Sometimes the build up to a session; the tension, the anticipation, the fear, leads to expectations that can’t possibly be matched by the reality. In this case that was a real risk, particularly as I had created further pressure by writing about what was going to happen. However I was not disappointed. The session was hot, challenging, really fucking painful, super-rewarding and hot (did I already say hot?).
My one to one session with Elita had been wonderful as always – an erotic overload of the senses with just enough CP for me to feel properly warmed up. Towards the end, as HIS arrival neared, there was a tension in the room. Elita talked too much, constantly glancing at the door. It was strange to see her like this; the submissive, masochistic side of her character, not in any way discernible when she dommes, was emerging from wherever she normally hides it. She laughed a lot with her nervousness, a high pitched slightly maniacal laugh. It wasn’t helping. My response was different; I became very quiet, trying to marshal my resources, trying to be ready.
He called us into the main room, and we stood next to each other while he described the challenge we were to face. I outlined this in the earlier post, using forty strokes as an example. Perhaps I’d hoped that by constantly repeating it, I could subliminally communicate the number forty to Elita and through her to Him. If so, it hadn’t worked. It hadn’t worked at all. I barely heard his instructions after he came out with the number fifty four, my head resonating with that number and its implications for me. Fifty four strokes in groups of six with the option to stop available only between groups. If I chose to stop, Elita would have to complete the count from that point. Fifty four strokes. Six of the best, nine times. Fuck.
I was positioned on a leather bench somewhat like a massage bench, a large hole beneath my face. Elita was lying underneath. We were looking into each other’s eyes, only fifteen inches or so apart. She would see my every grimace, feel my every gasp of hot breath on her face and read the pain in my eyes. She would be with me for every stroke.
My mind was so paralysed with fear that I couldn’t calculate half of fifty four, the number I had to reach to be able to live with myself afterwards. Bizarrely, I felt panicky at my inability to do this simple sum; at not having a target. I just knew it was a lot.
I heard the swish of the cane as he took his practise swings, my whole body flinching involuntarily away from it.
And so it began……
SIX STROKES: I’m in trouble straight away, just as I always am. I find it impossible to prepare for the violence of the impact; to be, in any sense, ready for it.
TWELVE STROKES: Elita is whispering encouragement but I don’t really hear it. I’m not in control of my breathing, and I must, absolutely must, get on top of it. Fortunately he has left the timing to Elita and she helps by pausing for five or ten seconds between strokes.
EIGHTEEN STROKES: The worst section. I can see only pain in every direction and I’ve lost the map that shows me how to get to subspace. I really don’t want any more but we’re nowhere near half way. Elita’s looking worried and is awarded a penalty of six strokes for messing up the count. Hmmm.
TWENTY FOUR STROKES: Jesus, will this ever fucking stop? It’s vicious, brutal, relentless. I’m gasping with every stroke. Elita is telling me I can do it but how can she possibly fucking hear the voices in my head reminding me I’m fucking paying for this shit and telling me to call a fucking halt. I nearly do after an especially hard blow lands on the crease of soft skin below my buttocks. Fuck.
THIRTY STROKES: My first thought when Elita smiles up at me and says “Twenty Seven – half way – well done!” might surprise you. What goes through my mind is: “Thank god for that, now I can relax and enjoy this”. Up to that point the fear of not ‘manning up’ and taking my proper share had prevented me from experiencing the caning as I like to, as a succession of extreme sensations to be explored and relished.
FORTY TWO STROKES: Elita is so beautiful, her face smiling up at me from under the bench. I marvel at her from my dreamy subspace, stroking her face between blows. I control the pace of my own punishment, squeezing her shoulder to indicate when I am ready for the next stroke, which she then calls for. The sense of being in control seems to make anything possible. He is swinging the cane very hard now as he wants to get me out of the way and work Elita over. The sensations are extreme each time he hits me but I relish the pain; I swim in it, no longer fearing I might drown. At forty two, with twelve strokes remaining (which, with the penalty, will mean eighteen for Elita) he tells me that if I want to ‘buy’ six of what he clearly now regards as ‘her’ strokes, it will cost me twelve. Elita says she’s ready and wants the 18 strokes. I want to float in subspace, enjoying the beautiful, erotic vision underneath me, for a little longer so I accept the deal.
FIFTY FOUR STROKES. He’s a strong man; gym trained, tattooed. He is also a true expert with the cane, putting his full force behind the swing and moving the impact point over my backside. Now each stroke feels as though it bypasses skin and muscle and hits straight through to my bones. But I have come to the surprising realisation that with this cane, in this situation, he will not break me. He could break me with another cane for sure, but it’s too late for that. There are six strokes left, plus the six penalty strokes. Elita really wants them. I love that she wants them so badly; it makes me feel better about my own need for this violence. We change places.
His beating of Elita was the most brutal thing I have ever witnessed. He seemed determined to make up for the quantity of strokes that I had denied him; using a thicker, heavier cane and swinging it from high up with incredible force.
It was difficult to watch……and yet it was more difficult to turn away from.
For the last few strokes, which came fast and hard, she was yelling with each impact. I held her down, stopping her from protecting herself with her hands, every stroke making me shake involuntarily with its violence and the intensity of her reactions.
It was horrible……and yet it was beautiful.
I’m shaking now, really shaking, as, 24 hours later, I recall those few minutes in order to describe them.
And after all the caning was done? Well that will have to wait for another blog. It involved Him fucking Elita, Elita fucking me and my first intimate sexual contact with a man.
And then we went for dinner!
There’s a picture of Elita’s bottom after he’d finished here:
More wickedness (though generally less violence) here: