She Asked For 1000 Cane Strokes
Here’s a post in which Bonnie-jo feels rebellious and ends up asking for more than she wanted, but getting less.
First she decided that corner time was not for her:
But I got thirsty, so I walked into the kitchen and turned on the tap, filled up a glass. The sound of the faucet brought him over to me quickly. He was grinning. “What are you–?”
“I was thirsty!!” I defend.
“I can see that,” He smiles, taking the glass from me. He sits down in a folding chair by our table and pulls me over his lap so fast my hands hit the carpet loudly as I slightly catch myself.
The hairbrush connects with my butt fast and hard, and I begin wondering what hurts more, the brush or the bathbrush. He makes me apologize and I do. “When I tell you to stay in the corner, what do you do?” SMACK!
“I stay in the corner.”
“You say in the corner, what?” SMACK SMACK!
“I stay in the corner, Sir.”
“When I tell you to not stamp your feet what do you do?
“I don’t stamp my feet…” SMACK SMACK SMACK!We went on like this for awhile. And I thought to myself–okay, this is a good hard spanking. I’m done now. He’s done enough. I’ve scratched the itch. I will be good now.
But something inside of me said–No! You need so much more. You need to fight him more. You need to be punished more. You need to resist and be conquered more. And he’s leaving on vacation for awhile and you need to do it now when he’s here.
So I did. I said something saucy, and he quickly grabbed the bathbrush. That hurt, but surprisingly, it didn’t hurt all that much. At one point, he stopped to rub my bottom with one hand, let the bathbrush dangle in the other hand. I could see under the folding chair perfectly from my position, and the dangling bathbrush was just too tempting. So I grabbed it.
We played tug of war for awhile with that, and then he stopped moving. “Get up, Bonnie-jo.” I knew that voice. Something bad was going to happen. So I sent stiff over his lap and didn’t move. “Get up, now.”
“No.” I said.
He pushed me off his lap. It wasn’t a violent push, and it didn’t hurt me because I was trying to cling to him and the fall was a slow one, but all the same, I was surprised.
He went off to search our closet and I knew exactly what for.
He came back with the cane. “Get over the arm of the couch.” This has sort of become our signature caning position–me stretched over the arm of our black leather love seat, my feet on the ground. I absolutely hate it.
“Pleeaase!” I whimpered. “I want to stay on the bed! Please, please, please can you do it on the bed?”
“No. Get over the couch. Now!”
He actually hadn’t caned me for weeks and weeks, and suddenly, I was really scared. The last time I was caned it was for something very serious. And it hurt. It hurt way more than I like remembering.
“I’m staying on the bed.” I said.
“You were starting at only 2 strokes, Bonnie-jo. But I’m upping it now. ”
“I don’t care.”
“12 strokes.”
“I don’t care.”
“24 strokes.”
I grin up at him wickedly, a mixture of fear, resignation, and pure silliness, “How about one thousand, huh? How about that? Think you could do that?” I sound angry and realize I almost am.
“Okay, one thousand.” He says, “Now get on the couch.” I dig my fingers and toes into the bed and stick my bottom out, hoping he gives in. Nope.
He drags me to the couch and pushes me over the arm. “College Guy,” I say desperately, “You can’t cane me a thousand times, I wouldn’t be able to walk.”
“We’ll see how far we get.”
Unfortunately she kept on playing the “I want you to force me” game further than he was willing (or able?) to push it, and their evening ended unhappily and with no actual caning. It’s a dangerous and often destructive game, that “I’m going to keep resisting because I want to be forced even more strongly and more masterfully than he’s ever done it before” maneuver. A good man, however dominant, will calibrate his dominance based on previous negotiation and mutually-understood signals. If he starts getting unfamiliar signals and a novel degree of resistance, he’s unlikely to parse that as “oh, she wants to up the intensity of our game.” Instead, he’s likely to pull back or break out of the game for a reality check.
Trust me ladies, you don’t want a man who won’t do that. If he’s willing to power through all of your resistance no matter how unprecedented it is, what’s going to happen to you in a situation where you did — for some reason — withdraw your consent? Nothing good, I promise.
I know I’ll get angry letters from the “true slave” contingent for saying that, letters from the girls who enjoy the fantasy that they’ve voluntarily given up the power to withdraw their consent. But I believe a good dominant has the obligation — even when playing out that fantasy with someone — to remain alert to the possibility that consent has been withdrawn, even if she’s previously sworn on a stack of bibles that she won’t and that her most earnest desire is to abandon the capacity to do so. No degree of modern consensual slavery can destroy her basic human right to change her mind, and a dominant who doesn’t bear that constantly in mind is at risk of being a dangerous and potentially abusive asshole. Bonnie-jo is lucky her College Guy is sensitive to her changing signals, even if he didn’t parse them “properly” (from her perspective) this time.
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