© 2000 Mary Catherine Whitney
All Rights Reserved.
(M/F, cons, no sex)
The story you are about to read is fiction.
Please do not repost or republish without the express written consent of
Mary Catherine Whitney.

"I'm going to cane you tomorrow," he says simply as he gently rubs and pats my bottom.

I slowly open my eyes, stretch against his palm and strong fingers, then twist on his lap until I'm able to look at his face. It isn't exactly easy at the moment because my flannel pajama bottoms are lowered to my knees and my mind is floating in that foggy, bliss-filled haze that only comes from having my bottom bared and smacked. It's particularly well-spanked and rosy just now -- a bright blush of color that is spread across both cheeks, filling my body with warmth.

I hate to look up, to break through the peaceful cloud of contentment that surrounds me at the moment, but I have no choice. His words make sure of that. They're hanging in the air -- filling the room, my head. It's more than the words themselves; it's the way he said them. He could have just as easily said, "I'm going to wash the car tomorrow," but he didn't.

He said he was going to cane me tomorrow. There would be no more wondering or waiting. When he said he was going to do something it happened -- when he said and exactly the way he said it would be done.

A million questions race through my mind -- the fears of a lifetime concentrated into a single moment. Which cane would he choose? Would it be the heavy antique cane he acquired years ago from a retired headmaster in Surrey or the new, swishy-sounding rattan one he bought last month for my birthday? Just recalling the way he'd flexed that cane into an ominous-looking half circle makes me shiver involuntarily. How many strokes would he decide and would I have to count them aloud? Would I be over his desk? On the bed? Why had he decided tomorrow instead of today or next Tuesday? How much would it hurt? How much would it hurt? How much would it hurt?

I want to ask him my questions, to know the unknown, to find out all the answers at once instead of waiting because I'm afraid I won't be brave enough for what I want. That scares me most of all because I want it so very much.

His eyes meet mine and the questions suddenly fade because I see the answers in his eyes -- the important ones anyway. He knows I'm scared, but that's okay. He'll make sure I feel safe -- AM safe. The rest of my questions don't matter because I know he'll never let anything bad happen to me. Knowing that much is enough.

"All right," I reply. I answer so softly that I'm not sure I actually said the words. He smiles slightly though so I know he heard and understood just how difficult those two words had been for me to say.

I turn, put my head back on the pillow and close my eyes as he begins to rub my bottom again.

Tomorrow is going to be a very good day . . .

If you'd like to email Mary Catherine about this story or Saint Francis, write: