Source


The sunlight was streaming through the stats in the Venetian blinds when I awoke that morning. I glanced across at the digital clock on the bedside cabinet; half past seven. I started to think about getting up for work and sank back into the pillows gratefully when I remembered it was Sunday morning.

Beside me, Jenny was still asleep, her head resting on my shoulder, shoulder length brown hair spread over her pillow, her left arm lying loosely across my stomach. She stirred and mumbled something incomprehensible; I put my arm around her shoulders exploring the softness of the skin of her shoulder blades, toying with the strap of the white satin chemise that had fallen loosely across her upper arm. Blissfully, I cast my mind back to the events that had occurred just a few hours previously.

I had caned her; not brutally or with malice, but the stokes had been hard enough to cause searing marks across her buttocks, which had turned crimson in hue before my eyes, eventually resembling tramlines traversing the otherwise smooth white skin. They had hurt, but she had taken each stroke without complaint. In the aftermath, we had made glorious love.

She had done nothing wrong to deserve her punishment. The beating had carried no motive, other than it was something that I had wanted to do, but she had accepted it in the spirit of love that existed between us. I didn’t know how, or indeed what, she had felt; we never discussed the matter afterwards. If she had have complained, or even shown the faintest signs of demurring, then I would have stopped without hesitation; but she never did. It was how it was between us. Theoretically we were equals, and yet she would normally submit to my judgement without question.

Turning my head I kissed her on the forehead, then on her upturned cheek, and then nuzzled into her neck. She stirred and put her arms around me, pulling me toward her as, eyes still closed, her lips sought mine and we kissed tenderly. I slid my hand down to her buttocks running my fingers over the warm bumps that the caning had left behind. I pressed tentatively against them, causing her to wince and breathe in sharply, a testament if one were needed, that the consequences of my attention were ongoing and painful.

“Hurt?” I enquired, somewhat unnecessarily.

“Mmm!” she nodded, declining to add any further comment, but seeking out my lips once more, hugging me a little closer.

Her stoicism and good nature were remarkable. I almost found myself regretting that I could have harmed this gentle, loving creature; almost, but not quite. The truth is, and it is a terrible admission to make, that I had actually revelled in it and our lovemaking had been all the more satisfying as a result. But, if I had enjoyed it, so clearly had she in some perverse way, or she would not have stayed.

Whatever the truth, I was disinclined toward a deeper analysis, for the stirrings of passion were once again making their presence felt in my loins. A further demonstration of my love was forthcoming, she sensed it, and with little gestures and touches, she communicated silently that my advances would be welcome

I needed no encouragement to make love with her; I never did.

*****

Our dalliance with BDSM had begun a few months previously and out of all innocence really. We had been lying in bed one morning when she had suddenly become playful and set about tickling me. I had tolerated it to begin with and then, driven into action by her mischievous behaviour; I had taken her across my knee and spanked her with the flat of my hand until she had been prepared to desist. Fairly soon, spanking had become a welcome feature of fore-play which both of us seemed to enjoy.

The game had ratcheted up a notch when, sometime later, she found out in the course of a general conversation about corporal punishment that I had a weakness, or shall we say an unfulfilled fantasy, for schoolgirl discipline and slippering in particular. The next day she had presented herself before me in school uniform, inclusive of plimsolls. I could hardly disappoint her after taking so much trouble: in no time at all she had been touching her toes and the slipper had been barking out its message on her pristine cotton knickers. One thing had led to another and, a week before the events that I am currently relating, we had taken delivery of our first official school cane.

It was a natural progression to make, for the cane was a far more versatile player in the art of role-play. Now the naughty nurse, lazy maid or incompetent secretary was within our scope, bringing with it a new level of stimulus. Of course, the schoolgirl scenario remained a powerful motivator, but I also had a passion for women in satin lingerie, and somehow that did not sit so well with a school uniform. For me to be completely fulfilled, the scene, whilst contrived to a degree, had to “feel” right. That meant the right attire and just as crucially, an appropriate level of pain; real punishment if you will, as opposed to pretence.

