Trying out my Secretary pose.

Raising my bottom up like a good girl after a hard spanking with a hairbrush.

New photo

Fun with body paint

One of the things I enjoy most about being punished is the anticipation. Whether kneeling on a bed, standing in the corner, or bent over a desk, my senses light up as I wait.

I've received many strict canings in my time, but as I hear the soft rattle of one being chosen, the sudden swish of one being tested against the air, I fill with fear. The longer I wait, the more I become convinced that I won't be able to bear it. I find myself breaking, begging, for another spanking, a paddle, anything but the cane.

It never works.

I'm told to be quiet, to behave, to wait.

The cane has been chosen now, I can hear footsteps moving close. I ache to dart my eyes across, catch a glimpse, discern which cane is about to strike my bare flesh. I don't dare.


My skin heats with anticipation as I hear the cane thud against your hand, once, twice, and then crack through the air, impossibly hard. Against my will, I flinch. It doesn't touch me.

I'm told that if I move again, I'll receive 24 strokes instead of 12.

The cane rushes down, and again deliberately misses.

My adrenaline reaches the point where I half want the cane to strike my skin, to stop the suspense, the ever building tension.

I press my eyes shut, and this time I feel more than hear the cane swish towards me, and finally, eventually crack against my exposed skin.

Ouch