It was the first Saturday of the month, a day that my wife, Amanda, refers to as "my time of the month." Amanda, of course, also has "her time of the month," but the expression has a different meaning for her than it does for me. However, it amuses Amanda to pretend we both have to suffer about once a month, albeit in different ways, and usually at different times.

I looked at my watch and it was precisely 3:30 PM, meaning there were thirty minutes to go. Not approximately thirty minutes, but exactly thirty minutes. This was an occasion adorned with ritual that began at precisely 4 PM, and always took place on the first Saturday of each month.

It was not something I ever looked forward to, although the tradition had now been in place for three years. But it was an event that gave Amanda much pleasure, whilst simultaneously ensuring I experienced considerable pain.

It was many years ago that I agreed to enter into a Female-led Relationship with Amanda. It had been her suggestion, and the idea appealed to me. I have submissive tendencies and the thought of my gorgeous wife taking control of my life attracted me then, as it does now. Nonetheless, I am fortunate that I do not live in the strictest of FLRs. Amanda certainly runs the roost, and she takes all the big decisions, such as deciding which room I should next redecorate, what model car we should buy, where we should go on holiday, and so on. For my part, I make the minor decisions, examples being what I should cook for dinner that night, deciding when the grass is long enough to need cutting, or when the bathroom needs cleaning.

The arrangement works well, but Amanda sets exacting standards of behaviour. She had said at the outset that I should expect to be punished for even minor misdemeanours—or wrong decisions. She referred to this as her "zero tolerance" approach and, for the first year or so, she had looked for any excuse to put me over her knees and spank me.

She thoroughly enjoyed doing that, and, to be frank, it aroused also. After all, while being spanked, I was always naked from the waist down, and the sensation of my penis sliding against her nylon-covered thighs, as she repetitively struck my buttocks with the palm of her hand, was highly arousing. Invariably, I experienced an erection and the sex that usually followed, deemed "essential" by Amanda to show that she had forgiven me, always more than made up for the glow emanating from my rear quarters. Whilst I didn't deliberately misbehave, at the same time, the prospect of being spanked did nothing to encourage better behaviour.

All went well, and we both enjoyed the spankings, and the subsequent sex, until the day of my accident. It was a more severe, and more prolonged, spanking that I was receiving and the friction of my glans rubbing against her thighs proved too much. To my shame, I ejaculated, covering her pantyhose with my jism.

To say she was furious was an understatement and, for the first time in our relationship, I was sent to stand in the corner to reflect on my lack of self-control. When she eventually released me, it was to tell me that there would be no more spankings—instead, she would be purchasing a cane, and I would be punished with that. As she informed me of my future, I could see her nipples protruding prominently out of her blouse. The prospect excited her!

I had never been caned before. The thought of being punished in that way was arousing, but, the first time it happened, I was quickly disillusioned that this was an erotic punishment on par with a spanking. I found it horrific. My penis, which had been half-swollen in anticipation, withered to nothing once the first stroke had landed. Canings, repeated on what Amanda referred to as "on a needs-be basis," provided no enjoyment for me. She, though, was always visibly excited at the prospect of delivering up to twelve strokes of a hefty length of rattan across my buttocks.

As it turned out, it only took that first trial occasion, of just three strokes, for me to improve my behaviour. I had no wish to be caned and the prospect of further canings proved an effective deterrent. My decision-making improved—dinners were better, the grass was kept shorter, and the bathroom never lost its sparkle. So much so, that I could sense Amanda was becoming increasingly frustrated by the infrequency with which she could thrash me. For a while, she found trivial reasons for me to be punished--so trivial that even she seemed embarrassed to pass sentence.

And then, three years ago, with a beaming smile, she announced a solution. On the first Saturday of each month, I was to receive six strokes of the cane across my bare buttocks. This, she claimed, was a maintenance caning and its sole purpose was as a taster of what I should expect if I were to misbehave.

