NOT THAT CANE! Part 2

(Continues from Part 1)

I knew immediately the first stroke landed, knew with absolute certainty, that I wasn’t going to get to twenty four. How could I? Not when I’d been reminded of the safe word just before he started, been given that easy way out; not when I was in the front room of a basement apartment in Central London, people queuing for a bus just 10 metres away. This was no Singaporean prison, no punishment caning; this was a bit of kinky fun on a wet midweek evening.

Wasn’t it?

Let me divert a moment: At 30 I had already been a good skier for 15 years; usually a bit better than my friends, taking a steeper line, making smoother turns. A couple of us booked into an off-piste course. “Yeah,” we told them, “we’re pretty good skiers.” On the first day we followed the guide on a long traverse away from the piste, finding ourselves at the top of a slope of un-tracked, late season snow. The unfamiliar drag of the deep, wet snow on my skis threw me over at the first turn and at each of the next five. I realised in that moment that I was, in fact, not a good skier.

I realised that I had been on a too comfortable plateau, and had just been given a taste of the next level.

The first cane stroke from Elita’s man felt exactly like that. Another level.

I  lurch forward, crying out, and am immediately, involuntarily gasping and panting with the shock of it. When my breathing calms, I look up at Elita.

“My god, that’s only one!” I say.

Being on all fours on the sofa makes this much harder than being strapped to a rigid spanking bench. Here, I have to put myself into position for each blow. Doing so feels like asking him to hit me again and  I really, really don’t want him to do that.

“Stick it out!” he growls when my backside flinches away from his feinted swing. As soon as I’m positioned how he wants me, SWISH-THWACK. It’s brutal; absolutely, unremittingly brutal. But he isn’t done. After a few strokes he puts his hand in a glass of water and smears some over my backside.

“Let’s put a bit of snap in it!” he says.

It’s such a simple thing but the effect is immediate and horrific. It somehow adds the sting of an unseen, thin, whippy cane to the bite-thud of the thick, dense one he is using. I’m already way beyond any imagined limits and I don’t know where to put this new pain. It’s overwhelming. I can’t blow it out of my body before the next wave arrives so pain is piled on pain. It’s just too much.

And yet somehow I was still there at twenty four. Perhaps he backed off a bit, realising how much trouble I was in. Elita was with me for every stroke, gripping my hand or letting me grip hers, whispering encouragement to me between strokes. She got me there, as she always does; a raft to cling to while all the madness of the storm raged around me.

Yet I was never on top of this caning, never reached that place inside myself where anything seems possible. Only the fact that I was still there at the end let me salvage enough pride from the session to see this new level, this new cane, as a challenge to be overcome, a previously unimagined plateau to aim for in my journey into BDSM.

I realise now that, after two months of not being caned, this had been too big a leap forward. Perhaps, on this occasion, I had needed to back up a bit before attempting the next level, just as I had needed to learn some off-piste skiing technique before heading down 1,500 vertical metres of heavy, un-pisted snow. Later I did learn to ski off piste and the rewards were amazing, opening up a completely new world of heightened experience.

Perhaps mastering this cane will be similarly rewarding.

(I have a video of a stroke from this caning. It still makes me uncomfortable to watch it, but I may make a Sinful Sunday post out of it).

More Wednesday Wickedness here: