I’ve often wondered what the scene looks like - or sounds like when Mistress is caning me. How determined is she applying each stroke with severity and accuracy. How much do I really writhe around. And how loud is that cane swich and crack - and how strident my comlaints?
We don’t have a video camera but it would be good to record just how well she delivers a punishment caning.
I occasionally watch F/m corporal punishment clips, but those with real couples but they are few and far between.
But there is something intensely intimate about a woman caning a man. I was recently sat watching an old 2007 Goddess Tara clip called Evil Caning – just studying the dynamic between the dominatrix, gloriously clad in her PVC catsuit and thigh boots with her hapless slave chained by his hands above the rafters and naked apart from a leather face mask with eye and mouth holes (and doubtless paying for the privilage - nothing worng in that either)
As I watch, I think of myself and Mistress. How we act out similar punishments every week.
The Governess begins with the thinnest of canes and a fast tempo of strokes, gradually increasing in intensity from soft taps to full blooded strokes. She stops mid flow to nonchalantly tuck in the lacing on the sleeve of her cat suit. The slave can wait. I love her disdainful look.
He takes breath and calms himself to wait for next onslaught.
He doesn’t have to wait long. The caning resumes. Her face is grim set. Sheer concentration. She’s aiming blows with full force. It’s not coming from her arms but her whole body. She flexes her knees, gives a little jink at the hips and lashes the cane down. Sitting here it’s pure fascination to see this shiny black clad dominant is action. I feel for the slave. But long to be in his place.
Her determination to do the job correctly is impressive. She reminds me of Mistress. But Mistress wouldn’t wrap the cane. She’s not as vicious. Though sometimes I wish she were.
The slave struggles to cope. I admire his fortitude. I could not be so brave. As it is, each stroke forces a hiss of air from deep in his throat. As a fellow sufferer you can only guess at the way the pain is building with each stroke. I wonder how a man can knowingly submit to such an onslaught, but of course, I know.
She walks to the front and teases his flaccid penis with her cane. Then there’s click of her heels as she walks to the corner of the room. She picks up three canes then walks back to her plaything. She offers him a choice of which one to continue with but makes up his mind by telling him it’s going to be the thinnest, whippiest that’s going to cut his buttocks next.
You feel his dread as she lines up behind him. His chest is heaving. The strokes are applied at a consistent pace. One every two seconds. No time to recover. The pain is relentless.
Her grim-set lips break into a smile when the slave finally breaks and cries out, broken. Her goal has been achieved. And maybe his too.
He's already had 80 - I counted them. ‘Right, ten more,’ she states. Each of the first three result in groans. Each stroke his body arches forward. Each stroke Governess cocks her head forward to check his face – but it’s hidden behind the mask otherwise she would see tears welling up. Pure agony.
She casually flexes the thin rod between her fingers, giving him precious moments to recover his composure. Then comes the final few in an incredibly volley. The slave’s moans are getting louder. There's real desparation in those sounds. And then it’s all over.
She surveys the ridges that stripe his bottom – and the horrible blackened edges where the thin cane has wrapped his hips.
His breathing calms and she walks to the front of him, gently caressing his nipples and waist. His pain is over. For now.