We both knew, but neither of us admitted, that a maintenance caning was unnecessary, at least unnecessary in terms of improving my behaviour. The mere threat of the cane was sufficient to ensure I stuck to the straight and narrow, and took the right decisions. No, we both knew that the only justification for a maintenance caning was to provide Amanda with sensual pleasure, and to function as a bizarre form of foreplay prior to us having sex.

As Amanda is the love of my life, and I want to be with her forever, I couldn't bring myself to persuade her against delivering this monthly bout of misery—especially if it were to give her so much enjoyment, as well as presenting an opportunity for me to have intercourse with her. Had I suggested this was a step too far, it would have broken her heart, just as clearly as I knew the caning would scar my buttocks.

Sex, after my monthly punishment, was never guaranteed. After all, there were occasions when Amanda's time of the month coincided with mine, which meant coitus was off the agenda. Furthermore, sometimes Amanda wasn't in the mood for intercourse and instead might self-pleasure, using her rabbit-eared vibrator, leaving me deeply frustrated and wanting. She claimed that the uncertainty of being rewarded with sex after a caning would excite me, in much the same way that the uncertainty of winning adds to the thrill experienced by gambling addicts before each bet—obviously, I wasn't convinced by her amateur pyschology, but I kept my thoughts to myself.

I am ever the optimist and, on this day, the first Saturday of the month, I was hopeful that Amanda would allow me to satisfy my longings and we would enjoy sex after my punishment. It was that hope alone that made the thought of my caning almost bearable. So, I stood there, in the lounge, daydreaming of what I trusted would be a satisfying conclusion to my forthcoming ordeal.

Suddenly, I glanced at my watch. Gosh! It was 3:35 PM and I needed to get a move on. Amanda is a great believer in routine, and she's turned on by the thought of me following a detailed protocol of preparations.

My first action was to set up a tripod, on which I fixed a cheap internal security camera. This broadcasts a continuous, wide-angled video that Amanda may watch on her phone, wherever she might be. This way, she can ensure I am carrying out the required preparations to her total satisfaction. Any deviance from the prescribed ritual is an excuse for her to add punishment strokes to the maintenance caning. Hence, I always stick strictly to the script.

Having set up the camera, and turned it on, I pushed the coffee table away from the middle of the lounge and rolled back the sofa and two armchairs. Amanda likes to have plenty of space in which to operate.

I then went through to the dining room and removed one of the chairs. This, I carefully positioned in the centre of the lounge. I knew from experience the precise spot it was to occupy and, were I to be in any doubt, subtle indentations in the carpet revealed where the legs had pressed in during my previous encounters with the cane.

Next, I went into the study and removed Amanda's cane from the wall where it was on display for all to see. I looked at it with a combination of fear and admiration. It was, indeed, a wonderful implement, made of knotless rattan, and nearly a metre long and ten millimetres in diameter. Around its handle was wrapped red cord, intended, I assumed, to ensure that the holder could maintain a firm grip—heaven forbid that it should slip from their grasp.

It had been an expensive purchase but, as Amanda had wryly observed at the time, I deserved nothing but the best. I slid my fingers along its length, feeling its silkily waxed finish. It was a formidable weapon in the wrong hands, and I was grateful that Amanda was acutely aware of the damage it could cause if used recklessly. Whilst classified as a school cane, its length and thickness meant it was intended for severe punishment, more like what might have been experienced in years gone by in a reformatory school, not a grammar school.

Luckily, I suppose, few of our visitors ventured into the study, but those that did were always curious about the cane on the wall. They would laugh raucously when Amanda would explain it was to beat me with, assuming that she was joking. I always laughed along with them, so as to hide the humiliating truth.

I took the cane into the lounge and placed it on the sofa, ensuring that the handle was pointing in the required direction. As I have explained, Amanda is very particular about the details surrounding my monthly canings. A spontaneous, angry caning did little for her libido but, in contrast, a ritualised event, drawn out and brimming with symbolism, was a massive turn-on.

