I wasn’t being punished last night. J. came back from Michigan and he came to a clean, warm, home, he was happy to be with his wife and daughter, some winterizing I did this past weekend had already made a couple degrees difference in the house, and there was nothing to rebuke me for. Nor was there a need. We were just so happy to be together.
After putting the baby down to sleep, I came downstairs carrying, well, a cane. He smiled mischievously. “What are the rules?” he asked. – “No rules.” – “No rules? Well, then bend over.” He directed me how to bend over with my hands on the coffee table in front of the sofa he was sitting on to provide him with the most comfortable angle.
He began caning me over my blue jeans. It didn’t start out very hard, but the strength increased and so did the pain. I was soon crying out in great discomfort, even though it only landed over my pants. I turned my head and looked at him with the pained expression on my face. I asked him how long he was going to be doing this. “There are no rules,” he said. “Look straight ahead.” He continued in the same fashion. I leaped up to my feet after an especially hard stroke. “Get back into the position,” he commanded, and I submitted, reluctantly. Some more caning followed. Finally, I begged him to stop. “OK”, he said, “5 more. I want you to count.”
It is almost scarier to be caned while counting off every stroke, since I keep thinking about how many more are to come and that the last one is surely going to be excruciating. Somehow, not without some effort, I got to 5.
Next, he instructed me to kneel in front of the sofa and hold my hands out. Now, the thing is, as much as I find the idea of hand caning erotic, I am very afraid of it because it really HURTS….