Taking the cane

I have always felt the pull of the cane. Perhaps it was initiated by those naughty school girls in the books I voraciously read. For I certainly felt annoyance at primary school that only the bad boys got called into the headteachers room for six of the best. I was left to imagine how it felt when that slender length of cane collided with tender flesh to leave a livid mark.

I bought my first cane a year ago, pink lexan which is heavy in my hand. Then more recently I bought a traditional school teachers cane. I have plied both against the bottom of marty who valiantly tolerated the strokes of a novice. Neither gave me much pleasure. I found the solid nature of the stroke falling heavy on the buttocks curbed my enthusiasm. Feeling sure that I was missing something in my application of the cane I decided it was important for me to submit to it with a mentor.

I reached out to one whom I admired and made a tentative inquiry. Then in time we met with thoughts of dominance and submission in both our minds.

It began gently in a quiet room. As the door closed behind us he took control. His hand on the nape of my neck sent me down into a submissive space, he tested my response to him and then sat to put me across his knee. My skirt was lifted and the first few spanks fell on my panty clad bottom. I relaxed as they fell with a rhythm and balance that was mesmerizing.

The pantys were removed with some wriggling and a degree of discomposure. The spanking resumed with his smooth hands bringing increasing heat to my bare bottom. He continued until we were both hot and my place under his hand established.

Maybe he had concerns that I would attempt to evade his carefully positioned strokes of the cane for he took my hands and secured them with steel. I was positioned just how he liked, trembling pink flesh waiting for further assault.

He teased me with my favourite spanking tool, slowly drawing the belt from his waist before applying it to my bottom. Clearly he used it to make my bottom redder and hotter but it began the slow burn of arousal in my pussy. I was happy, feeling my clit grow as each blow from the belt made my nerves hyper-stimulate.

The belt was replaced, those few minutes as it was threaded back through the loops gave me space to focus back on the cane. It was time.

It landed with a thud, as solid from my receiving end as it had felt when I wielded it. Six, twelve, eighteen. I wasn't counting but he liked to spell them in neat packages. You would not believe it but my clit grew harder and a wet patch began to spread down my legs. The sustained caning drew blue words from me until at last I pleaded for a break, not an end. He felt the heat of my bottom and the wetness flowing and then whispered kind words in my ear.

The caning that followed was in blocks of six. At the start of each I felt certain I could breathe through the pain but when the fifth and six fell I was desperate for salvation. Each break got longer as the sting refused to diffuse and until it did I could not regain my equanimity.

I was mortified by the degree of arousal I was revealing, the caning had not caused any diminution. Instead I was orgasmic as each stoke of the cane pressed my clit hard against the bed taking me to a place of conflict - choosing pain to achieve pleasure.

The caning ceased. As he whispered his pleasure in my ears I turned and kissed him. I was truly thankful for his strict discipline and overwhelmed with joy.