THE Caning

(or..... The Mother of all Canings)

[This is a true story. CAUTION: severe caning]

She:

When we agreed to play the scene we had never played before, we were both entering unknown territory. But the depth of trust we share and our complete confidence in one another meant that this was not dangerous. If it came sooner than we expected, it only came after careful discussion of what we wanted, expected, needed. I had confessed my growing desire to be chastised to the point of tears and total loss of control. Where some punishments had been a real challenge in the past, this would be another level of severity entirely. If I wanted to experience complete physical and mental over-powerment, you wanted to give me that, and to have the freedom to thrash me harder than you had ever caned anyone before. Seeking after our shared and parallel thrills of sub-space and Dom-space, we agreed the scene would be played harshly, that the implement of choice would be the thickest, heaviest, stiffest cane, and a clear set of verbal signals for me to say "Enough, but don't end the scene", along with the always-present *safeword* to allow me to terminate the scene. And then we began, before I even realised we were starting.

As you will know very well, you completely wrong-footed me by the abrupt change of tone and manner and the unprecedented act of telling me to collect my food and sending me to the corner to eat. Over-powering. Humiliating. Very effective. I wasn't even tempted to 'play up' or turn bratty, because it simply never occurred to me. You spoke not one word to me the entire time, not even to scold or correct. It all felt very serious and sober, feeling I was thoroughly in disgrace having to eat there. And concentrated the mind wonderfully. Dread, anticipation, excitement, a touch of fear, arousal, total absorption in what was to come alternating with acute surveillance of what was going on behind me. And when the 'call' finally came, it was completely startling, making me jump a foot off my stool.

Being sent to put on night-clothes and then to get into bed to wait again served to reproduce all of the above, but in more emphatic form: I had thought the moment had come, but it hadn't; I could no longer be even partly sure of what you were doing, despite straining constantly to hear; I felt in even more trouble than before and more vulnerable since there was a real oscillation between contemplating what was to come and erotic associations of being in that bed , filtered through feeling like a very naughty little girl. And once again, the 'call' came at the moment when I was least expecting it.

Told to get up and come over to you I could hardly move fast enough, but with such reluctance now the moment really had arrived. Putting me over the clothes horse was surprising and disorientating. A sense of precariousness (thinking, if I'm to be thrashed like this, can I stand up throughout?), expectancy of the 'baring of bottom' that didn't come, slight confusion over the implement (this is not the senior cane, I was promised no warm-up, what's going on?). Six hard strokes of the authentic two-tailed tawse, then you order me up and command me to strip. And for the first time my obedience was not instantaneous. You commented afterwards on how I'd responded to being told to strip. That was not acting, but a genuine hesitation and reluctance to expose myself and be exposed. It really does seem to be the case that, under those circumstances of submission, being naked, getting naked, is still deeply humiliating. It doesn't mean the same thing or feel the same as being or getting naked in non-submissive circumstances. Which is useful information for you, Sir. ~smiles~

All the way through the preliminaries, even while I knew precisely where we headed, you kept managing to dislocate my certainty and assumptions and expectations, which only heightened the dread and anticipation. But that was of course exactly as intended. Only when the pillows started getting piled up in the middle of the bed did I know for certain-ish how I was going to be positioned. Even then I didn't expect to have my hands and feet stretched and tied to the bed, but it was exactly right -- in practical terms, I couldn't have stayed down throughout, however much I wanted to, and it gave me complete freedom to give in to the sensation without having to struggle to stay in position, plus it accentuated dramatically the over-powerment.

Tied down, in that exposed and vulnerable position, already well on my way into sub-space, when the thrashing finally arrived I was totally ready and completely unprepared. The senior cane bites like nothing else. And delivered hard in regularly spaced strokes (across time and my buttocks) I found I was breathing raggedly before we had hardly begun. You may hear the thwack of its landing, I only hear it coming and then the world explodes outwards from the stripe of landing into rolling waves of nerve responses from head to toe, an all-consuming sensation with, at its centre, the burning and throbbing stripe. The first half-dozen were almost unbearable, body and mind fighting the overload of sensation. Then a phase of feeling it as rising intensity until it then reached the 'unbearable' level again. Then (I think after three in rapid succession or a very stern low stroke -- I have trouble recalling every detail) a plateau, a sensation of sinking into the 'pain' and going with it, submitting to and accepting its demands. And finally the escalation as it became cumulatively intense, into loss of control, over-whelming. Each stroke taking me to the point where I think I can bear no more and it has to stop, but that point kept on moving and not bearing it became a mental struggle which I eventually lost, managing to get the word "red" (code for "I am close to the limit") out with the last scrap of self-possession. I did not end in tears, but that was more symbolic than literally crucial. Where I ended was exactly what I was seeking -- no dignity, no awareness of self, no possession of self, completely at sea in physical and emotional over-powerment, pure 100% sub-space with the added elements of a seriously throbbing rump and a dim awareness of having 'lost it' which is humiliating in itself. And being put in the corner in that state kept me in that space for a long time, knowing I had submitted so thoroughly to the severity of that 'pain'.

