The Hourglass

Some time ago, I told you about my desire to use an hourglass to time our spankings. My wish came true last week. (I know you're all saying to yourselves, be careful what you wish for.)

I had been browsing through some shops on my lunch hour, and happened to find a fifteen-minute hourglass, intended as a desk ornament. It was black wood, and the sand was sparkling white. The price was reasonable so I bought it, and started to plan how we would use it.

I still had some time before I had to return to the office, so I continued on to the next shop that looked interesting. Wouldn't you know it? There were hourglasses for sale there too. They were only five-minutes ones, and I didn't think that would allow us to even get started, so I left them on the shelf.

The following Saturday I told Ron that we had a new accessory for our spanking encounter.

"So, how long is it for?" he asked, but I wouldn't say. I didn't want him to worry about the length of time.

"That's for you to find out. Be creative and keep going until the sand runs out."

He chose the bamboo spatula, the belt and the ping pong paddle and got down to business.

The spatula was first, despite my objections. It is so stingy at the best of times, but on an unwarmed-up bottom - yeowch!

The belt came next, but Ron didn't give me much time to savour it before he switched to the ping pong paddle.

"You're using the red side, aren't you?" I thought a little conversation would help the time pass more quickly.

"Right." As Ron rotated through the three implements again and again, I guessed the colour of the side of the paddle he was using. I was usually wrong.

Even though I was becoming numb, the two wooden paddles still elicited shrieks from me. When the belt was applied lower down, to the top of my thighs, I felt that sharply too.

I looked up at the hourglass sitting on top of my dresser. Was it stuck?

"How's this working for you," Ron inquired.

"Oh, fine." Me and my bright ideas.

"Is it 20 minutes?"

"No, 15." No point in concealing the number now.

"You've got five minutes left."

Ron resumed his paddling with renewed energy.

 Suddenly I heard a loud crack and something hit the wooden floor to my right. The bamboo spatula had broken.

Ron was concerned. "Can it be fixed? Glued? It's split here." He showed me where the wood had separated.

"You would have to sand it. I might get splinters."

"It's not worth it then. But it was my favourite." They're all his favourites at the time. Ron put the spatula aside and picked up the belt. I glanced at the clock and did some rapid mental arithmetic. Thirteen minutes had passed. The belt came down hard, once, twice, then Ron stopped.

"There's blood."

"Blood? Really? Where?"

"Right here." Ron touched a spot between my cheeks. "I don't know how I did that but we'd better stop."

Fair enough. Together we watched the last grains of sand trickle down onto the tiny mound in the lower half of the timer.

Two hours later, I checked my bum in the mirror. It was still bright red. I told Ron, and he seemed rather pleased.

"That should do you for three weeks or a month."

I gave him a hug and a big kiss. "I don't think so. I'm so greedy."

Maybe I should go back and buy the five-minute timer. We could always turn it over when the sand ran out.