It’s his stance that worries me; makes me realise we are in trouble. It’s his stance that brings two weeks of anticipation and fear into immediate and sharp perspective. It is something in the way his feet, widely spaced, seem to be planted to the floor.
I recognise his stance for I have seen it before. It is the stance of a golfer. Not the stance of just any golfer but that of a seasoned tour professional holding a driver on the tee. A golfer who knows that to clear the distant stream he has to hit the ball dead straight at least 280 yards. This is the stance of a man preparing to unleash huge force with great precision. In this case the target of the swing for which he prepares is not a golf ball but Elita’s small, naked, and pristinely unmarked bottom. The implement in his hand is not a golf club but a punishment cane: long, straight and with a leather wound handle.
I realise that I am responsible for what is about to happen. I asked for this session; said that, having been caned several times by Elita, I wanted to be caned with her. The enthusiasm with which she embraced the idea is forgotten and I am conscious only that she is about to suffer a great deal and it is down to me.
Twenty four strokes in groups of six.
With this cane.
From this man.
It seems like a huge number; a severe, even brutal, punishment.
Beyond anything I had imagined when we discussed the session.
I can’t think about the twenty four strokes I am also to receive. All my attention is on Elita. I am truly horrified by the prospect of the violence that is about to be unleashed. Yet I am, in equal measure, excited and turned on by it.
Like the golfer’s, his feet are planted at an exact right-angle to the line of impact. His strong thighs and buttocks provide the perfect platform for the rotation of his muscled torso and his arm. The stance is that of a man who, when he finally lifts the cane, will be able to swing it with his full force and yet land it on exactly the point on Elita’s bottom where it now taps insistently.
I am close to her head, hands on her shoulders holding her down to the bench. I sense her tension, her fear and yet also her excitement. She reaches out and grabs my nipples, pulling violently lest, holding her down, I forget my proper place in our relationship. It hurts but I welcome the connection between us, the sharing in the intensity of the moment.
Still the cane taps.
Then it stills.
Like a cobra stills, just before it makes its strike.
The room is completely silent, all three of us holding our breath.
The time has arrived. All the build up, the anticipation, the waiting has come inexorably to this. As the cane is drawn back, Elita looks up into my eyes, her expression all defiant intensity. ‘I will not weaken!’ her look says. Then her beautiful face crumples as the first blow lands.
This session was hugely intense for everyone involved. So much happened that, rather than try to describe it all, I decided to focus on just this one moment. I hope it works. This is what poor Elita’s bottom looked like after her caning. Mine was in a very similar state!