Granted permission to leave the corner, I was still in that space and needed you to tell me it was over - as you did - in order to start coming back to the world. You handled that perfectly. As with everything else that happened in that scene. And I got exactly what I needed, which was to be held. And the rest ;) I was intermittently aware throughout the thrashing that I was very turned on and very wet, which, at the moments when I was on the verge of finding it unbearable, only underlined how overpowered I felt. How completely out of control my own body and responses were.

But throughout I felt, along with deep vulnerability, astonishing 'pain' and the rest of that compelling submissive mental journey, completely and utterly safe. It was yet another experience of that combination of being overpowered and knowing I retained the ultimate control to stop or slow it if it became too much. That you would respond promptly and properly, to both explicit and implicit signs of excessive suffering.

We both knew the bruising would be extensive and deep. And that for you, this is troublesome, evoking a sense of guilty responsibility for the "damage". And the bruising was spectacular as it developed over the next day. Black and purple all over. But I had certainly expected it to be much harder to sit down than it actually proved to be, only really feeling it when I was on the bus bouncing over the pot-holes in the road. I was tender, but of the familiar order of the sweet reminder of how I came to be that way, not of needing to stand or lie on my stomach. And the bruising now fades hour by hour, but the memories remain. Of intense sensation and pleasure, exposure, intimacy and freedom. Lovely.

And we'll almost certainly go there again sometime. Not necessarily soon or often. But sometime......

He:

An experienced wielder of a cane, gleaning erotic stimulation from its feel, its sound, its physical and mental effect, quite unlike any other implement of chastisement. I know of two distinctly different caning scenarios.

In one, the cane is applied quite softly, but rapidly, creating a continuous stinging burning sensation without any real pain and without lasting marks.

And the other is the full-blown disciplinary or pseudo-disciplinary caning, where the subject is bent over, and bottom prepared for 6 or 12 good meaty strokes spread evenly from top to bottom of the proffered rump.

But this is much more serious fare. It is important to help the submissive prepare her head-space, and so I create an aura of 'disgrace'. And then I want her to think about what is about to happen, not as a D/s game, but to really think deeply if she wants to do this. She needs time to focus on her own, in an impending situation, and where better than when sent to bed early, and alone.

She needs a good shot of adrenaline before it begins in earnest, and so a verbal shock or two, and a preparatory bending for a short but stiff dose of the tawse.

And now the time has come. Balancing and maintaining a stance will be impossible, as the brain will be overwhelmed by input from the nervous system, and so a prone position with rump raised high and proud, but not so much as to stretch the buttock skin too tightly. The urge to twist and evade may become involuntary, and so I have already rigged the bed with rope which is quickly tied to outstretched wrists and ankles, feet together to protect the more delicate parts.

Sensing the balance of the cane in my hand, resting the rod across both cheeks, carefully adjusting position to obtain perfectly parallel contact and at right-angles to the cleft in her cheeks. Mentally rehearsing that first stroke in order to get the strength and direction right. Not hard enough will mislead, but too hard would result in skin damage much too soon.

Swoosh-thwack. A vivid pair of scarlet tramlines erupt across both cheeks, slightly longer on one side and so a minor adjustment in contact height is made. Mentally experiencing that first blinding flash of pain, followed by the lull, followed by a crescendo as it reaches the brain. (How can anyone judge this accurately without knowing first-hand what an implement feels like?) A short pause to allow for some recovery, and then the second stroke, aimed fractionally lower. The first stroke mentally experienced and timed, about 5 seconds, and so the cadence is set.

Stroke after stroke is spread across the full surface of her bottom, from just below the tip of her cleft and down to the junction of buttock and thigh. And this is where it begins to get difficult. Applying hard strokes, each producing vivid welts, and now there is no clean flesh to aim at. I check carefully as strokes begin to overlay. Tiny blood spots erupt below the skin's surface as surface blood vessels burst, this is acceptable, but I would refuse to continue if her skin was broken.

Watching her body for signs of extreme tension, and listening to every sound she makes. She grunts, and she quietly moans and groans, interspersed by an occasional higher pitched yelp. But I recognise that these are sounds of pain being received - and accepted. Her *safeword* and signalling code were rehearsed before we began this, and I constantly check that she is capable of using them if she needs to.

By now the strokes are falling on skin already striped at least twice before, the entire surface of her bottom is a mass of scarlet, no longer welts as they have merged into one, and some areas are beginning to show deep red to purple. I avoid these areas but her caning will have to stop soon, regardless of her desire. I increase the tempo to one stroke every three seconds, and finally every two seconds, thus magnifying the effect as overlapping waves of pain assault her brain.

And finally I hear that one word I have been waiting for, "RED". She is at her limit, and it is time to draw this chastisement to a close. I fear for her bottom, and so reach for the lighter cane. 12 good hard strokes of this spread evenly from top to bottom, and delivered without pause so as to generate a final crescendo of pain.

And now it is over. Almost.

There must be a beginning, a middle, and an end. She is returned to stand in 'her' corner, while she absorbs the last waves of pain. And as it subsides to a dull roar in her backside, she reconciles her punishment with her 'crime'. Until finally I tell her "it's over".

And now that final task. She must be brought back from that place to which she travelled. Returned gently to her place in the real world, hugged tenderly at my side until she regains the power of thought and speech. And her ravaged bottom assuaged with lotion to aid the healing process.

It does not make a pretty sight, and yet it had to be done. And yes, it will probably need to be done again.


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