Dear God, I will be anonymous here, won’t I? My husband and family will never find out? Very well I certainly need to open my heart to someone or I’ll bottle up my guilt and shame inside. I’m 42 years old, married and with a young son who has just started at Cambridge and until six months ago, we had been living for two years in Singapore where my husband held a post of lecturer. Sadly, after six months in Singapore my husband was stricken with ME and was unable to work. We had a mortgage, there was his contract to negotiate around and our son was studying for his A levels. The money worries were immense and I began to look in the Straits Times for work I could do, for I have a degree in languages.
To my delight I eventually found an advertisement from a Singaporean importer of French and German farm equipment asking for language experts with a technical background who could translate the accompanying instructions into English. I applied, lying dreadfully about my technical background, and was duly interviewed in the sumptuous lounge of the man’s home. He was perhaps thirty five, very charming and business like, with a very strong, almost overwhelming, personality. I had noticed how his maidservants scurried to do his bidding and felt myself blushing with a strange conflict of feelings particularly when he quite unashamedly looked my body up and down with undisguised pleasure. I have kept myself in shape and for a woman of my age I am quite proud of my full figure. To my delight I got the post at a very good salary and was told to read the contract carefully, sign it then report to his home every Monday and Thursday to hand in completed work and to collect fresh.
My first task was a 4000 word technical handbook in German and I realised when I started how much I’d bitten off and had to guess at some of the more technical expressions. I handed the work in on the Thursday, collected more and the following Monday I called at his house once more. I was told, to my surprise, that my employer required to see me upstairs in his study. A little apprehensive about going upstairs in a man’s house, I knocked on his study door and was told to enter. He was walking round the small room which contained just two chairs and a desk, clearly in a state of some annoyance. I was told abruptly to sit down and then he looked down angrily at me. He told me there were some fifty technical errors in my translation, minor ones in themselves but enough to invalidate the handbook and render some of it positively dangerous. He accused me of lying about my technical background and, by now close to tears, I admitted it and apologised profusely.
To my distress, he told me apologies were not enough and he would have to invoke the reparation clause in my contract. I was devastated, as if the money worries I already had were not enough, and I pleaded with him to reconsider. At this point, he stilled my pleas and said he was aware of my husband’s plight and our financial situation thus he had no intention of demanding money. Instead, he continued as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he would extract due reparation by the application of a cane across my bottom!
I heard what he said but I couldn’t take it in. At first I thought I’d misheard and the room seemed to go round as I grabbed the seat of the chair.
I felt the blood drain from my face and hands in total shock as I must have just stared open mouthed like an idiot for some seconds. Then realisation dawned, the blood rushed into my face and I became completely hysterical.
Crying and almost retching with disgust and humiliation, I got out of the chair waving my arms around and calling him the most unladylike things, almost anything I could think of, all the time almost squealing in hysterical rage as my pride and my dignity rebelled at the very idea. A respectable and mature married businesswoman with a young son, asked to accept the cane across her bottom for poor performance like some naughty school girl of old. It was beyond comprehension!
He just stood there casually as the storm raged and, of course, eventually it died out and I collapsed into the chair crying and shaking with no strength in my legs. My employer seemd not a whit perturbed by my outburst and offered me a glass of sherry, which I angrily refused. When I had calmed down he said that, my being English, he had expected such an initial reaction as western women had ideas above their station. He told me that his Asian staff were far more resigned to corporal punishment for mistakes and that his three maids were caned regularly. He added that he had employed three English girls previously as translators, most staying with him two years or more, and to each he had offered the choice between canings for serious errors and dismissal. All of them, he said with a grin, had accepted the canings. I shrieked out to him that I was NOT a girl but a respectable married woman who was some years his senior. He told me that age was of no consequence and that if a healthy woman of any age committed serious indiscretions she should be punished with the cane.
I sat there shaking and weeping with disbelief, shame and a whole spectrum of emotions as he stared at me, not unkindly. He told me I had thirty minutes to decide and to go back to the lounge where the maid would get me some tea. In that time I could leave and never return, throwing away a good and lucrative contract, or I could come back upstairs and knock on his door.