*****

Stroking Jenny’s inner thighs alternately with the lightest touch I could muster, I worked my hand slowly upwards until I reached the pubic area. From the tempo and depth of her breathing, it was clear that she was already in an advanced state of arousal. An examination of the vaginal area merely provided me with the confirmation. The clitoris was swollen, the vulva moist and as my fingers penetrated deeper, intruding tenderly into her most intimate parts, she sighed deeply, opened her thighs a little wider, and began to tremble in anticipation.

The caning had seemingly come out of nowhere. There had been nothing premeditated about it, at least not from my side there wasn’t, but upon reflection maybe there was an air of contrivance after all.We had been out for a meal; an Indian curry at our favourite restaurant in town. Having dined regally, we had arrived home around midnight and, while I had decided to catch up with the news on the TV, Jenny had gone straight to the bedroom.

After five minutes or so she had come down again wearing a white satin chemise and had sat down next to me on the sofa. Anyway, it was clear that she had something in mind because her normal bed attire of choice was comfy pyjamas. She had curled up next to me, drawing her knees up to rest against my thigh.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?” she asked, in that winsome way she had about her, brushing some non-existent fluff off of my sleeve.

“What if I say no?” I replied.

“Mmmm. I could tickle you.”

I gave her my best disapproving look. It was fairly obvious in which direction the conversation was going.

“I might get annoyed if you did.” I retorted. “And you know what happens then!” In a moment of spontaneity I added: “And don’t forget that we have a new toy in the cupboard to deal with mischievous little minxes who torment their husbands. Someone could end up with a very, very sore bottom if they are not careful.”

She appeared to consider the implications for a few seconds before sliding her hand inside my shirt. A wicked glint appeared in her eyes as, with tongue pushed to the side of her mouth, she set about making a thorough nuisance of herself. A warning was clearly not going to be enough to discourage her. The cane was upstairs awaiting its first real outing, and apparently she was not in the least bit perturbed by the prospect of a hands-on, or in her case bottoms-on, introduction.

“Are you going to stop that?” I asked menacingly, wriggling as her fingers impishly tickled me under the armpit.

“No!”

“No what?”

“No, I’m not going to stop it.”

“Sure?” I asked, knowing full well the answer.

“Uh-huh!” she replied, shutting her eyes and coyly nodding her head.

There was no more to be said then. I got up from the sofa, switched off the TV, took her by hand and led her to the bottom of the stairs.

“Up!” I ordered, gesturing with my head in the direction of the bedroom.


With a look of exquisite smugness, she brushed past and flounced up the stairs, wiggling her bottom provocatively, whilst I followed a few paces behind. It wasn’t a long chemise and from my viewpoint there was a tantalising view of her buttocks as the hem swung lazily from side to side.
It was enough to set my pulse racing but, to tell the truth, my mind was experiencing a range of emotions at this point, the over-riding one being apprehension. The cane was about to come out of the cupboard and I really had no experience in using it. The slipperings I had given her had all been fairly firm in nature, but canes were different animals entirely. They bit into the flesh, making marks that could last for weeks. I knew that much from a couple of unfortunate first-hand experiences at school. They hurt like hell too.

As we entered the bedroom I wondered if Jen had the slightest inkling what she was in for; my hand was literally shaking. I was full of self doubt but I could not let her down. She had turned to face me and was awaiting instructions, impassive, countenance devoid of expression. What was she thinking? I made a mental note not to play her at Poker.

“Bend over the bedrail.” I said with as much gravitas as I could muster. It was a sham but I had to try and appear calm, even though on the inside, my guts were tuning somersaults.

