I suppose that most people would call my husband and me “kinky,”

but judging from the tone of much of your correspondence, many believe that it is perfectly natural to use the whip to increase sexual enjoyment. To me, the most stimulating foreplay is to be in a humiliating position, straddled and severely caned by my husband. Being the recipient, I feel that I am entitled to expect that my husband will make his requirements coincide with mine as far as possible. It is a measure of his love that he knows when to stop.

In my particular case, it is nearly always my husband who wants to lay down the instrument of correction first. To reach my zenith of excitement, I frequently have to plead with him to continue and often request him to apply the instrument more heavily. Perhaps he regards my buttocks as attractive and instinctively recoils from bruising them. All that I know is that for me the stimulus of acute soreness and pain across the bottom is as necessary for me as the passionate kiss might be to another woman.

Because of the aforesaid, it may seem odd that in our very happy home, my teenage daughter has never been given corporal punishment. This is because my husband and I regard whips as instruments of pleasure. My daughter, who is shortly to be married, has witnessed only three of my “punishments.” The last of these was one of the rare occasions when my husband caned me because he was genuinely angry.

I knew from his choice of instrument that he really wanted me to suffer to a greater extent than would bring me pleasure. Having taken up a suitable and helpful position across the end of the sofa he persuaded our daughter to arrange my clothing, so as to give complete exposure to the area to be chastised. To my surprise, she seemed to relish the task, and soon lowered my briefs to my knees and tucked my skirt to my waist.

I think that my husband administered twelve strokes. I buried my face in a cushion and when it was over, I fled to the bedroom and lay face down on the bed. As I fingered the raised welts, I thought that this time the sexual pleasure had passed me by. The whipping had been terribly painful. It had been real punishment.

My husband entered the room quietly and within minutes we were in each other’s arms. As we reached the point of ecstasy, he confessed to me that it had been my daughter who had actually administered the punishment. The climax of our lovemaking was the most wonderful that I have ever experienced.

The following day my daughter avoided me for some time. At last, she burst into tears and flung her arms around me. She asked for forgiveness and pleaded with me to give her a double dose of what she had given me. I tried in vain to tell her that I was grateful, not angry. There was only one quick solution. I knew that she would not feel happy until she bore the marks across her own buttocks — and that she would accept nothing less than severity. There were fifteen penetrating cuts and she took them very bravely. From that moment I believe that she learned something of the pleasure of the cane.

The other night when my husband and I returned from the theater, I noticed that my daughter was sitting very gingerly on the arm of the sofa. The drawer of the bureau had been hurriedly shut leaving the telltale thongs of a leather instrument protruding.

Perhaps masochism is hereditary. I should be interested to learn.