Looking at my watch, it was now 3:55 PM so there were only five minutes to go before the start. I was required to be naked, save for my underwear, so I quickly stripped off, carefully folding each item of clothing, and piling them up in a prescribed order on one of the armchairs—specifically, on the armchair where I always sat.

I was now standing there, just in my panties. Panties, I hear you say? Yes, panties—white, cotton, bikini-style panties. I wear this style and colour every day, not because I have a fetish about female underwear, nor because Amanda is attempting to feminise me. No, I wear them as a test of obedience. From a distance, especially from the back, they may be mistaken for male underpants, what our American cousins might call "tighty-whities," but, get close, and they are unmistakeably intended to cover a female's private parts. As well as being skimpy, the cotton is thinner, the elastic in the waistband is delicately embroidered and, of course, they lack the classic frontal Y-shape found on male underpants. My visits to the gym can be nerve-wracking experiences.

It was now 3:59 PM. But what I've not mentioned is that my caning takes place at 4:30 PM, precisely. Between four and four-thirty, I'm required to stand facing the wall, reflecting on my recent conduct and behaviour. As with everything else associated with my time of the month, Amanda has specified, to the minutest detail, how I must stand.

Smartly, I moved into the required position, with my hands placed flat on the top of my head, my feet a shoulder-width apart, and my nose as close as possible to the wall, but not touching. Amanda is concerned that if my nose makes contact, then the wallpaper might be soiled. On the other hand, only by being within near-touching distance could she be sure that my eyes could not focus on the pattern on the wallpaper. She explained that seeing the design might be distracting. After all, she had remarked, the purpose of facing the wall was to remove all stimulus so that I might focus my attention on improving my conduct and behaviour.

Amanda may, or may not, have been watching the live feed of me preparing, and she might have chosen to take the occasional glance at me standing facing the wall. If she had, it was likely she was becoming aroused and excited, and her panties would be starting to get damp. I knew she wouldn't be watching all the time, not for half an hour, because she had told me that it would bore her to death. And that, of course, is exactly what it was doing to me.

This was thirty minutes of mixed emotions. Facing the wall is a terrible punishment in its own right. It is tedious, it is monotonous, and time seems to slow down in a way that even Einstein had not foreseen. Just ten minutes is sufficient to punish a miscreant, but I would be there for three times that length. Part of me wanted it to be over, but another part realised that this wearying half-hour would be followed by a bout of intense pain that I was keen to defer.

Despite the intention being that I should use the time for critical self-reflection, neither of us knew that would happen, yet we maintained the pretence. In reality, on this day, I practised my usual tricks to pass the time, such as counting seconds, doing mental arithmetic, calculating geometrical progressions, as well as working through the alphabet, thinking of songs beginning with each letter. Nothing provided much relief and all I could do was stand there, trying to be as motionless as possible, yet being increasing aware of the aching in my arms and shoulders. Furthermore, I sensed that my body was starting to sway, very gently, as disorientation set in. I couldn't be sure by how much I was swaying because, being so close to the wall, my eyes could not judge distance. Occasionally, my nose made momentary contact, confirming my suspicions.

There was no noise from anywhere to provide respite from the boredom, or to help keep track of time--no chatter from Amanda talking to a girlfriend on her phone, no clocks ticking, no radio playing—nothing. It seemed that even the birds outside had fallen silent. All I could do was wait in blind obedience, knowing that any deviation from the set routine would justify Amanda administering further blows with her cane.

Suddenly, I heard the lounge door open.

"Turn around," Amanda called out. As always, on these occasions, she spoke slowly but assertively, using the minimum number of words necessary to issue a clear command.

I did so, keeping my hands on my head. As I expected, she was fully dressed, and, had there been any doubt, then this served to define my position in the marital pecking order. She was in charge, and I was not there to be titillated by seeing her naked, or even half-dressed. In her opinion, punishment was not to be confused with kinky bedroom games, and what I was about to receive was no game.

"Step forward."

