I have written quite a bit about anticipation; the delicious fear during the run-up to a challenging BDSM session and, just as delicious, the body’s reaction to it. At risk of turning my blog into amateur psychoanalysis of the worst kind; I think I know why this is almost a whole separate kink for me.
As a family, we spent a lot of time overseas when I was growing up so I went to a boarding school. I dare say that many, reading that statement, will jump to the somewhat clichéd conclusion that horrendous school canings are at the heart of my masochism. Yes, I am old enough to have been at school before corporal punishment was banned. The fact is however, that I only really transgressed once in that time and this is what happened.
Having moved to the main school I lived in a dormitory in a boarding house, a big old Edwardian mansion half a mile from the school itself. It was run by a mostly kindly teacher, we’ll call him Mr Hodgson, and his wife. One night, for reasons lost to me now, I agreed to go on an excursion with Ian, a genuine reprobate with a reputation for bad behaviour. We exited our ground floor dormitory through a window, crept round the back of the house and climbed the fire escape to access an upstairs dormitory. Having played cards with friends for a while, we climbed back down the fire escape, imagining ourselves to be ninja assassins, only to find a couple of sixth form prefects at its base.
They seemed more amused than irate but nonetheless sent us to wait outside Mr Hodgson’s office. He was, we were told, at an evening function at the main school and would not be back for an hour. So we waited; and waited; and waited some more.
We were in the wood lined hallway of the boarding house with its ancient hunting prints. Ian, with more experience of these things, informed me as soon as the prefects had left, “He’s gonna cane us, for sure. It’s gonna be HORRIFIC”. I can still remember the sick feeling in my stomach, the fear and the spike in my pulse rate as Mr Hodgson arrived. We had to tell him why we were there, consciously drawing out our answer, the explanation and the lame excuses, dreading what was going to happen when we stopped talking. But he can’t have been in a caning mood and, having made clear just how angry he was, he sent us back to bed, ordering us to return at 6pm the following evening.
Twenty four hours of waiting. Knowing all the time that Mr Hodgson, though a very infrequent user of corporal punishment, had a fearsome reputation. Twenty four hours for friends to wind us up with almost certainly mythical stories of horrendous thrashings handed out to others. The sick dread as 6pm approached. The waiting outside his office once more. The admonishment. The threat to write to parents. And finally……… “I will deal with you two after prep tomorrow evening”.
Another twenty four hours of tortured imagination. Ian, who had been caned the previous term, talking about how terrible it had been and the bruises he carried afterwards. Thinking about nothing else in lessons. Waiting. All the time waiting. Evening prep. Rows of boys pretending to study, every one of them anticipating, with varying degrees of delight and horror, what was going to happen afterwards. Mr Hodgson entered. He called us out by name. He sent us to the small study room behind the prep room while he told everyone else what we had done.
The study room. We knew the whole house would all be able to hear both the beating and our noise from there. A table for us to lean across, gripping the other side. The cane lying on the table. Oh, my God, the cane. It looked impossibly long and vicious. Surely, he wasn’t intending to use that. Absolute terror. He came in, shutting the door with a bang behind him. Admonished us again for putting ourselves at risk. We barely heard him, blood rushing in our ears.
Finally: “I am not going to punish you this time, but if either of you cross my path again it will end badly for you. Very badly”.
And then he was gone with his cane.
I still remember the feeling of relief as he walked out, with a clarity undimmed by the intervening years.
And I remember with the same clarity that one percent of what I felt was regret.
So why do I tell this story now?
Elita, was not always the dominant mistress who has featured in my blog As she explains on her web site, she formally worked as a professional submissive. Very occasionally she allows her masochistic tendencies to surface and plays a submissive role with her man, perhaps allowing a submissive client to watch her being caned and then fucked in a really intense cuckold scene. I have seen a picture of her bottom after such a session, and it is quite clear that Elita plays just as hard as a submissive as she does as a domme.
Cuckolding doesn’t appeal to me and I think I would be uneasy with just watching someone get caned that hard. But to be caned, WITH someone else; to share the experience and witness each other’s pain; that idea is very stimulating to me. I have explored this dynamic before in shared pain games as part of super-erotic three way dungeon sessions.
So I am going to be caned by a fully grown powerful man. Alongside Elita. Elita has kindly informed me that he hits way, way harder than she does and, believe me, Elita doesn’t mess about. She doesn’t mess about at all. I am still not sure yet how I will feel about having such a sensual experience involving a man. Definitely a first for me.
There are a number of ways I can rationalise the appeal of what seems likely to be a fairly extreme experience:
- It is all about my kink for the build up and anticipation; the fear that I already feel now, a week ahead of it happening
- It is another step on the journey into harder CP, along which Elita has been guiding me with great expertise.
- It is a chance to experience the huge emotional, erotic, sensual surge I get from the sharing of pain.
Or perhaps it is, finally, the caning I have been anticipating for over forty years; the chance, after all that time, to leave the wood lined, hunting print covered, corridor outside the housemasters office, knowing that the punishment eventually happened and I lived to tell the tale.