Posts tagged ‘caning’

September 26th, 2013

Fear Him

Tied down
Gagged
Naked
Sat up but baring all
Restrained
Rope across my neck, no pressure until I strain
My fear
Brutal canes
Haphazard hits
My obvious arousal
Random marks
His cold eyes
My fear
And still my arousal
The threat of the gun
The warning shots
My fear
His cruel laughter
My heart racing
His mind games
His blows with words, with taunts
Searching his face, searching his eyes, searching for something
Finding only my fear
Eventually my tears
His smile at that
Unbound, still gagged
Begging to be used
Begging for him
My broken body
My adrenaline filled shakes
My smiles
His arms, his safety, his comfort

September 5th, 2013

Consequences for a brat

This is a sequel to The Brat. Again, I’m not 100% about it but it has got me writing again, plus there is a possible 3rd part to come too.

Alone, crying to myself in my confinement, I long for you to come back now. I want to apologise, to say I’m sorry for my indiscretions, to beg at your feet. I hate to disappoint you. Time passes and the tears dry on my cheeks. Where are you? I want to shout out for you, but I know better now. I have to wait, be patient, to learn my lesson.

I must have fallen asleep as I am suddenly aware of a crick in my neck and the clatter of metal against metal. I open my eyes and there you are, opening the door. A smile breaks out on my face, until I see yours. There is a cold, hard look in your eyes and your lips are drawn in a thin line. I don’t think you are about to forgive and forget and why should you?

“Out”

There is nothing in your voice that hints at warmth and I stumble out of the cage, hugging my near naked body, shy and desperate for your caring arms around me.

“I’m so sorry, Sir. I really am. I won’t do it again. I’ll be good.”

You don’t even look at me as I talk to you, your back turned, moving furniture around, tidying the room.

“Sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what I was doing.”

Still you ignore me and I shiver, feeling myself on the edge of tears again.

“Please let me make it up to you, Sir, please. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything? Really?” you question, with the hint of a smirk.

“Of course, Sir.” Desperate to please, eager for you to forgive me.

“Hmmm” you don’t sound convinced and I try to look at remorseful as I can. “You need to prove that you have learnt your lesson. Brats are not worthy of my attention and I won’t think twice about locking you back in that cage if you disappoint me again.”

My head bows and I feel tears silently running down my face. A fist in my hair and I am being dragged across the room. You pull me up to face you and I am suddenly scared. A hand across my mouth and nose, held there until my fingers are trying to pull you off me. I can’t breath and am starting to panic.

Released and I gasp for air but I have barely recovered before you start the process again. My head is getting fuzzy, my mind blanking and suddenly I can breath again. Once more, I feel you at my throat, once more my breath taken from me. Controlled by you. One of my basic human needs and you have taken its control away from me. A reminder of exactly who I belong to.

“Be thankful I am letting you breath at all.”

You bend me over the back of a chair and nudge my feet apart slightly with your boot. My knickers are ripped off and I feel ashamed, degraded, used. I feel you trailing a cane across my skin, my back, my arse, my thighs.

“100 strokes. One for each minute I had to keep you locked in that cage.”

I let out a whimper and you tut. Breathing deeply, I know this is going to push me but I have to take this for you. I have to show you I can behave. I have to prove I am still your good girl. Waiting, anticipating, fearful. Feeling exposed as a draft skims across my naked cunt. Hoping you have changed your mind, that it’s all just a game to mess with my head but I know, deep down, that is wishful thinking. Waiting for the cane is almost as excruciating as the physical pain it can cause and I stand as still as I can. Still waiting. You must have gone to do something, I get fidgety and move out of position, glancing around the room, just as you come in through the door.  You’re carrying restraints, a heavy wooden paddle and something else, black and bulky.

“You can’t even stay still for a minute, can you.”  It’s not a question, more a statement of my disobedience.  “I thought I might need these.”

He attaches straps at my wrists and ankles without care, padlocking them shut.  A leather hood placed over my head removes my sight.  I am just thinking that I am lucky to be able to breath through my mouth when a ball gag is shoved in there and buckled to the hood.  I will myself to breath slowly, knowing how small the air holes by my nostrils are, knowing you will be displeased if I panic.  You bend me back over the chair and fasten my legs apart, my hands together.

“You shall count each stroke for me.  If you forget where you are up to, we start again.  If I can’t understand you, I will assume it wasn’t hard enough and we won’t count that one.”

My whimper comes out as a muffle.

“What was that, girl?  I couldn’t hear you.” Amusement obvious in your voice.

You start to beat me, slowly, with force and I manage to count well enough for you, numbers uttered once the initial pain subsides, once my brain clears enough.  Each blow sears through my backside.  A leather filled intake of breath follows and I struggle to stay still against my fastenings.  Another number, another stroke.  We’re at about 40 when you seem to kick it up a notch and I start to falter more.  The pain isn’t subsiding enough to let me think even the simple act of counting and I can barely make clear sounds.  I am trying to not cry with both the pain and your certain disapproval.

“Hmmm, I don’t think I heard that.  What number are we on, girl?”

“I don’t know, Sir.” Tears pricking at my eyes.