Upon hearing my directive, the inscrutable expression gave way to the just the faintest hint of what might have been triumph as she turned away, making a great flourish of taking her position. Was it nonchalance or elaborate act; a challenge perhaps for me to do my worst? I was damned if I knew.

But if it was smugness or indifference, I was pretty sure that both would be wiped from her mind in short shrift. Canings were not fun. Canings were vicious. Canings bit your ass. Canings made you beg for mercy if they went on long enough. As I opened the wardrobe door and took out the instrument of her education, I wondered if we were going to discover her breaking point. She had to have one; everyone did.

A wicked thought now came into my head. What if the freedom to break away were removed? Would she be quite so arrogant then? In an instant my mind was made up and I selected two old ties from the rack. Not quite sure how she would react I took one of her wrists and secured it to the bed rail.

“For safety reasons.” I explained, in response to her searching glance. “We don’t want you moving about too much, or putting your hand in the way. It could cause damage. I’m quite happy to beat your bottom but we don’t want any fingers broken in the process.”

To my relief she nodded acceptance, offering no resistance as I tied the other wrist firmly but not over tightly to the opposite side, so that her arms were stretched out sideways. The very act had calmed my nerves down and replaced anxiety with a feeling of breathless excitement. Then, after a millisecond’s thought, I picked another tie and bound her ankles together. She wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

At this point, my penis was threatening to burst out of my trousers, making me feel so uncomfortable that I had to strip down to my underpants to obtain relief. (Author’s note: No! Not that kind of relief!). Even then, the bloody thing was standing out like a barber’s pole, waving about like some macabre phallic truncheon. Perhaps it was just as well that Jenny had been unable to look around behind her, or she might doubtless have burst into fits of giggles, and the mood would have been lost
.
Taking the cane in hand, I wafted it from side to side as though I were a musketeer in the movies, just to get an idea of the balance. It really was an excellent example of the genre; not too heavy or bendy, but just sufficiently flexible to achieve maximum effect in exchange for the least effort. A thing of beauty and grace. I thought so anyway.

I swished it through the air a couple of times to see if she would flinch. No. But then again, she still had yet to feel its kiss on her bare flesh. Things might well be different after she had a couple of real stingers under her belt. I smiled wryly at my unintended little pun. She wasn’t wearing a belt. That was a pity because there was nothing to tuck her chemise into. Just have to hope that she stayed bent low enough so that it fell forward under gravity.

“Right then, my dear!” I said purposefully. “Now we will see what you are made of. Straighten your legs, push your bottom up and keep your head and chest down. Do you think you can do that for me? Push up on to your toes when you want me to begin”

“Yes sir.”

Sarcasm was that? It was difficult to tell. Anyway she complied well enough with the instruction and when I folded the chemise out of the way, the whole garment orientated itself towards her shoulders, dangling downwards, covering nothing. With the flurry of cooler air around her buttocks, I observed how she adjusted her position, pinching the cheeks together instinctively. Perhaps she was a little nervous after all. She certainly paid attention when I touched the cane against the top of her thighs, tensing noticeably. I studied her for one more time. Her head was lifted and facing straight ahead, her beautiful breasts were wobbling and hanging down, and her breathing was deep and even. Perfect.

“Ready?” I asked.

There was a distinct hesitation this time. Having second thoughts? Afraid perhaps? Bloody hell, I knew I would have been!

“Yes.”

The voice was just a little unsteady. She was up on her toes. I drew back my arm in a graceful arc and ..................

For perhaps a another couple of seconds I had hesitated, torn between the overwhelming desire to thrash her insolent pink bottom on the one hand, and struggling with my conscience on the other, knowing full well that she would hurt in the process. In those few moments, when time itself seemed to be standing still; it was though we were players in a low-budget science fiction film. Then, aware that I could neither back out honourably, nor hold on indefinitely, I had let her have it.

Thwack!

With an angry whoosh, the cane had scythed through the air, cutting deep into the naked flesh with a loud report and sending shock waves rippling through her bottom.

