My First Real Caning will Linger


Being caned played no part in my life, not at school or afterwards when I finally admitted to myself that the need to be spanked was as deeply ingrained in my character as much as the love of animals and babies or the hatred of cruelty and injustice. I enjoyed only the touch of leather, the sound and sting gave me all the satisfaction I craved and slowly, over time...

I read stories and watched DVD's, absorbed the words of a caning with horror and outrage. Hating the description of the pain, the injury, my mind's eye seeing the immediate bruising, the livid welts and blood. The visual observations did not temper my opinion or convince me that not one iota of pleasure could be gained from the blatant agony I saw. The cane being wielded by amateurs cutting down on soft flesh in random, vicious blows, swinging the cane high in the air, then swinging it down without aim or control, cauterising thighs and cheeks. No sign of arousal or pleasure, no shared enjoyment or connection between two people, only pain. Maybe I was missing something. Then I met you.

The first meeting I will skim over. As essential as it was to to establish trust and needs, thoroughly enjoyable that included a meeting with the cane, it only served to tell me that I wanted to explore even more, change the roles in the 'playing'. However, I knew that caning was was your preferred implement not only for the pain it inflicted, that I think was secondary to the eroticism, the mind, the ultimate in submission, punishment and fulfilment for both. I wanted to share this with you, I wanted to experience what you knew. And I wanted to please you.

Many deliberate, provocative emails ensured that I could expect a sound caning. All part of the game, giving you reason and me justification that I deserved to be caned and nothing less, hoping that this would give me the courage to see it through, to bear the pain and humiliation without dissolving into a blubbering mess. I could take a good thrashing with leather, but this? And so you arrived and I was ready, pleased to see you, not so pleased to see the cane in your hand, now it was real and after a sweet welcome, you took control. No argument or resistance.

You took me over your knee, removing my knickers almost immediately because I didn't deserve their protection. Firm, stinging blows, harder than before, they took me by surprise. Forcing me to answer questions, admitting that I deserved this spanking, making me feel like a naughty child. Intentional and effective and needed, by me. When you were satisfied, I was told to kneel on the coffee table, where you used a narrow, leather strap on my, I suspect, red bottom. Again, the force took me by surprise but not unbearable. Enough to teach me not to underestimate you. But this was just the prelude to the finalé.

By now the room was very warm, had this had any bearing on my distinct feeling of unreality, bending over the the chair without dispute? My compliance surprised and pleased me. I heard you move, I would have heard a fly creeping up the window so hard was I listening. I knew you'd picked up the cane, holding it in you your hand, firmly. I waited. The sound of it beating through the air, once? Twice? I don't know. Then the tapping on my cheeks, playing and teasing. I wanted to smile but concentration wouldn't let me. Then the first stroke and a slight feeling of relief. Not too bad, I could do this. A few more, enough elicit a pleasant, burning sting, warmth, an acceptable level of pain, but you were playing with me, teasing, this wasn't a caning. Then you told me to count.

My breath caught in my throat at the next stroke. So much harder, I almost forgot to breathe out or count. The pain dissolved into a burning sting that spread. Just in time to speak before the next, slightly lower but more painful, the sting layered over burning. Then another, very slightly harder followed by your hand, stroking and rubbing, as you always do no matter which implement you use. Little relief this time, it only ignited the fire even more. You knew that. Three cuts, quickly laid on, the spreading burn merging into the next and I forgot to count. I couldn't unclench my jaw to speak only grunt and breathe. Then you changed my position. I can remember being led to the coffee table and told to bend over it with my head looking straight ahead, back arched and bottom out. Mesmerised, I obeyed. Did I?

The cane fell again, the severity rising but I was feeling a change, a yearning to feel it. I became aware of the atmosphere surrounding us. Subtle, trusting, but more than anything highly erotic, I began to feel aroused, dissolving into the association. The pain was now welcomed, dreaded but wanted. Now I understood.

How many positions followed? Kneeling on a small table with my hands flat on the floor, the age-old bending over, that for just for a second I thought would have been more successful if I'd taken my shoes off for balance. But I was past caring. I only wanted to feel the bite of the cane, the touch of your hand re-igniting the burn. My mind had drifted, closed down, nothing else mattered. Then you asked me how many more I thought I deserved. Not a difficult question, but beyond rational thought at that time. My answer pleased you, so you halved it in kindness. Why then did I feel just a modicum of disappointment? I think I must have lost my mind!!

Then you had to leave. An hour or maybe a little more, but in that that short time I'd learned much, not just about the cane but about myself.