It’s been a very English day: a few hours watching a cricket match locally, and then home to administer a caning.

Haron’s home: time to deal with the gas meter incident. She’ll post about it to The Punishment Book, I’m sure (indeed, ‘or else’), and I don’t want to steal her thunder. But a few words from the safe end of the cane might interest some.

The lecture, first, as I held her very tight. How she’d been given chances; how I’d been lenient; how that hadn’t worked and the time for leniency was behind us. We talked about trust: promises made after her previous caning, subsequently breached. How I would be punishing her severely.

She was sent to the spare bedroom, to stand in front of our school desk waiting for me. I selected a cane: one that I knew would imprint my messages effectively. She didn’t turn when I entered the room. I made her lower her trousers and knickers to her ankles, and lean forward: the desk is at just the right height to position her perfectly.

And then I caned her. Twelve hard strokes, marking her: each white stripe transmuting chameleon-like into red to match its predecessors. Plenty of time between each blow. The occasional stroke of her hair or back, to help her through it. Hard strokes. Very hard.

She was brave. She always is. A good girl at heart.

How I love her.

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