I moved to within a couple of feet of her, ensuring my eyes looked straight ahead. Yet I was conscious that my penis was beginning to swell. This usually happened, but goodness knows why. It seemed to have a mind of its own and was selfishly oblivious to the pain that another part of my anatomy would soon suffer.

I was aware of Amanda gripping the waistband of my panties. Slowly, she began to slide them down and, for an instant, the fine cotton snagged on my partially erect organ. She yanked the garment free and pulled it down to the point where nothing stopped it dropping to my ankles. My penis, still incredibly ignorant as to her intentions (despite three years of monthly thrashings), sprang smartly to attention and was rewarded by her encircling the base of the shaft with her index finger and thumb, and gently stroking it, up and down, along its entire length. Even my brain was deceived into thinking this was an amorous act, before realising it was being tricked.

Fortunately, she soon stopped the stroking, for which I was grateful. The last thing I wanted was to face a caning having been drained of my semen and my sexual drive.

"Step out," she instructed, this being the order to lift first my right foot, and then my left, freeing myself completely from my panties.

"Assume the position," she declared, in the curt tone that marked my time of the month.

I moved to the back of the chair that I had positioned in the middle of the room. I bent over, grasping the seat with my hands, and I positioned my feet so they were nearly a metre apart and sufficiently far away to ensure that my back was horizontal. Then I raised myself onto tiptoe. My comfort was not a consideration. The entire monthly procedure was all about creating an experience that I would remember and, believe me, I did. By now, even my penis had got the message that this was not to be a joyous occasion, and I sensed it was rapidly going limp.

Despite my eyes facing front, I detected from the corner of my right one that Amanda had picked up the cane from the sofa. Holding it, she then walked past in front of me, avoiding eye contact, but with the sole intention of taunting me. She held the cane in her right hand and her fingers were wrapped around the corded handle, with her thumb extended down the shaft. I knew from bitter experience that positioning her thumb along the shaft, rather than placing her index finger there, was done to maximise the force she was able to exert with each strike.

She positioned herself so she was standing on my left side and delivered a couple of air strokes. These served no purpose other than to intimidate me. Then the cane was gently lowered so that it rested on my buttocks, just below the top of my butt crack. She said not a word, but next, I felt two or three light taps on my flesh from the tip of the cane. These were what she once explained to me were her sighting strokes and, in the early days, they may have been necessary to improve accuracy. Nowadays, they served only to warn me that I would very shortly be feeling excruciating pain.

The cane was raised and, a second or so later, there was a swoooosh as the instrument cut through the air, accompanied by a gasp from Amanda. Barely did I have time to register it was moving than it stung my buttocks. Despite my intentions to keep quiet, the pain was such that I could not help but let out an involuntary yelp. Yet I instinctively knew that worse was to follow. Sure enough, within a couple of seconds, the sting had been replaced by an intense sensation that can best be described as being burnt with a red-hot poker. My yelp morphed into a scream, but, somehow, I managed to maintain my stance.

Amanda, as usual, said nothing. She waited, patiently, while I processed the pain. I needed to thank her and then, and only then, would she continue. It was probably a minute before I could bring myself to utter the words she was waiting to hear. "First stroke. Thank you, Ma'am."

She again placed the tip of the cane on my bottom and gave a couple of light taps. Then there was a pause followed by a loud swish as the cane moved swiftly down. Again, she grunted, much as female tennis players do when delivering their first serves. The cane cut into my bottom. Once more, I gave an initial shriek which very shortly became a prolonged scream.

I struggled to gain my breath and I detected that Amanda was also breathing heavily. In her case, though, the panting was due to her growing excitement at what she was doing, and I assumed her dampness was increasing.

I waited for the pain to subside. It didn't, of course, and the throbbing continued. After waiting for a while to regain my composure, I gave her the confirmation she was seeking. "Second stroke. Thank you, Ma'am." Those words gave Amanda permission to continue, if "permission" is the right word.

