A good caning story:
“Turn around,” she says. I obey. I feel her fingers brush over my bottom, resting momentarily on the places where the cane had struck. “Bend over the arm again, young lady. Let’s see if we can’t improve things…”
Her next two strokes are lower down, virtually the tops of my legs. I feel the vindictiveness in them, sense her smug satisfaction at their strategic placement. Her breathing quickens. Her gloating eyes feast on my mounting shame.
She pauses for a moment to admire her handiwork. I wonder what the skin of my bottom looks like — scarlet striped maybe, or just displaying an even pinkish glow? The thought is humiliating, but at the same time exciting.
I feel her hand slip across my backside again, her fingers lingering here and there, pressing on the skin.
“Warming up a bit?” she says, and I nod meekly in agreement. By this time I feel the liquid running from me. I am shamefully — no… shamelessly, that’s it – shamelessly wet.
Once again I hear the rattan whistle, followed by the sharp crack of cane on flesh which echoes around the hard cold walls and the tall ceiling. She gives me the sixth and final one squarely across both cheeks. The weird thing is, instead of smarting pain I get a delicious tingling sensation that commutes itself to my crotch — like a gentle current of low voltage
electricity. There is definite venom in this last stroke. This time I shriek like a cat that’s just had its paw trodden on. It is as much through pleasure as pain.
The headmistress yanks my hair, spitefully and says, “Shush, girl, control yourself!”
“But it hurt so, Miss.” True enough; but it is also stimulating and uplifting.
“Then I hope that will give you cause for thought, my girl.”
From Barbara’s Fantasy by Trevor.