Exactly what was going through Jenny’s mind during that initial caning remains a mystery to this day. Since she declined to comment, at least in detail, it will ever remain a mystery; of sorts anyway. She felt something alright, even if it was only the most exquisite and intense pain. On that score, I was happy to make certain that she received the full measure.

For the briefest of instants there had been no reaction, then she had drawn deep breath as the pain took hold, twisting first to the right, then to the left, her head thrown back in silent scream whilst I looked on in awe.

Physically, the solitary visible evidence was a thin pale line that manifested itself across the centre of her buttocks where the impact had occurred. For some reason I had expected something more spectacular. However, I would not be disappointed for long. As she collected herself in preparation for stroke number two, a fiery crimson weal flanked by two pale tramlines, had already began to develop.

I do not propose to describe the caning stroke by stroke; it would only be repetitious. I will merely tell you that after each whack, the reactions became more and more animated. Nevertheless, she held it together magnificently. At no time did she cry out, but by the seventh one it was clear that she was in trouble. The signs were all too obvious: her frantic panting for breath and the long delay it took for her to resume position. She was about to capitulate; I decided to make the eighth stroke her last.

My brave Jenny did not deserve to be made to beg for mercy. Having taken her punishment with a stoicism and determination that I knew in my heart I could never have matched, it was right that she should emerge with her pride intact. Eight strokes was more than enough for such a game battler.

I waited patiently for her to settle, one final time. Her bottom was by now decorated by a lattice work of livid red welts. God knows how they must have been stinging. Eventually she managed to bring herself under control, straightening her legs; she forced herself into the ‘present’ position and after taking just a moment longer to steady herself, pushed up on to her toes. Taking careful aim, I worked the final stroke right up into the crease at the top of her thighs. For the first time in the whole episode, she let out an agonised strangled shriek.

“Ah! Ah! Aaaah!”

That was it! Any continuing doubts that she was at the limit were dispelled with those shrieks. I had no desire to continue. Honour had been satisfied on both sides. She was panting desperately for breath and trembling a little, but who could blame her for that? A bloody saint would have buckled under what she had just endured.

“We are done.” I said softly, putting down the cane and moving swiftly to release her from her bonds. “You were terrific Jen. I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am!” They were brave words, but I felt like a total asshole.

Yet somehow, it seemed to have been the right thing to say, at the right time; it was apparrently the thing she had wanted to hear. She had thrown her arms around me and began to cry.

“I didn’t want to let you down.” she sobbed. “I couldn’t have taken any more. You knew that didn’t you?”

What was the point in lying?

“Yes.” I whispered, squeezing her tight and comforting her as best I could. “Come on and get into bed; I haven’t finished with you yet!”
Jenny turned away and walked to the bed, the silky chemise dropping down over her bottom and temporarily hiding the evidence. God she looked beautiful.

I had never made love to a freshly caned woman until then, but the experience I was to have would be out of this world. Was it the fact that she was in pain? Or was it the fact that I personally had been the cause of that pain? Perhaps it was just that I was, by nature, a heartless bastard who liked beating women. I could not say with any certainty. All I knew was that I had enjoyed the power of watching her wriggle helplessly under the rattan and, the more I thought about it, the harder my penis had began to throb.

We had gone to bed with one idea in our minds, and we wasted no time in foreplay; it was as if it were irrelevant. Actually I see it all now; Jenny had been as turned on by the pain as I was, but for obviously differing reasons. As I mounted her from the rear, she too was already wet with excitement and as I thrust eagerly into her womb, she responded with increased vocal intensity until, in what seemed to be no time at all, she began screaming and gasping as the power of a mighty orgasm seized her battered body, turning her into a frenzied wild beast.

“Oh, my fucking God! You fucking bastard. Ahhhhhhhhhhh Shiiiiit Ah Ah Ah AH…..!”

