It takes nothing to draw blood with a knife – the words even feel right together: knife-blood, blood-knife. A single-tail whip, such as a bull whip, with its thin waxed cord moving at the speed of sound, will draw blood readily; indeed it takes great skill to stop it doing so. But a cane; a cane is different. A cane doesn’t want to draw blood; it has to be forced. It has to be swung fast, hard and repeatedly.
Unlike the knife or the whip, the cane is a blunt instrument and has no means of slicing neatly between the surface skin cells to release the blood underneath. Instead it has to destroy those cells, battering them with blow after blow until they cease to exist. Alternatively all the surface tissue, both the skin and the underlying muscle, has to be destroyed in a single blow that sinks deep into the flesh, as a Singapore style punishment cane will do. Only then, with the protective layers utterly obliterated, can the blood reach the surface.
It follows that any caning that produces blood is a serious caning indeed.
So what were my thoughts a couple of months ago, when the Mistress who has been leading me willingly into heavier corporal punishment scenes, showed me a cane red with my own blood for the first time? Showed me this cane in fact:
I shiver slightly now, just looking at the blood on the cane again. Not from memory of the beating that led to it being there, but because this is MY BLOOD. Furthermore, it wasn’t shed as a result of an accident or injury. It was shed as the result of a deliberate choice; as a result of an action so premeditated that I had planned it weeks in advance and was paying for it.
I found I had two conflicting reactions that somehow existed simultaneously.
On the one hand:
It pulls me up short. This is new and uncomfortable. Shocking. Until now this has been play; demanding, violent, even extreme, yet explainable as a form of recreation. The pain and the pleasure, the erotic and the severe are colours on a palette from which the Mistress creates swirling pictures of sensation and emotion with artistry and panache. But Blood. Blood is a discordant vermillion streak through a scene of harmonious blues and greens. It can’t be ignored. Blood speaks not of kink or play but of behaviour norms breached, of dark and forbidden fantasies. Blood speaks of self abuse. If I deliberately participate in activities that make me bleed, are my kinks out of control. Am I safe? Am I safe from myself?
And yet, in the same mind, at the same time, this is going on:
Yes! Blood! HA! I never went this far before. We just moved up a level in this game we play. It’s exciting, thrilling, breath-taking. It’s debauched and illicit. The blood on the cane renders worthwhile the fight to overcome the pain, the stubborn perseverance with which I allowed her to beat me. I had kept quiet that she might feel the freedom to let her demons out and just thrash me at will, unfettered by yells of pain or safe words. This is my reward; to know that I let her beat me till I bled, till HER cane was red with MY blood. I’m proud of this, pleased with myself, pleased with my gift to her. My blood. On her cane. What could be hotter than that?
It makes no sense for these two reactions to live together. Yet they well represent the constant conflict that exists in my sense of self; the conflict between the mostly pleasant, mostly hard working family man and the masochistic, rapacious, hedonist.