one was just about how I ended up having tea and cakes with my boss on my day off.

The End

© Jane Scott 2015