From the Top Shelf - The Editor's Decision is Final

This piece by Josephine Scott, a British CP writer and editor, is the a true story of her own first caning.

A word of advice for all female would be contributors to CP magazines - when you send in your submission never hint at any of your own desires. Just send your piece, SAE enclosed, and nothing else!

You see, I made the mistake of admitting, in one letter to a magazine, that I'd never been birched, tawsed or, at that time, caned and was thus writing only from limited experience.

An immediate reply, so immediate it burned up the postal service to reach me, offered immediate 'remedy' if I cared to visit the editorial offices. What was so special about this letter? Well for a start it was from the assistant editor, not some guy in the mailing room. He had a name, a personality and talked to me through the letter as if he understood.

Even so, I thought I better clarify things a bit, you know, find out what he had in mind so I'd know what to expect. The following are just a few of the comments he sent back, comments which sent quivers and quavers through my quim.

"Twelve good strokes of the cane would be a good start - and maybe a good finish too!"

"You might find yourself across my knees for a bare bottom spanking, followed by six or eight with the cane, bent over my desk, and finally a dozen or so with the birch!"

"How about I give you one stroke of the cane for each misplaced comma and apostrophe?"

I got permission from my husband, who was less than enthusiastic but agreed because the whole prospect turned me on, and I went. In fact we all went as a family, the three of us on a London coach, but we split up at the Underground where I hopped on a tube train to the CP magazine offices and hubbie went off to sample the joys of the Thames with young child in tow.

Quaking with trepidation,I found the worst bit was actually going into the office. Halfway up the last flight of stairs I stopped and stared at the door. All I needed was to turn and run but, as most submissives will tell you, the urge to turn and run is always there but we never do.

I took a deep breath, settled my bag a little more firmly on my shoulder, and walked through the door before my resolve could weaken. I stopped and looked at the two men in the room. They both said "hello" and one came over to greet me.

"You made it then."

"Yes I did," I grinned and wondered if he knew how close I was to running away.

"Come and sit down."

With a cup of coffee and people to talk to, I felt better. The typesetter came in, someone dropped by with some pictures, discussions went on about the cover - did the marks on the model's bottom show clearly enough? Everyone was so nice and I could even forget why I was there, for a while, if I didn't look around me!

"Lunch?"

"Why not?"

I was surprisingly hungry despite the butterflies which fluttered around in my stomach when I made the mistake of looking around the room. It wasn't the girlie calendars or the half pasted up pictures that bothered me. It was the 'black corner' full of ghastly looking canes, whips and birches. I tried not to think about it.

Lunch was a good opportunity to talk and the conversation flowed freely, considering we had only just met. The chemistry seemed right, or at least he smiled in a friendly fashion!

Back in the office we were suddenly alone, the understanding colleague had diplomatically disappeared and my new 'friend' locked the door and pulled the curtains to as I watched nervously from the comfort of a large swivel chair.

"Come on." It was time. "Where do you want to go?"

"Are you asking me?" I stood in the centre of the room, uncertain.

"Yes," he said, looking surprised. "I always ask."

"Then don't. Not with me. Just tell me what you want."

"Right, then bend over the desk!"

My insides had turned to jelly. Completely. Cold anticipation, hot tingling quim. Not even sure what I was doing, feeling sexy yet scared. Doing as I was told without question...well, almost. Firm hands pushed me down and I folded my arms to rest my head on them. Funny how a desk is just the right height for a caning, isn't it? The manufacturers must have known.

"Look," he said, and the cane appeared through the crook of my arm.

"I don't want to look!" I was trying not to think about it. He had obviously decided what I was about to get, although I still didn't know. He turned back my clothes, slowly, savouring it, no doubt, while my knees trembled. My new black tights were lowered and then my pale green panties.

"Oh, very nice!"

"Really?" It made me feel good, restored a little of my confidence, though it didn't stop the butterflies. The moment of pain came ever nearer.

A hand slid softly over my bottom cheeks, feeling their softness. Appreciating their unblemished whiteness, maybe? I don't know. All I know is, it felt nice.

"Now we'll see if you mark, shall we?"

A very hard slap made me yelp. It was much harder than I anticipated and it glowed!

"A complete handprint," he said "My, you do mark easily, don't you!"

Then he placed another one right on top! I could feel my bottom protesting, hurting, but one-sided; one cool cheek, one hot. I pressed against the edge of the desk, vainly trying to escape what was to come.

"We'll do something about this side now," he said , and started spanking me all over. From the top of my bottom near the spine where the skin is pulled tight, to the undercurve which is particularly tender, he spanked me and I cried out as the pain increased. I let myself flop onto the desk and let the spanking carry on as if it was nothing to do with me. Only the sound penetrated my conscious thought, my subconscious absorbed the spanking and wondered why I never thought it would hurt this much!

"That looks fine," he said and, before I could even begin to anticipate it, the cane was gone from under the crook of my arm, was whistling through the air, and was landing with devastating effect on my tender skin. It caught me almost by surprise and I yelled out. It burned like nothing else I had experienced and I gripped the far side of the desk, determined to take it. Then came another stroke, further down this time and I almost stood up in panic but I held on by sheer willpower. Would it be six? He still hadn't said. The third stroke cut across the tender join of bottom and thighs, the tip caught my thigh and brought me to the brink of tears, and the fourth one, which was agony, was definitely all I could take.

I stood up clutching my bottom and begging "No more, I can't take any more" and he lowered the cane. "I'm just not used to it," I apologised, which was true.

"I do cane rather hard," he agreed, putting it away in the corner much to my relief.

I rushed off to the Ladies where, with the aid of a small hand mirror, I tried to inspect the weals. They looked horrific! They were already turning black and blue and they seemed to be everywhere, not the neat pink lines I had anticipated.

Back in the office, with the stripes still hurting, I sat on a soft cushion and let the pain settle to a glow. When the editor came back and asked to see the results, I lowered my knickers and showed him the lines, which left him tut tutting.

"Not one of your better efforts!" he scolded my 'friend' and I wondered why?

With knickers back in place, and a feeling of warm satisfaction spreading to all known parts of my body, I waved goodbye promising to be back one day. I rejoined my husband and child and went home on the coach, trying hard not to wriggle.

It's a good job my friend didn't carry out any of the promises made in the letters - I wouldn't have been able to take them, that's for sure! I was fortunate because an editor's decision is always final and a contributor had little to say in the matter.

I'm glad the other editors I work for are not all into CP or life could become extremely painful, methinks, but interesting all the same!

If you like Josephine's style of writing, you can find her books here.