More taps followed on my buttocks. I was familiar enough with her technique to know she was working her way down. The first stroke would have been just below the top of my bum crease and the subsequent strokes each about a centimetre lower as she progressed towards the bottom of my bum crease. She had assured me, once, that my buttocks were large enough to accommodate twelve parallel stripes but, fortunately, I had yet to displease her sufficiently to warrant more than nine.

The tapping stopped and then, an instant later, the pain recommenced—first the sting, and then the burning with the glowing poker. I struggled to maintain my position, and, equally, struggled not to let out expletives which would have been penalised. My buttocks were on fire. Tears had now formed in my eyes. All three stripes were throbbing in unison, synchronised with the rapid beating of my heart.

I had, I hoped, reached the halfway point, but that did depend on me meeting her behavioural expectations during the next three strokes. My mind went back to the days when Amanda, being less accomplished in aiming her blows, had sometimes failed to deliver parallel stripes, resulting in some welts crossing over others. When that happened, the pain had been beyond excruciating but, nowadays, she prided herself on her accuracy. For what it was worth, I could be certain today that all the stripes would end up parallel to one another.

I was delaying giving my permission for Amanda to continue. The harrowing pounding continued relentlessly, but I was also aware that waiting a few more seconds would do nothing to ease my distress—hours were needed, not mere seconds. What's more, the stance I was holding, standing on tiptoe with my feet far apart, was causing additional strain on my body. So, with my voice trembling, I announced I was ready to continue. "Third stroke... Thank you, Ma'am."

Amanda wasted no time at all before recommencing the ominous tapping. Then she raised the cane and brought it swiftly down on a fresh region of my buttocks. I howled in pain which transmuted into a blood-curdling yell as the secondary burning sensation took hold. With my lungs emptied from my screaming, I fought to take in more air.

By now, despite being a grown man, tears were streaming down my face. If I thought it would have done any good, I would have begged for mercy, but such pleas had served no good purpose in the past. Amanda was on a mission, and nothing would stop her completing it.

I tried to calm myself, thinking about the strong possibilty of the sex that might follow. I took some deep breaths, before saying, "Fourth stroke... Thank you, Ma'am."

Seconds later, the next delivery hit its mark. Once more, I fought to stay in my position. In fact, it took considerable willpower not to jump up and run naked from the room. As well as crying, I was now sweating, and droplets of fluid were falling from my forehead onto the padded seat of the chair. I also sensed perspiration was pooling on my back and was only staying there because my back was held in an uncomfortable horizontal position.

I could hear that Amanda's breathing had grown heavier and, had I been permitted to look, I'm sure I would have seen that her nipples were erect and her pupils dilated. By now, her panties would be drenched in the juices secreted from her vagina.

She was desperate to continue with my punishment. So-much-so, that her patience was becoming tested, and I felt her lay the tip of the cane across my buttocks. There was no tapping, but the message was clear—I needed to get a move on. Drawing a big breath, I utttered the words she was waiting for, "Fifth stroke... Thank... you, Ma'am."

Barely had I finished, then she recommenced tapping. I clenched my teeth as I detected the cane being raised. The final stroke is always the worst. It is, she tells me, the one I won't forget. Of course, I remember them all, but I agree with her that the sixth stroke stands out as being in a class of its own. Today was no exception. The noise she made as she delivered it was worthy of a number-one seed at Wimbledon.

The cane bit into my bottom like a knife going through butter. I let out a terrifying shriek, much as a puppy might do were you to tread on its paw with hobnailed boots. The shriek merged into a loud howl. The new stripe had commenced its throbbing, joining the other five.

I had survived the six strokes, but at a terrible cost to my poor buttocks. The pain I was feeling was agonising and I knew it would be many hours before it subsided. I was still struggling to breathe, but I just managed to utter the set words, "Sixth... stroke. Thank... you, Ma'am."

