From Lies to Lessons: Cane and Spoon Spanking Discipline

Sofia_xx
Aug 14
4 min read

I should have known he would check. It wasn’t like him to just take my word and leave it at that. But I still thought, stupidly, that I could get away with it—cross a couple of items off the list even though I hadn’t done them, just to make it look like I’d been productive. I wasn’t lazy all day. I’d done some things. But I also spent an hour scrolling on my phone, another thirty minutes daydreaming, and just… didn’t finish. When he came home, he didn’t ask if I’d done everything. He just picked up the list from the counter, read it silently, then started walking through the house. Each time he opened a cupboard or checked a room, my stomach sank further. By the time he came back, there was no bluff left in me. “So,” he said, voice even, “you wrote that the pantry was organized.” I nodded weakly. He tilted his head. “Would you like me to go show you the cobweb in the top corner you apparently didn’t see?” My cheeks burned. “No, Sir.” He sighed—not in frustration, but in that quiet, measured way that meant the decision was already made. “Go to the bedroom. Bring the cane and the wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer. Shoes off.”

The walk down the hall felt like the slowest of my life. The wooden spoon was small in my hand but somehow felt heavier than it should. The cane was light, smooth, and terrifying in its quiet promise. He was waiting in the bedroom, chair pulled into the center of the rug. “Strip to your bra and panties,” he said. I froze. “Please—” “You had time to do the work. You chose not to. Now you have time for the consequences. Strip.” I obeyed slowly, my skirt pooling at my feet, my shirt coming off next. Standing there half-dressed, clutching the implements, I felt more exposed than if I’d been fully naked—there was something about being left in just enough to remind me how little control I had. “Hand them to me,” he said, and I passed the cane and spoon over without meeting his eyes. “Over my lap.”

The OTK position was humiliating from the start—my hips higher than my head, my backside perfectly presented, my legs dangling just enough to feel childish. He didn’t start with the implements. His hand came down first, firm and steady, warming the skin with a pace that told me this was just the beginning. Each spank landed in the same deliberate place, building heat until my toes curled against the rug. Then he hooked his fingers in the waistband of my panties and slid them down to mid-thigh, baring me completely. My face flamed at the sound of my own breath catching. “Bare,” he said, “because lies deserve full exposure.”

The wooden spoon came next. Small, hard, and deceptively sharp, it snapped against my skin in a way that made me squirm almost immediately. He didn’t let me. One hand stayed firmly on my lower back, pinning me in place as he peppered my cheeks with quick, stinging swats. The sound was sharp, each pop of the spoon echoing in the quiet room. “This,” pop, “is for every corner you cut.” Pop pop pop. “And this,” pop, “is for thinking I wouldn’t notice.” My thighs clenched involuntarily, and he paused just long enough to let me feel the burn before setting the spoon down.

“Stand up,” he said. My legs wobbled as I obeyed. “Bend over the foot of the bed.” The cane was in his hand now, and my breath caught again. There was nothing rushed about him lining it up, resting the tip across my already tender skin. “Twelve,” he said simply. “You will count them. And you will say ‘Yes, Sir’ after each. If you lose count, we start over.” The first stroke was a clean, hot line of fire across both cheeks. “One—yes, Sir.” The second made me grip the bedspread tight. “Two—yes, Sir.” By the fifth, my voice shook. By the ninth, tears blurred my eyes. He didn’t speak between strokes; the cane did all the talking. Sharp, whippy, and merciless in its precision. When “Twelve—yes, Sir” finally left my lips, I was panting, my bottom pulsing with deep, insistent heat.

I thought I was done, but he pointed to the corner. “Panties off. Hands on your head. Ten minutes.” Standing there bare from the waist down, facing the wall, I could feel the heat radiating from my skin and the sting settle deeper. Every rustle of movement behind me reminded me he was still there, watching. When the timer finally beeped, he called me back. “Are we clear on what happens when you lie about your work?” I swallowed.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Next time, finish the list. It’s easier than this.”

And I knew he was right.