Last month Pandora Blake wrote about the fun she had teaching a new gentleman to cane her:
After warming my bottom and thighs, during which I’m a good girl and hardly tell him what to do at all, he asks me what I want.
“Actually, I would fucking love a caning,” I confess, letting my breath whoosh out slowly, like the tingle that is spreading up my thighs.
He’s slapped me all over my bottom and legs, focusing even more on my legs when I whimpered about it (after establishing that the whimpering was bollocks, of course). At one point he was giving me these hard, thuddy hand strikes to the calves and thighs that felt like karate chops, and I asked “Are you doing a martial art on me?”
“Not knowingly,” he laughed, startled, “but if I am, it’s probably tai chi.”
Boy does sword form. He’ll be fine with a cane.
He’s hesitant initially, so I dive in to reassure him: “I can teach you! I’m a professional!” We get out the selection, and I’m thinking I’m going to get my thighs caned, so I pick out the two lightest. The problem is that my rattan canes fucking sting, especially when they’re used glancingly by someone who is being very careful to pull their blows. Once I establish that he’s concentrating on my bum for a bit (because I don’t want it that hard on my thighs, not today), I teach him about follow-through, and after that everything gets very warm and yummy for a bit.
His aim becomes more confident, and I warm up. I ask if he’d like to try the dragon.
I hand him my long purple-handled cane, watching him test it with a swordsman’s eye for balance…
Although perhaps not so much at the time of posting, they are now an item.