The Recipient Speaks
I never expected the cane to hold much thrill for me. I went to a school where girls were never caned. The object, the positioning, the act of flexing it, wielding it, had no resonance in my mind -- unlike the prospect and reality of being put over a man's knee and soundly spanked, where even the words, the memory of how that feels, are enough to send a naughty shudder of excitement through me.
But I am ever of an experimental turn of mind and wanted to try the reality for myself. At least once. With a light cane in a practised hand (even if he does arrive at my door bearing the thing in his hand sometimes! Enough to shock the neighbours and make me tremble in anticipation). I had been promised a sting of unique intensity; a role-play where I would be a thoroughly wicked girl getting her just deserts; and the potential for an experience of submissive humiliation of the kind which makes me weak-kneed, mute, deeply aroused.
So what is it like to be required to offer up a bared bottom to a stern figure of authority carrying a cane, who has explained in clear and certain terms what is about to happen and why? Where you have been reduced to a thoroughly naughty girl, and know that no amount of bargaining, pleading, or attempted seduction is going to save you. The myths, the images, the school jokes I heard the boys make, all revolved in my head as I waited for the first stroke to fall. But he is in no hurry. He enjoys making me wait, tense of muscle and thought, clenching my buttocks together as if that will preserve me from full exposure to his eyes, when I know perfectly well that he's indulging in a long scrutiny of normally hidden and secret places.
The cane whistles, hisses through the air, and I expect, at any moment, that that burning sting will erupt as if it comes from inside and not outside. But no, he's teasing. [ed: Moi??] He taps the cane repeatedly across the tops of my thighs. And I'm silently begging him to get it over with, to end this almost unendurable suspense. And the first stroke always seems to come when I have stopped expecting it, when I have breathed out (because of course I'm holding my breath as I wait and wait) and relaxed just enough to feel the full bite of the rod as it lands. And then again, in unpredictable bursts of one or two or three, punctuated by more teasing, more taps, more tension and suspense. That burning sting is astonishing. The first sensation is that fiery stripe where the cane landed, marking its precise shape and length. And then a slow fade to a throbbing warmth which deceives, because feeling flows back and the sting travels as a tremor deep into the body. The tremor from a lighter stroke will journey from bottom to belly. But a firm stroke, or two or three landing in rapid succession, send an earthquake of response through every part of me. Leaves me breathless, trembling, wanting. And with every moment of this chastisement, when the cane strikes and when it does not, I am diving deeper into a place of quiet and peace and acceptance. Sub-space, a warm and light and will-less place.
And the more traditionally I am positioned to receive the cane, the more intense the thrill, the deeper the dive. To have to bend over and touch my toes makes me most aware of how I must look to him. To have to hold that position is a discipline in itself. And to have no clue as to when the cane will land, when it will be over, keeps me suspended in a sweet, dark space that is pure pleasure.
And after all that, I will bear some charming rosy stripes, often in neat parallel arrangement, that fade within a day. No wheals, rarely any bruises, just the memory of an extravagant pleasure. And of what follows ;) But that's a bit more private.