“Oh, dear.  You know what that means.  Start counting again.”  You sigh, as though you expected me to fail.

On the next few blows, I try to count but I know you can’t understand me.  The blows continue.

“Quit counting, pathetic girl.  They obviously didn’t teach you very well at school.  I will continue until I am done with you.  Until I make you bleed.”

I slump and you beat me, the cane biting into my skin, my arse stinging like I’ve never felt before.  I feel defeated, broken, helpless.  I try to take it as well as I can, knowing that I deserve this, knowing that I should never have acted the way I did.

You pause for the briefest of moments and I take the chance to try and slow my breathing.  I don’t assume you have finished but what comes next was not expected.  A series of strokes down the backs of my thighs, feeling as though a blade has been drawn across my skin.  My breath is stuck in my throat, my head is swimming with the pain but there is no more.  You have stopped.  You are unchaining me, helping me stand, carefully taking off the hood.  Once my eyes are used to the light again, I dare to look up.  Your face is hard to read.  Not blank, exactly, but it’s not obvious how you are feeling.

“Get dressed” as you turn to tidy up. “I want to take you on a little car ride.  Think carefully about what may be a suitable outfit.”

Immediately, scary but slightly exciting thoughts run through my head.  I take myself out of the room, wincing slightly with each step, thinking of the perfect outfit to show off my new marks to the world.

March 8th, 2013

The Exhibition

I wait for her to arrive. I’m dressed in a corset and heels, cleavage on show. My lips are painted deep red, seams run up the backs of my legs, hair pulled back. I feel confident and in charge.

When I see her, I can’t help but smile. She’s followed my orders and looks exactly how I wanted her to. There’s one thing missing though. I watch as she walks over to me and wordlessly bows her head I slip the soft leather collar around her neck, catching a hint of its delightful smell. I fasten it gently and guide her to look up at me, caressing her check, feeling so powerful.

“You look beautiful and I am proud to call you mine”
“Thank you, Miss” barely a whisper

I plant a tender kiss on her lips and lead the to the stage. The spanking bench is waiting and, will a gesture, she bends herself over it. I tighten the restraints around her wrists and stroke her hair, making sure she is ready. I feel her body relax. As I pull on my gloves, I let her smell the leather, seeing her melt and relax further.

I admire the sight of her arse, presented to me, presented to everyone. A warm up to start, well paced, building up, alternating checks, loving the feel of spanking her, the sound of impact, the aching of her back. I lower her knickers to expose her pale flesh, smiling to myself as I think about how unblemished it is. More gloved slaps, getting harder and faster and still she is silent. I pull off a glove and alternate using my hands until I find myself just using the unshielded one. The feel of the sting when my hand makes contact with bars skin. She’s not been able to stay completely silent and now I know she’s ready.

“Everyone is here to watch him you, to see the marks made on your body, to hear you scream”

She looks at me, pleading with her eyes, but I turn away to reach for the first cane, medium weight, rattan. I start off slowly, lightly tapping to get a feel of the cane. Small moans and yelps follow as I increase the strength of my whipping, working through the canes from thuddy to stingy, natural and man made, flexible and rigid. Her skin glows a beautiful shade of pink, a smattering of marks but not enough yet.

I pick up the final cane. I pass it in front of her eyes and she starts to protest. It’s the stingiest one, whippy and mean and she knows I will use it hard. Loudly enough for the room to hear, I address her,

“I want you to count in batches of 6, clearly, for everyone to hear just how hard this is for you.”

She nods and I begin swiping the cane across her backside, making contact and waiting for her reaction. A repressed yelp, a gasping breathing, a defiant count. Again, the stick meets her skin, harder. Her reaction is louder but still, a hint of defiance. I will break her. My blows continue, some devilishly hard, others so quick in procession that she can barely count. She’s struggling now, the numbers catching in her throat.

I will make this set my last, put everything in have into it. The first breaks the silence with her cry, the welt on her skin visible almost instantly. By the 4th, she is counting through sobs, still determined. When the set is over, I caress her skin,  hand skimming over red marks, making her gasp out. Beautiful lines blossoming on her body. My hand wanders between her legs and I am surprised by her obvious arousal.

As I brush over her cunt, an entirely different moan escapes. She’s forgotten where we are. Gently, I tease her, stroking, prodding, pulling back. Her moans increase, getting louder, more desperate, her body aching into me. A hand at the nape of her neck, pulling her sharply back as my other fingers thrust into her. Another scream, of shock, pain, pleasure.  I finger fuck her fast and hard, until I can feel her body contacting, legs shaking, moans climaxing.

A gentle touch, the careful unrestraining,  the stroking if hair, bringing her back. A kiss on her forehead

“Well done, my good little girl. You have made a lot of people happy tonight. They enjoyed being witness to both your pain AND pleasure.”

A bashful look, a blush on her cheeks.

“I am proud of you, my good girl. You did well” Her smile says it all; now when to show off my girl again?

February 11th, 2013

Punishment

When punishment involves NOT having a gorgeous new knife used on you, I think you know you’re kinky!