I tottered downstairs and collapsed into a chair, my mind a confused jumble of signals. Twice, three times I got up to leave and then I thought of my husband and son reliant on my income and I sat down again, ashamed of my own indecision. Then other thoughts took over as I imagined myself bent over the desk with my skirt up and somehow my husband and son were there looking on in horror. I beat my head in my hands and walked around the room thinking of the options and suddenly realised there were no options. I had a good well paid job, I had lied about my technical expertise which my employer appeared prepared to tolerate if I accepted his humiliating and painful interpretation of due reparation, and what was ten or fifteen minutes humiliation when our livelihoods were at stake?. I just prayed to God that nobody ever found out.
The shame and degradation as I walked back upstairs was now largely replaced by my fear of the cane. I’d never been physically punished in any way and I’d heard the cane was dreadful. How much protection would I have on? How many strokes would I get? He hadn’t said but… I realised I had reached the study and with trembling legs and a thumping heart, I knocked on the door.
As I walked in I froze, for he must have heard me climb the stairs and prepared himself, for in his hands was a 3ft long rattan cane which he swished twice in front of my terrified eyes. All my hysteria was gone and most of my rage, my mind full now of the enormous sacrifice of my dignity I had agreed to make for the sake of my job. He told me he was glad I’d made the right choice then motioned me over to the desk and told me to face the study window. I began to tremble and weep again now as the terrible moment approached, but he quietly told me to take off my jacket and hang it on the chair which I did quickly.
Then he ordered me to take my skirt off. I hadn’t expected that and I gasped with some apprehension but obeyed with trembling fingers and folded it over the chair. Below the waist I was just wearing a half slip and my black panties, Singapore being far too humid for stockings or tights. He ordered me to remove the slip and this time I half protested for although only thin it offered some protection as my panties were extremely brief revealing most of my very ample bottom cheeks. Apart from the embarrassment of bending over in just my knickers, I knew the cane would be striking completely unprotected bottom. He would not listen and repeated his instruction to remove my slip. I did so, red faced and weeping once more, standing in front of his desk in blouse and brief black panties knowing his eager eyes were on my plump bottom cheeks, so bare and visible.
I waited for the instruction to bend over his desk but instead, to my utter shock, he ordered me to take off my panties! At this I half turned in disbelief, my face crimson and my mouth open in protest but no words came out. Instead I just cried in shame. It’s incredible how a brief space of time and the removal of clothing can effect the change between a self confident businesswoman and a humiliated submissive but I seemed powerless to protest or pick up my clothes and walk out. He simply said “In my country women are caned on the bare bottom. Humiliation is part of the punishment. Now hurry up and obey!”
Trembling and crying I pulled my panties down and stepped out of them.
Completely naked below the waist now and facing him, I was ridiculously and shamefully aware of the thick mass of dark pubic hair which I was now presenting to his gaze. Turning back and shaking uncontrollably, I stood facing the window before he told me to bend low over his desk, gripping the far edge securely. I hurried to obey, desperate now to get this over with, my bare bottom now thrust up in a humiliating posture but he wasn’t satisfied. He told me to get my legs apart and to bend lower. I was weeping bitter tears now for it was clear that to his oriental mind, absolute degradation was to be the order of the day. There was no point in protesting for the point of objections had long since passed. I bent lower and spread my legs very wide so that I could achieve his obvious objective that I display my vagina and anus throughout the caning, the sudden delusion that my husband and son were present witnessing all this again filling my mind as I wept in despair..
I steeled myself, gripping the desk very hard as I heard him take a step back then I sensed him raise the cane high and then, with a sickening impact, the first stroke struck the centre of my bare buttocks. All thoughts of shame and modesty were temporarily driven from my mind as my body responded to the most agonising sensation I had ever experienced. A white hot burn scorched my buttocks and the pain began to spread through every nerve ending in my backside. I felt as if a red hot iron had been placed on my bottom. I almost shot upright, but his firm hand on my back pushed me down and he warned me that if I got up it would mean extra strokes. He waited thirty seconds before delivering the second, slightly lower and again with tremendous force which had me screaming in pain but somehow I held my position. Strokes three and four followed rapidly and somehow didn’t seem so bad yet the afterburn caused me to writhe and wriggle across the desk, my lewd and obscene display being even more graphic.
