Spare Not the Rod

by Domina

This is actually what happened in one of my prodomme sessions.  I could not help writing it down as a story, but it's all true.  I was sooooo pleased that the gentleman involved came to me for this session.  It made my, it made me happy for several weeks.

Naked, he kneels before her, anticipating and frightened all at once.  Not sure if he really wants to go through with the session he had so much desired in fantasy.  So many times he had dreamed of what the cane must feel like; the sting, the spreading burn, the rising welts, even the bruising and soreness the day after.  He had dreamed of being caned, and now his dream was becoming reality, too fast, too soon. 

Lorena McKinnet plays on the stereo, soft background to sinister intention.  Her clear voice a counterpoint to the darker actions that are to come.

The red haired domina spoke, “For the next two hours, you will be mine.  My playtoy, my slave, mine to do with as I please.  You have two safewords: Yellow and Red.  Yellow means that the sensation is too intense and you need me to lighten up.  Red means that you need to end the scene NOW.  I do not punish you for using safe words as they are there to keep both of us safe, and by using them, you are protecting ME.  If you agree to this, kiss the collar I am holding as a token of your submission to my will.”

He pauses a moment, then, with trepidation kisses the collar and she places it around his neck.  “You are now mine.”

She softly strokes his face, his arms, his chest.  She can tell he’s scared.  “Darlin, you have your safewords.  You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.  But it’s a pity to come so far and not even try.”

He considers how many times he has dreamed of the cane, imagined it’s electric bite and the waves of pain it is said to induce.  Usually, he cannot have marks, but his wife is gone for the week, and he has this one chance to taste this dangerous pleasure.  One chance that will be a long time coming again.

She feels him relax and knows that means he is submitting to his dreaded dream.  Leading him over to the bondage table, she carefully begins binding him to it face down.  Pliable as a child, all resistance melted from him he gives himself over to her attentions.  She covers his feet with a towel, then runs her hands gently over him.  She leans over to give him a hug and checks the ropes once more.

Now secure, the slaps begin.  All open handed, all on his buttocks and thighs.  Softly at first, then harder.  Steadily tingling.  Warm up for the anticipated caning. 

He has given over his will.  He will be meat for her sadism; she will be the agent for his masochism.  Complimentary.  He closes his eyes, resigning himself to her will, her control, her actions.

A coolness slides over his buttocks.  He smells wintergreen and alcohol and knows that she is beginning her preparation for the caning.  The coolness feels good on his reddened cheeks.

There!  It begins…the tap-tap-tap of the cane.  Softly, gently, soothingly, a steady rhythm like a metronome.    Light taps.  No pain as yet, but he can feel the taps get slightly harder, stronger.  Suddenly, a sting, then the taps begin again.  He feels the pain, a light burn; another, then the tapping resumes.  He knows that now she is playing.  Barely striking hard enough on the actual strokes to register as pain.  He also knows it will build, slowly and steadily to ever increasing force. 

The tapping continues, but the strikes are harder now.  Each discreet, a sharp shock, with a pause, then a burn that spreads out from the area of impact.  Strangely, he no longer fears the pain, but welcomes it, riding it to a place not far removed from pleasure.  He no longer wants to stop, but wants this strange dance to continue forever. 

There is a pause. The domina stops and rubs his buttocks with her cool hand, then with a piece of fur.  The coolness is a shock in itself, but somehow seems like the right event to be occurring at this time.  She croons, making little happy humming noises.  He realizes that he’s been hearing those hums during the entire caning.  “Are you alright, my darlin?”  she asks.  He makes an incoherent sound and nods slightly.  He is in a good place and does not want to be disturbed by mundane things.  She strokes him a few more times, then the tapping resumes.

The intensity is less than where it left off, but it builds back up to that level, and then increases.  Now, the strikes elicit soft gasps from him, but he still craves the pain and the pleasure it brings with it.  Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-strike! Pause.  Tap-tap-tap…Perhaps one strike per minute.  Somehow, time is no longer important.  His entire attention is on the cane as it dances across his buttocks and thighs, but he is relaxed and not anticipating the strikes or flinching.  Even though the actual strokes are harder each time.  The cane begins to whistle to indicate a strike.  Still, no flinching, just calm acceptance.  The tapping is hypnotic somehow making the stokes harder to anticipate, easier to bear.

Another pause.  She lightly rakes his welted cheeks with her long nails.  It almost is a tickling sensation and surely harder to take than the pain of the caning itself.  She strokes him gently with the fur again, then sprays his heated buttocks with the alcohol.  This time it stings.   She croons wordlessly as she rubs baby oil over his welted cheeks.  It soothes and stings.  She leans down to drop a kiss on his shoulder and whisper in his ear, “One more round, darlin.  You’re doing just great.  One more round.”

The tapping recommences, again, lighter than the last strokes, but building up to a searing intensity.  Now, there are occasional multiple strokes without the tapping between them.  These jolt him, even in his trance state.  The strokes are much harder taking his breath each time.  Still, he wants it.  Desiring one more stroke every time.  Hoping that each stroke is not going to be the last. 

He seems to be one mass of burning, interrupted by the sharp, searing pain of each strike.  She no longer is tapping, just a strike, then a pause, then another strike.   The strikes are agony, and he writhes with each new one, but still, he never thinks to utter his safewords.  He does not want it to stop.  Not now.  Maybe not ever.  There is a sort of ecstasy in the pain that no pleasure has ever given him. 

He hears her voice far away, “Five strokes, darlin.  Five really, hard ones.” 

The cane whistles loudly and he feels as if his thighs have been cut to the bone.  The pain sears.  Just as it lessens and he gets his breath back, the second stroke lands, jarring his entire body.  He is burning.  The third stroke causes him to forget anything as ordinary as breathing.  And somehow, the fourth stroke causes the flames he is in to leap higher and hotter.  The fifth stroke…ah, yes, this one elicits a sob.  And even he is not sure if it is relief or sorrow at the ending.

The domina drops the cane and leans over him with a hug.  “You did sooooo good, my darlin.  Really!  You did it.”  She gives him a squeeze.  Then she attends to his welted and bruised buttocks.  She drapes a towel over his shoulders to help keep him warm.  The wintergreen burns again, but is hardly noticeable on his abused buttocks.  Slowly, he seems to become aware again.  Lorena still sings on the stereo.  At some point, he knows the domina must have restarted it, but he cannot remember this happening at all.  It will be awhile before he can process this entire experience.  For now, he is just too tired to even try to think.

He feels the burn, knowing it will be with him for a while.  He knows that he will feel the welts for a couple of days and bruises for even more.  Somehow, though, a tiny sense of loss fills his soul.  Will he ever feel this exquisite agony again?

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