Obviously, my punishment involved more than that, having disappointed R. The tears were pouring down my face before the first impact. I hate being a disappointment, not being a good girl. By the end of the scene, those tears were cathartic, release and relief, and of joy.

Part of my punishment was to choose implements. I mainly chose ones I thought would push me a little, especially at the stingy pain end of things. I wanted to see if I could take a caning again, wanted to feel abused and punished properly. R added the dragon tail, knowing it would scare me. I trust her.

She helped me get over this weird struggle I’ve had with pain processing, and emotional block. It felt fabulous. Plus, I’ve found a new toy I like! She also agreed with me that I deserve my caning kinky merit badge. I told myself I wanted to take a good caning again and feel comfortable about them again and I really do.

January 2nd, 2013

Merit Badges

I’ve been a fan of the Kinky Merit Badges for a while now and won four of them in the SM Dykes auction at conference last June.  I also got a Jed Phoenix sash to put them on but have never really got round to doing anything with them.  I’ve finally decided that I need to purchase the other three I think I will deserve and set myself tasks to earn these badges.  Along with that, I also want to make/find myself an outfit that looks something like the old Brownie uniforms to wear my sash with so I can be a kinky girl guide!  I just need a shirt dress and a neck tie thing, maybe in latex (Iki, I’m looking at you!)  So I have something like this, but black:

These are the badges I have and what I plan on doing to award them to myself.  It’s all rather silly, to be honest, but why should kink be so serious all the time?

Flogging

I want to get better at my flogging technique as I can already take quite a flogging and have made my own floggers.  I am not going to award this one to myself until I feel I can use the long flogger we bought at Folsom.

Bondage

This one is going to also be awarded for my topping ability too as I would love to learn how to do some basic ties and use the lovely rope Ruby gave me for Christmas.  I will award this to myself when I feel I have managed a scene using rope where I have good connection with my bottom and not just focusing on the rope itself.

Caning

This is going to be one I earn for bottoming, I feel as it has been a long time since I’ve been able to receive a caning due to my brain’s difficulty processing pain.  I will know when I am ready to give myself this one.

Breath Control

To be honest, I think I can already give myself this one as I have done this from the top and bottom side of things and love it!

Spanking

This is one that I think I should have from a topping point of view but I don’t think I deserve it yet until I receive another good, hard spanking!

Needle Play

I want to have a few more needle scenes under my belt and possibly also stick needles in a willing bottom before I let myself have this badge.

Deep Throat

I think the husbear would probably agree that I deserve this one already as I really don’t have much of a gag reflex, although I think that I can make someone choke on my femme cock more first!  Teehee!

December 7th, 2011

Spankvent Special

I follow a number of the British spanking crowd on Twitter, mainly via the husbear’s lover, as they seem an interesting bunch and it’s good to get to know new people, even if just through the social media network.  It’s led me to reading many interesting and exciting blog posts plus introduced me to Abel’s wonderful idea for December: Spankvent

The concept seemed pretty simple; a spanking that involved the number of that day, plus writing about it.  I quickly signed up.  I had my girlfriend sign up.  Then I thought, what the hell have I let myself in for?

I chose the 5th because it is mine and the bear’s wedding anniversary.  A spanking would be fun, would help us connect, would get us in the mood.  Hmmm, I may have hoped for a little too much.  Both of us had crappy days and I thought this’d be the last thing I’d want to do.  I got ready for bed and sat waiting for B to come up.  Nerves were starting to flood me and when he lined up his favourite toys on the bed, I just sat there cowering, hugging my legs under the duvet.  Waiting for him to be ready felt like an eternity.

He pulled me over his knee and warmed up with a hand spanking.  It seemed to go on forever and I moaned and whimpered and cried out the whole time.  I thought it was never going to end, when it wasn’t even all that long.  I knew that wasn’t it either so I lay there, waiting for him to explain.  I was to take 4 strokes with 5 implements of his choosing from the selection.  One for every year of our marriage.  To count in years and to ask for more after each set.  I knew they would be with force.  He wasn’t going to let me off lightly.

When I caught a glimpse of the strap, I started to shake in fear.  It’s thick and heavy and really quite mean when used properly.  I screeched at the first contact, knowing it wouldn’t get easier.  There was no dignity.  Three more and on to the whippy cane.  More screeching and sobbing ensued.  Next was the acetate cane, one that we’ve barely used and know I remember why; there’s no give, it’s so solid and thuddy.  I took the 4 strokes as well as I could, knowing that the next cane was one I bought myself, not expecting it to be used on me.  I was stupid and wrong.  It’s a nice cane and it hurts.  At least now I know that it was worth the money.  For number 5, B decided to return to his favourite cane, the whippy one and thrashed another 4 onto my bared behind.  I wriggled and squealed.  I wanted it to be over but I knew that it wouldn’t be. 

He was admiring his handiwork, feeling the heat rising from my skin.  I felt ashamed, weak, wimpy.  I couldn’t take it well and sounded pathetic.  When I played just over a week ago, I had prided myself in not crying, not complaining and yet here I was, sobbing like a silly child.  But it was ok.  He made sure I was ok and reassured me, holding me in a bear’s embrace and reminding me just how special I am.