After the first four strokes his firm hands began to rub my bottom, his fingers tracing the weals in my skin and his palms massaging my buttocks very thoroughly. I know now that this was to prevent ‘numb bum’ and was to ensure that I felt the rest of the strokes as keenly as the first but to my shame and horror I began to realise it was turning me on. As a result of my poor husband’s illness I had not had sex for over six months and like a dutiful married woman had tried to suppress my need for it but my God, in this awful, humiliating environment the signals were becoming unmistakeable.
It’s probably no great surprise that any woman lying naked over a table with her vagina and anus on display and with an attractive man massaging her bare buttocks should feel like this but to so unwillingly and so visibly surrender in these circumstances was grossly humiliating. I cried bitterly for my shame was compounded by the realisation that my sexual arousal must be visibly obvious to him. His palpation of my buttocks continued as I writhed and moaned in a now ill disguised sexual choreograph.
As I lay there trembling under his ministrations, I began to believe I was in some sort of a dream fantasy and that soon I would wake up. Here I was a 42 year old housewife and mother whose formative years had been free of any physical correction, who was married to a dear, gentle man who would never dream of laying a hand on me. A woman indeed who had reached an age of maturity which presumed respect and which should preclude even the thought of such debasement. Yet I lay here in the study of virtually a stranger, bent over degradingly and submissively offering my bare bottom to his cane. I began to sob once more at the thought of how humiliating this was and what would happen if my husband or son ever found out. Perhaps worst of all was the shame of his knowing that I was becoming aroused by all this and how much I desperately needed sexual relief.
My reverie was interrupted as he stepped back and whipped the cane in twice more across the lower slopes of my bottom as I screamed in pain and writhed across the desk. He left me for two or three minutes bent over the desk in that lewd and degrading position as he studied his handiwork and, presumably, the obviously engorged state of my labia. He made no comment nor did he make any attempt to interfere with me sexually. This just seemed to be a further punishment in my emotionally and sexually disturbed state for it must have been obvious that I was absolutely desperate for a man’s penis and would have offered no resistance whatsoever. I longed to scream out for him to fuck me but instead I hung my head and cried in utter degradation.
Abruptly he announced that the punishment was over and that he had been lenient as it was my first time. He told me that on future occasions he would be more severe. Then he told me where the bathroom was and said I could go and freshen up before taking the work away for next time. I could hardly look at his face for I was crimson with shame and humiliation as I tottered on unsteady legs, half naked and carrying my clothes, to his bathroom. I first sat on the toilet, painful though it was, and masturbated vigorously, soon bringing myself off in a glorious shuddering climax which left me in tears.
Before I showered and got dressed, I stared at my caned bottom in the bathroom mirror and was astonished. Six neatly laid thick red weals stood proudly above the white skin of my buttocks, the stripes already turning a fine purple shade. The caning had been very painful but I was forced to admit that it had also been incredibly sexually stimulating in a way I would never have believed and I knew at that moment I was hooked. I knew it would take two weeks before those bruises went down and I resolved to be very careful about exposing my bottom in the presence of my husband for at least that period.
After that the procedure became familiar to me and for the rest of my 12 month contract, he caned me perhaps once a month, the strokes now a minimum of twelve increasing to a maximum of twenty four for serious indiscretions.
The only difference after the first time was that I was ordered to strip completely naked for the cane which, strangely after that initial exposure, I didn’t mind and in fact I loved the feel of the cold teak of his desk against my bare breasts as the cane thrashed my buttocks. I only wished he would complete the experience by fucking me but he never did and, in fact, always caned me with clinical objectivity.
Now we are back in England and my dear husband has made a considerable recovery, indeed he has been able to begin teaching again and has recovered some of his sexual urge but I have been left feeling empty and desperate as a result of my belated awakening to corporal punishment and find that in order to be in the mood for sex, I desperately need a good dose of the cane at regular intervals. I cannot tell my husband about this for he would be shocked and distressed so I have written to contact magazines to find willing partners but it is difficult to meet without attracting suspicion and so far my experiences have been unsatisfactory.
