"Think about why you're here, Clara, being caned over your bed, and ask for the next stroke across your disobedient rump!" He tapped, the way he always did, to let her know that another terrible stripe was coming, as soon as she requested it.
She sobbed, and said, "Please, John, cane my bare bottom."
He did, and she cried out in pain, and said, "Four! Thank you, John! Oh. . ." She tried desperately to keep from reaching back to rub: she knew from experience that that would just get her hands caned, too.
"You are here because, as far as I can tell, you need a lasting reminder that calling to say you'll be home late is NOT OPTIONAL." He tapped. "Ask for it, Clara."
"Oh, John, please. . ."
He caned her. "Ahhhhh! John!"
"That one didn't count, as you know. Ask for it!"
"How many are. . ." The cane struck her bottom again, and then again. She cried out in terror and pain.
"Ask for it."
"Please, John, cane my bare bottom!"
"Very well," he said, and did, with the most force yet. "Five! Thank you, John!" Clara's tears were dripping down onto the bedclothes as she wept in shame and discomfort.
"Is this really the way you wanted your night out with the girls to end, Clara?"
"Did you want to have to take off your party dress and put the pillows on the bed?"
"No! John, please. . . I'm so sorry. . ."
"Did you want to have to lie over the pillows in your underwear and ask for the cane?"
Clara decided, on a whim, just to be truthful. She said, "Yes! Please, John, cane my bare bottom again!"
He laughed, and gave her what she wanted.