Well, now I know what it’s like to be caned without mercy. To be taken way beyond one’s limits. To be left wimpering, sweating and shaking but nevertheless, elated to have finally overcome a hurdle that I’d been struggling to clear for many weeks now.
My fantasy had been for a nice evening of kisses and cuddles with Mistress and I wrapped in pvc and rubber. There would be a 60-stroke session with the cane at some point and I expected it to hurt, but it would be more play than punishment I told myself – a birthday celebration with a bit of festive revelry we could both indulge in as a year of work came to an end.
Be careful what you wish for. Our planned evening of indulgence was abandoned when family called to say they’d be dropping by. Mistress gave me a quick dozen cane strokes before we went to bed but I couldn’t take the second six, due to not being secured.
We tried again the next night but we’ve changed out room around and the bench didn’t fit right between other furniture. When we started the caning it felt like I was going to topple over with the bench. We abandoned after another dozen.
Mistress was so frustrated and blamed me for wimping out. Which, I hate to admit, was the truth. I couldn’t face it at the rate she was applying the rod. We could have sorted it out there and then but I made such a fuss about feeling unsafe that Mistress eventually told me to pack the equipment away.
She gave me one more chance on Sunday and told me to have everything set up when she arrived home late in the afternoon from a shopping trip with a friend.
Our caning bench is two stools, one tall, one small, which we bind together when neded, but it’s far from ideal when I start to writhe around. It has to jammed up against a chair and setee so I spent the afternoon making sure everything was secure for one last go.
Mistress adopted the strictest, no nonsense attitude I’ve ever experienced as soon as she arrived home and, if I’m honest, I was quite unnerved – more so when she told me to get ready for punishment.
It was clear there was going to be none of the playful games I’d fantasised about so by the time I’d been secured over the bench I was extremely nervous.
I had every right to be. From the outset it was obvious Mistress was determined to treat this as corrective therapy. I’ve never known her cane so hard. I’ve said that before, but each stroke left a fiercely hot stinging in my bottom that hadn’t even begun to fade before the next lash.
By 12 I was in the same state as usual. It felt like all 12 had been laid on the same spot, but probably only the last eight or nine had. If you’ve ever experience that, you’ll know how much that can hurt.
I was wimpering for it to stop. Mistress did allow maybe two minutes before the next 12. It wasn’t long enough. Somehow I didn’t scream but I was struggling close to tears. The only brief moment I recall taking my mind off the pain was when I was writhing around and from the upside down position of my head, caught a glimpse of Mistress. All I could see were her legs, wide apart, and her hips swiveling as she put every ounce of power into a stroke. I wanted to watch more but the instant the pain from that swipe landed I closed my eyes to try and block out what was happening.
The last 12 were pure agony. I got through them but I was in a desperate state, with no idea how I’d survived 24 more.
I go into a panic mode is such situations and start to imagine the damage to my bottom. It felt so swollen, such a huge target and was stinging so badly I thought the flesh had been stripped off and blood was running down the back of my legs. I really felt something dribbling. It must have been sweat because Mistress didn’t break the flesh once.
I heard her put the cane down – it rattled that dry rattle against the others – and I expected a change of cane but the next second I felt her hot breath on my face as she whispered, ‘That should do you until after you’ve served dinner,” and proceeded to release me from my bonds.
I prepared dinner and we ate in a totally normal, if very slightly tense, atmosphere like nothing had happened – apart from me finding it very painful to sit down. That’s was another first. In all my years of suffering the cane, ‘being caned till you can’t sit down,’ happened to me.
We watched TV for about an hour then Mistress said, “I think it’s time, don’t you? We still have 24 strokes left. Get ready.”
I did exactly as told and was strapped into place again. This I was dreading. My bottom was already so sore. I did well to dread. The first batch of 12 was hell. I felt sick. Dizzy. If I thought the first 36 were bad, then this was worse. Despite that, I thought I took them better though. I knew I’d not made so much noise, though I could feel perspiration rolling down my face – and my chest on the leather topped stool felt damp – which I assumed was me sweating.
For the last 12 Mistress seemed to back off a little. The first six stung but lacked the bite of the others. Then she gave me six rapid fire stroke to finish which had me yelping again. And then it was over.
Sixty strokes. I would never had thought it possible a couple of days earlier but we had got through it at last.
|After 60 strokes. The other marks were caused by several hours before punishment in PVC pants|