I’d told Arethusa to wait for me naked at her front door on her knees, with her forehead on the carpet. 

It was melodramatic and a little cliched, but it was going to be the first time we met. I’d thought we should start with things she’d read about and wanked to. To show that I was going to bring them to life.

So within two minutes of our having met for the first time she’d demonstrated the formidable fellatio skills she’d mentioned in one of her emails. And, though duly pleased, I’d managed to find or manufacture some fault, and put her over my knee, sitting on her couch.

Then she had corner time, for the first but not last time in her adult life. She waited, wondering what I was going to do with her, or to her, next. To be honest, I was a little moonstruck myself, by the speed with which we’d found our places. So I was also wondering what next. 

I thought of something. 

Sydney’s West, that is. 

The beginning of what was to become a long session, and a long relationship. She assures me her arse is still utterly splendid, though someone else is keeping it warm these days. 

I’ve had to do some cropping (you should excuse the expression), but she was and is lovely, body and soul.

She lies back on a little hill. The grapes make an irresistible offer, but not the only one. 

Thanks to the lovely Zoe!

(I think the camera is actually lower than the beautiful subject, because of the slope.)  

Not a scoobie snack in sight. But if there were some, you could toast them on my loved girl’s lovely ass. 

And it’s amazing just how proud and loving you feel, after raising that heat.

And thanks to the lovely Zoe, beautiful of soul and ass, for modelling this pic.

Poetry is what happens is when you’ve had an emotional, moving experience, and then you are able to return to that state in memory, while you’ve not moved by the experience because it isn’t happening any more. That’s what Wordsworth said, anyway: “Poetry is emotion reflected in tranquillity.”

 This is that blissful state. The peace that comes after the storm, and a lovely, calm poet. 

This is my girl, over my knee in a hotel in a strange city, getting spanked. Oh, because she was late home, and more importantly because she hadn’t been spanked for a whole ten hours.

But – stop me if you already know this – it’s actually pretty tricky, delivering a spanking with one hand while taking action shots with the other. This sort of thing is the result. 

Oh, the good photo of the same scene, same spanking? It looks more like this: 

In the last two posts, here and here, Arethusa has been waiting for punishment, for skipping two doctor’s appointments. 

In this photo the punishment has finally begun. There are many strokes to go, but the commencement of a promised caning, especially when it’s deserved, is a relief. 

Of course there is pain, and more to come. But pain also wipes the slate clean. The fault is paid for, and she can forgive herself, and know that she is forgiven. 

Life begins afresh. 

PS: I love those cane marks. They look like kisses in her flesh, which in a sense is what they were.

In last week’s Sinful Sunday, Arethusa stood in disgrace, waiting, holding the cane between her buttocks, not allowed to move.

She’d missed two doctor’s appointments. That broke Master’s first and second rules for her: obedience, and taking proper care of herself. Master said he was going to help her, but first he had to punish her. The wait had helped her to accept both of those facts. 

Her Master took the cane from her at last, and led her to the kitchen table. He attached her wrists and ankles to spreader bars, and tied those bars, and therefore her, to the table. 

Then he took up the cane again. She heard him give it several practice swishes through the air, and she knew that he needed no practice. He just wanted her to hear that ominous sound. Her caning was going to be severe.

The skin of her buttocks and back was alive, glowing with a kind of anticipation. Some of it was fear, but not all of it. At least, and at last, things were about to start being made right.

She stands up straight, as she’s been told. Master sits behind her. She thinks he’s reading a book. She’s to have the second instalment of her punishment for twice missing a doctor’s appointment. He knows that she was afraid that the doctor would find cancer, and though she knew it was stupid to delay finding out, she couldn’t face it. 

Master had said he was going to punish her for disobedience and for failing to look after herself, which were the two most serious offences under his rules. She’d already had a hand spanking and a session with his belt. But they’d felt good, apart from his disappointment in her: that had hurt.

But the real punishment was yet to come. He’d put the cane between her buttocks and told her to make sure she held it while she waited. She wouldn’t enjoy what would happen if she let it fall. 

So she waits, with the cold, hard instrument pressing into her. Until she is called. 

Post-script: They made another appointment, and he took her to the doctor himself, and came into the appointment with her. So he was with her to hear that her tests had come back negative. She was spanked (but not caned) again that night, but warmly and lovingly, out of relief.