She had never been like that before. I could scarcely believe my eyes and ears. Feeling the power surging through my whole body, I held her there as if she were a jiggling puppet on the end of my penis. I pinched the welts on her bottom, squeezing every last ounce of pain from them and she only thrashed harder in response.

Then suddenly, I too could hold on no longer and the sperm squirted inside her, propelled by an explosion of sheer unadulterated ecstasy, as if the floodgates of hell had been cast loose and we had been consumed in the tidal wave of pleasure which followed.
“Ahhhhhhhhh Ooooooooh Mmmmmmmm!”

It was me this time! Jesus. Oh God. I was no Christian, but this was unbelievable. If this was Heaven then I was a believer. Hallelujah brothers! I have been delivered! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

We were as one, joined at the hip, inseparable. Voyagers both, cast adrift in a sea of joy until finally we could hold on to the moment no longer. Together we sank exhausted beneath a blanket of euphoria, panting and seeking comfort in each other’s arms, sleeping gratefully on a journey toward the speck on the horizon that was morning.

And when morning came, I once again found myself on the bridge of her ship, pulling the levers, sending messages to the engine room, feeling her respond to my signals.

(This is flowery language of course but how can one truly describe the sensuality of making love to the woman of your dreams? It is beyond this writer’s humble talent.)

In no mood to be denied, with me as more-than-willing accomplice, she pulled me into the vacant space between her thighs and, reaching down, guided my penis inside her vagina. Then taking a deep breath, she pushed her arms out into a crucifix position grabbing the bedrails tight and wrapping her legs around the back of mine.

I was taken aback for a second before comprehending what it was that she was about. Then I understood. She was reliving the caning of last night with arms stretched out and helpless. When I put my hands down to stroke her bottom, she responded by murmuring approval, panting, and pushing up with her abdomen, willing me to get on with it and take her. As I said before, I needed no encouragement.

This time our lovemaking was slower and more measured, a steady momentum that increased by small increments, my hips gyrating in a rotary pattern, trying to make contact with every part of her vaginal wall. With my right hand I stimulated her pubic area, the clitoris, the frontal lobe, whilst my left explored her buttocks, feeling the heat of the bruises as she groaned and panted her pleasure. Eventually the reflexes within her kicked in and I had her, she would play my tune now! In and out, in and out; come on my beauty, dance for the master.

Dance she did; I could feel her trembling as the contractions took hold, hear the low guttural noises she was making as she became their prisoner. In the throws of rapture she went stiff and held on tight, almost crushing me, until the spasms passed and with a whimper, relaxed her grip, and lay back on the mattress gasping for air.

I had not matched her for orgasm this time; perhaps I was a little too sore, but somehow it did not matter. I had brought her fulfilment, and as we lay together again, that was all that mattered to me. Love is in giving and not wanting reward.

“Happy?” I asked her at length.

“Mmmmm!” she replied, hugging me and kissing my chest and neck.

“Me too.” I said lamely, and dozed off into blissful sleep.

I must have slept for about an hour because when I opened my eyes next, the clock had moved round to half-past nine. Jenny was no longer there beside me and I must have been awakened by her getting out of bed. From the bathroom at the end of the hall came indications of activity.

I heard the lavatory flush and the hiss of the shower running. She had clearly decided that the games were over with, at least for now. I couldn’t really blame her. I thought of getting up myself but I too needed a shower, and there was no hurry. Wistfully, I looked at the depression in the mattress where she had been sleeping.

My mind wandered to other things, the result of the Arsenal v Chelsea match yesterday afternoon, the penalty that should not have been given and the one that was. Jesus Christ some of those refs were right tossers. If I had my way they would be strung up between the goalposts, stripped and flogged. The asshole yesterday had lost me ten quid at the betting shop.

My eye strayed to the corner of the room where the cane was propped against the wardrobe door. It was one of our better acquisitions on the face of it. We had got it mail order and it had come encased in a cardboard packaging bearing the legend: ‘do not bend’.

