There’s a place I go when I’m beaten, a place deep inside myself, a refuge. There’s a sense of quite deliberately diving down to it early in the session. I allow my sense of where I am and who I am with to diminish, focussing only on the waves of sensation, becoming utterly absorbed in them. Here, the cane and the pain that comes from its strike are no longer frightening; I can control my reactions and even relish the extreme sensations. As I become more accustomed to being caned hard, I can usually reach my refuge after the first four or five strokes.
But I’m in trouble now. I’m in deep trouble because that place of refuge is lost to me. I feel each stroke fully, the dense “dragon” cane biting deep, the impact shocking in its severity, and I’m terrified of it.
We’re still in the first set of ten strokes and I’m sure I’m not going to make it to the end. I’m like a diver without a weight belt, trying to swim down to the safety of the deeper water but constantly bobbing, cork-like, to the surface.
And the surface is on fire, burning me with its vicious all-enveloping heat; the surface is where he is with his fucking dragon cane, striking me again and again and I can’t handle it. Six strokes, seven strokes, eight; if I make it to ten he’ll pause but thirty is another country I’ll never visit.
But the surface is also where, Elita is. She’s my raft there and I cling to her like a drowning man, digging my fingers into her arms. And eventually, because she is there, it becomes OK to be at the surface, to experience each cane strike in full, rather than hiding in the depths where the pain is blunted.
She’s relishing my pain, almost feeding off it, and yet willing me to overcome it. She lends me some of the wonderful strength that got her through the same beating. I lock my gaze onto hers and soak up a stroke without moving, then another, craving the praise I see in her eyes; I take a third, still not moving but the fourth is low and hard and I lurch forward crying out the agony of it into her face.
Somehow fifteen passes, the half way mark. At twenty she’s alowed to stand up and feel the welts, running her cool fingers over the ridges his cane has raised in my flesh. He changes up a gear for the last ten but I’m ready for him, knowing he’s not going to break me, knowing that with her help, I’ll still be there at thirty. But getting there is shockingly intense; huge waves of pain, great surging rushes of it, each one threatening to pull me under.
To share this, to share the agony of it face to face; then to feel her willing me on, sensing all the time her excitement at just how much her man is hurting her submissive; this is the most intense thing Elita and I do together.
This is our sex.
And it’s as hot as fuck.
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There’s a video of one of the blows that left these marks landing on this link
Just after we finished. Ouch
The following morning, the rawness is going
I’ve written about my caning first, though it came after Elita’s. Witnessing her take the same 30 strokes was hard, full of its own visceral intensity, and it may take me a while to find the words for that experience.
The morning before the caning I wrote about the ritual of preparing for it and how thst felt.
Fuck. Wow. That’s beautifully written and it conveys so well the stages and levels of mental coping. Thank you – I actually feel the tension as I read that!
This post and the one building up to it really got me thinking about the dynamo. Because it was a man delivering it, as a fairly straight het male I was thinking whether it would impact my enjoyment or what it would do to the mind and body’s reaction. Now you’ve explained it, it totally makes sense and I can see what an amazing thing it is, switching the processing from an internal place to external, involving Ms Elita so it turns into a beautiful shared thing.