My kinky little friend, with whom I am staying in New England just now, has been away from the kink scene for a while and, in her enthusiasm to try all the things, sometimes finds (as my mother would have said) that “Her eyes are bigger than her tummy.”
She did it with the cane. The five strokes she was due because of a game we’d been playing became ten when I asked her to choose between orgasm denial for the two days before my visit or a doubling of the number of strokes. Don’t judge; this is just how we roll!
Then, when I talked about the sanctity of “six of the best” in English CP lore (without at all suggesting any link with her impending caning – honestly, it genuinely wasn’t in my head) she voluntarily added two to make the total twelve.
Twelve is an ambitious number for a first caning.
I pointed out she was behaving like a kid who, when offered a weird looking and unfamiliar ice cream flavour, immediately asks for three scoops without having first tasted it. If you were brought up like me, that would have ended badly. If the first taste made you want to spit it out crying “Ewwww, Sour Cherry is disgusting” you’d have been told the whole lot had to be downed along with a speech that went: “You’re lucky we can afford ice cream, what about the poor kids in Africa who never get ice cream?”
After the twelve strokes she admitted that she should have listened and agreed
that being caned is indeed like nothing else in kink and it had been, as I had warned, “Really Hard!”
”I’ll listen next time,” she said.
Only she didn’t.
She asked for the tawse on the hands, having read about my own experience.
”Are you sure?” I asked.
”Yes,” she replied in her little please-hurt-me voice.
I thought about it a little and refused. I told her I’d hit her once on each hand with my belt and if she wanted the tawse after that, then I would do it.
I built the tension, holding her gaze in mine, and hit her on the proffered hand, immediately seeing the sharp pain of it jump into her eyes along with some tears. She briefly lowered her hand but found the strength to offer the other one for the second blow and managed to process the pain of that really well.
She still wanted the tawse and carried on wanting it right up to the moment I rested the heavy weight of it across her still-sore palm. I was glad she backed out, bravely asking to take for the rest of the planned six strokes with the belt instead.
That turned out to an intense and exceptionally hot bit of kink between us that we both took a lot from.
I was relieved she had backed off from the tawsing. It’s an absolute bastard of a thing, and I hadn’t been at all sure I wanted to hurt her that much.
Perhaps, next time, she really will ask to taste the sour cherry ice cream before piling it on her plate!
This image is amazing. And the thought of that tawse makes me quiver. But this image is so much more than my feelings about the tawse.
The fact that she looks small, kneeling on a bed in a way that shows such a message of bounce and fits with the asking for more than she should. But even more than that, her clothes change the dynamic. That dynamic jumps from the screen and even though I can’t see her face, the trust and submission. It takes my breath away.