Haron from The Punishment Book recently posted about a punishment caning she received:
I bent down with my elbows on our spare bed and my backside arched up as invitingly as I could manage. It was in my best interest that Abel had a perfect shot at it: the last thing I wanted was a wrap, or a stray stroke on my mid-thigh only because there’s so little space in the room to take a good aim. I dug my fingers into the blanket and concentrated on breathing.
If you think it was atrociously painful, you’re right: I saw stars on every stroke; Ursa Major and all its cubs. Despite my best efforts I wriggled, and put my hands back, and behaved like a girl who should really know better. And actually, I did know better, but I couldn’t help it: I had no control over my hands, or my wiggling behind. I just wanted it over.
However, it appears Haron was more aggrieved by the stereotypical reason for her caning than by the caning itself:
The embarrassing thing about my punishment was its cause: it was a stereotypical thing that a stereotypical wife does in your dull, stereotypical spanking story; the sort, you know, that you never read to the end. How would you like to be a walking, bending over, squealing stereotype?
And what did I do that was so terribly stereotypical, you ask?
I forgot to mail a rather important cheque. But not just that. I completely forgot it had ever existed.
Haron, take heart. It could be worse. In July I had to cane Bethie for running our vehicle completely out of gasoline. (Her account is here.) I think I’ve seen at least as many banal spanking stories covering “forgot to gas the car” as I have for “forgot to mail the check”.
Backing up: OK, OK, I admit it. Saying “I had to cane Bethie” suggests a reluctance I did not feel. Bethie says I was “almost gleeful” — and while I wouldn’t agree with that characterization, I have to agree that I was, at least, cheerful about it.
Partly that’s because I enjoy using the cane more than she enjoys getting it, and since most of our spanking is playful, that meant I’d never given her a hard caning for more than a few strokes. I can admit that.
Mostly, however, I was cheerful because of the sheer justice of my cause. Not filling the gas tank whenever it drops near a quarter tank is one of those petty domestic offenses that’s baffling to your average man, and certainly to me. It’s pointlessly dangerous, creating too much risk of harm or serious inconvenience, for no benefit at all. I’d been nattering at Bethie for a year about this, and I purely hate the sound of my own nattering. But caning her for letting the gauge dip low seemed a bit petty. So when the tank ran dry as we were hurrying to catch a ferry for a fun excursion day? Nothing petty about that! I was cheerful because I finally had an inarguable excuse to redress a persistant problem.
So what’s my point? Nothing much, just this: Three cheers for stereotypical caning offenses!