Amanda placed the cane back on the sofa and then I felt her tenderly stroking my bottom, gently using her fingers to trace over the six stripes that she had placed there. Then her hand went between my legs and cradled my testicles. Despite my intense pain, I felt my penis starting to reawaken. She detected it as well and, with a little sensual fondling from her fingers, it was soon standing proudly to attention.

"Well done, sweetheart," she announced, in a soft, sexy voice. "You were a very brave boy."

"Thank you, Ma'am," I replied. The omens for sex were looking good!

"We both know that this was for your own good," she lied. "Six strokes once a month is working wonders on improving your behaviour. It must be saving you so many more strokes, sweetheart."

"Yes, Ma'am," I answered, not wishing to disagree with her logic.

"As you've been such a good boy accepting your punishment, I think you deserve a reward. Stand up and follow me."

I was still on tiptoe, and it was a relief to be able to place my feet flat on the ground, and, even more so, to then stand up straight. With my penis fully erect, I followed her into the kitchen.

Provocatively, she stood facing me and unzipped her jeans, slipping them off to reveal her pale blue, satin panties. Even from where I was standing, I could see they were sodden with her nectar. No foreplay was needed—she was ready for action.

Then she whipped off her top, displaying a bra that perfectly complemented her panties. With practice honed over many years, she reached behind with one hand and squeezed the clasp. Her bra fell forward, spilling out her breasts. She pulled it off, removed her panties, and hoisted herself up on to the counter. Then, with a curled finger, she beckoned me to come closer.

My penis approached her vulva and skilfully she manoeuvred it so that it slid smoothly and effortlessly into her moist tunnel. She flung her arms around my neck and positioned her legs around my waist, avoiding my buttocks. In turn, I took her weight by cradling her bottom before taking a step back from the worktop. We were now two, joined together as one.

Traditionally, this standing position is one that puts the male in charge, and he can use his leg muscles to bounce his partner, pushing deep inside her. Amanda, though, has always insisted that she should set the pace and that I was not to bounce her until told otherwise.

So, with her vagina firmly skewered by my penis, she was in command. There was nothing I was allowed to do by way of thrusting. It was entirely her decision how far in or out of her honeypot I was, and she could adjust her position by just a few centimetres, playing with me and tormenting me. And so it was. Adeptly, she rode me up and down, hoisting herself up when she detected I was getting close to climaxing, and bearing down as I edged away from the point of no return. Extra impetus was provided by her artfully squeezing my shaft with her vaginal muscles, which served to intensify the sensations I was feeling.

She teased me like this for several minutes, much as a cat plays with a mouse. She repeatedly pushed me to the point of cumming before backing off. I was becoming desperate, and my breathing became heavier.

I could tell she was also approaching a crescendo and, in an instant, she changed gear and was propelling herself up and down, treating my penis as if it were a piston inside a cylinder. "Bounce me! Bounce me!" she screamed.

I did so, ensuring even deeper penetration. With this level of intensity, neither of us could possibly last for more than a few seconds and, simultaneously, we both experienced a shuddering climax. I felt my semen exploding, spurt after spurt, into her vagina. We both screamed out and hugged each other tight and her nails dug into my shoulders. We frantically kissed one another, her tongue exploring the interior of my mouth.

Throughout, my buttocks had been throbbing from my caning but, for a few blissful moments, I had been able to transcend the pain. Moments like that made my monthly punishment worthwhile, in spite of the heavy damage inflicted. The sex we had, following a beating, far exceeded anything we experienced at other times.

Still fighting for breath, we both came down from our synchronised orgasms. My penis was deflating, and I felt my jism, still warm, leaking out of her vagina and running down my legs.

I took a step towards the kitchen counter and, nimbly, she released my semi-flaccid member.

"Thank you, Ma'am," I said, breathlessly. "That was... that was truly fantastic."

"It was... yes... very much so, sweetheart. You... you deserved your reward for being a good boy."

We engaged in more kissing, but my attention was now returning to my throbbing buttocks, and I wondered how long it would be before I would be able to sit down.

THE END