Wednesday, September 26, 2012
The Kiss of the Cane
He was late, once again. I remind him of the days he used to show up right on time... the days when I was still shiny and new. Not like yesterday's news. It's only five minutes, but five minutes is five minutes less time spent with me, and I take it oh so personally. Needy me. But I cannot stay angry, as I melt into his arms, accepting an embrace promised to make up for an entire week of being apart. I let go...
While I'm across his lap, I think back to those early days when spanking was the star of the show instead of the opening act for a good caning. Recently it has served solely as a warm up. Like the practical shoes of nurses and mall walkers, it is functional, not appreciated for its sexiness. It was as good of a day as any for a forgotten star to make its comeback.
My bottom ached to be reminded of its purpose. It feels as though it's being teased when the first swats are delivered over my dress. I love the taste, but am hungry for more. Savoring each bite, each lick of his hand, I eat up the sweetness. I indulge. The swats come faster and with more impact as the hem of my dress is lifted over my bottom. The paper thin wrapper of my sheer panties do very little for me in terms of protection. I writhe with pleasure, the sensation bordering on overstimulation. He slips his hand underneath the top band of my panties, simultaneously caressing my bare bottom and pulling my panties down. The prickly sting is a result of the rediscovered heat... a treasured spice only used for the most precious of occasions. I grind against his lap, my bottom begging for more. I feel drops of his sweat on my back, his efforts raining on me. After consuming the very last morsel of delight, I collapse as my body is done. It has surrendered to him. To my pleasure. I crane my head around and give him a kiss worthy of such a gift.
My adrenaline is pumping, and I can't help but want more. We take a moment to catch our breaths while I sit on his lap, lowering my heart rate by raking my fingers through his hair. Even under the dim light of the candles, I can see that my bottom was a shade of pink it hasn't seen in a long time. He brings me over to the table, bending me over for a quick twelve strokes of the cane. The cane tells a quiet joke, my bottom chuckling under it's breath. I taunt it, wiggling my bottom back and forth. Silly girl... He immediately pulls me off, setting me down on my knees. The flogger quickly claims my back, each strand feeling like needles against my damp skin. As he strikes me from above, I feel my body immediately quieting down, curling itself into a ball. He tells me to straighten my body, and I do. It's not long before I begin to slump once again, wanting myself to be as small as I want to feel. Suddenly, I feel tears start to well up in my eyes, my shoulders twitching as if to shake out those tears. He tells me to stand up and I instinctively cover my face, not wanting him to see me. I bend over the table once again. He's caning me, but I don't feel anything. The tears are rolling down my face at this point, and I'm crying into my hands, my body sobbing for relief. It only feels like moments before he stands me up and takes me into his arms. He whispers, telling me everything is ok. He pulls me to the sofa and sits down, wanting me on his lap. Instead, I kneel at his feet, crying into his thighs. I'm completely aware I've folded myself into what could possibly be the most unflattering position, but I don't care. I just want to be. He gently strokes my hair and lets me cry. When I'm ready, I sit up, waiting for another invitation, and this time, I graciously accept. Sitting in his lap, I cry silently into his shoulder. He asks me what my tears are for, and I have no answers. Instead, a second wave of tears flood out, forcing him to console me further. I hear an edge of helplessness in his voice, yet he holds me, not rushing anything, and I'm grateful for the space.
It's only later, over coffee, I wonder out loud how many strokes of the cane I received, as my bottom was feeling more sore than usual against the unforgiving wooden slats of the chair. He asks me to guess, and I say, "18," counting the first twelve and estimating the six that followed before I completely broke down. I was off by 14, as the second set consisted of exactly 20 strokes, making the grand total 32. Low, by our average, but the marks they left are more severe than most. For all the tears that were spilled that day, I was left with the stain of a single plum colored kiss, left by the cane... a reminder that it strikes me with the most tender love and the most empathetic care.