I laughed aloud at the irony. It was designed to bend, not excessively, but more than enough to wrap around any unfortunate backside that got in its way. I wondered if the courier had guessed what it was. Possibly he might have, but then he probably hadn’t thought too much about it. I bet they have to deliver all kinds of strange stuff; and to some odd places as well.

The background noise of water running stopped abruptly, there was the noise of cupboard doors being opened and shut, and presently Jenny reappeared with a green towel wrapped around her body and another around her hair. She was carrying the chemise which she tossed into the laundry basket along with the clothes that had been so hastily discarded the previous night.

The bathroom is free, she said unnecessarily.

Well, it would be wouldn’t it, unless we had acquired some hygiene-conscious burglars during the night? I tactfully refrained from mentioning this and maintained a respectful silence whilst she finished drying herself.

Damn she was a handsome woman. At thirty-seven years old, she was not quite in the first flush of youth, but she took care of herself and ate wisely, so that she remained slim without being skinny. Her breasts had retained a beautiful shape and I loved them. I said so and she smiled.

When she turned to the dressing table and bent forward slightly to open a drawer, I had a first class view of my handiwork. Eight crimson stripes tarnished the white flesh of her bottom, a couple encroaching on to her upper thighs. They looked horribly painful and doubtless were. Again I felt some slight pangs of remorse, but at the same time, a sense of achievement.

From the drawer, Jen had taken a white brassiere and some white cotton knickers. They looked brand new and in all probability they were. She rarely kept underwear that had started to look shabby. It was another one of the good points that she had: always believing in looking good even if the things she was wearing were not meant for the general gaze.

Having donned the bra and pants, she selected a pretty white lace trimed half-slip, which she stepped into and pulled slowly up into position, flicking the waistband into place with a flourish and smoothing it out with hands. Then she turned to examine the results in the mirror, turning first to the right and then to the left, making slight adjustments until she was satisfied.

She knew that I was watching, and I knew that she knew that I knew. It was a bit of play-acting calculated to arouse my interest and it worked flawlessly. She knew how good she looked in her lingerie, and she knew how much I liked to see her in it. It was all a game and she had me in her pocket; or she would have done, but girls don’t normally have pockets.

“Right!” she said turning round and displaying the ensemble to its best provocative advantage. “Would you like some breakfast?

“Certainly would,” I replied.

“What would you like then?” She asked.

I looked down at the bulge in the duvet which concealed my erect penis, then gave her a quizzical look in return. She rolled her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, lifting her bosom slightly in the process.

“Oh no!” she said in mock scolding tone. “You have had quite enough for now, and if you haven’t, I certainly have. My fanny is sore, my ass is sore, and I have just had a shower and put on clean clothes. You can have bacon and eggs, toast or cereal and that’s it chum.”

“How about some tomatoes?” I asked hopefully, as she was picking up a floral kimono style wrap and putting it on.

“Yes we have tomatoes,” she said, sliding her feet into some big fluffy slippers.

“Mushrooms?” I enquired, as she headed across the room towards the door.

She gave me a sideways glance to see if it was a wind-up. It was, sort of, but my expression gave nothing away.

“Yes we have those as well.” she said. “Sex is obviously good for your appetite, or caning my ass is. Now you had better get up if you want it because I’m not going to bring it to you, and I don’t want you lounging in bed when I am going to change the sheets. Right?”

“Okay darling,” I replied meekly, as she left the room and started down the stairs. “How about some fried bread?” I shouted after her.

There was a pause in the footsteps and I heard her say something unintelligible which sounded like “Mumble, mumble off!”

I lifted the duvet and stared down at my penis with an air of passive resignation. It looked all forlorn and lonely. I needed to get up and wash but it seemed a shame to waste an erection. I decided that a few more minutes in bed could not do any harm.

After all, it was Sunday.