Arousal By Caning

It doesn’t always work, but when it works, it works great!

He sensed my distance, and when his hands on my nipples also failed to provoke the desired response, he withdrew and flipped me onto my front. The tension that had built up as I’d failed to give him what he wanted left me as I exhaled. I hadn’t needed to explain, or to ask. He knew what I needed.

“Hold onto the headboard,” he told me, leaving the bedside for a few moments. He returned holding a long, thick, lightweight bamboo cane.

Without a warm up, without even the comforting familiarity of pillows lifting my hips, each stroke was a sharp slice of pain. I hid under my hair and welcomed them even as I yelped. I was grateful to him for knowing this about me, for being willing to provide it. It hurt, but I wanted him to keep going, to go harder, to break down my barriers.

He paused, for a while, to try other pursuits. But it was clear to both of us that I wasn’t yet where I needed to be. Once again, I didn’t even need to ask.

This time, he went harder on me. “I think you should be thanking me for these,” he said quietly, after the first few strokes. And I did, gratitude in every tremor of my voice as he whipped me hard enough to leave welts. I wasn’t asked to count them, so I don’t know how many there were. I just remember them being hard, as hard as I needed, and my thanks became sobs of joy as he deliberately placed stripes on the tender crease below my buttocks, and at the tops of my thighs.

By the time he’d finished I was softened, tearful, eager. After that, everything flowed much more easily.

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