God this was painful ...
Fast forward . . . it’s July 2008, and Steph has punished me many times; this was to be one of the most memorable. Being spanked can be pure heaven (usually because the top’s intention is to stimulate and please, not to hurt); it can be pure hell, with no pleasurable component at all; or it can be anywhere between these extremes – and of course the pleasure/pain mixture invariably shifts during the course of a single spanking. When I am in my masochistic mode, I can tolerate brief periods of pure pain, but I enjoy the pain/pleasure mix much more. The quality of the pain depends in part on the instrument being used, and most experienced masochists have preferences among implements. One might love paddles, for instance, and hate belts. I find some pleasure in most implements, but the delrin cane Steph used on me in this punishment is an exception. From the first stroke, I hated it, it was intensely painful with no redeeming qualities whatsoever.
It had been a long time since either Steph or I had safewords. However, I could probably have insisted that Steph stop if I had used the right words, spoken in the right way. In any case, although I was over the wedge, I was not tied down, so I could have simply stood up and walked away. But that is not how it is between Steph and me. When she is punishing me, I take what she dishes out, whether I like it or not – and I certainly did not like this horrible ordeal. Steph knows that I have no desire whatsoever to repeat the experience – although I would submit to this cane again if she asked me to.
Here’s what Steph had to say a few days later.
--Doc
Dear Doc,
Remembering last weekend . . . on Sunday, when we went back to the bedroom, we were just thinking about having some fun. I intended to do some casual spanking – nothing serious.
Then I saw the delrin cane in your toy bag, the beautiful shiny black cane with the polished wood handle. I picked it up and it felt wonderful in my hand. I whipped it around and decided I would punish you with this while we were playing. It was an entirely impulsive decision. The cane was beautiful and it felt powerful.
Suddenly I wanted a piece of your bottom – and I was going to have it.
Kissing you fed my need to hurt you. When I kissed you on Sunday, it wasn’t intimate enough. Only the kind of punishment I wanted to take from you would satisfy me.
When I put you face down over the wedge my sadistic desires become selfish. I looked around for the cane. You put it away while you were "straightening up"..... hmmmm. That's actually smart on your part, only you didn't hide it well enough.
I began whipping the cane in the air and down to your bare ass. I am so familiar with your body Doc, your pain, your capacity to cause pain. This is new. The first few times I strike you, and they are forceful blows, your cries quickly became wails.
Your flesh is marked only a little as I continue to 10 strokes. My ears fill with your cries of pain, my groin fills with a familiar warmth. Seeing this strong, mysterious man, crumble in submission, in total agony. I am touching you in places that I cannot reach any other way. I can't touch this part of you by kissing... I have to get there the hard way, through your flesh. But I am loving you at this moment in a non-traditional way that is impossible to explain with words. You are giving me a gift, you are suffering at your very core, and it is for me.
The cane whips, it whirs in the air when it comes down. I have a firm grip on it and I watch your bottom absorb each blow.
You are crying in a more heartfelt way than ever before. Your body stays on the wedge, your legs are together and tight, all of the expression of agony come from your voice and your upper body, which thrashes back and forth with the next 10 or so strokes.
Your masochistic playfulness, your wiggling ass, the man who wants more—these are absent. Your demeanor and your senses are permeated and penetrated with torment. I can’t fully appreciate your misery, but your suffering still reaches me deeply. Before long I will be comforting you – it will split my heart open to relieve your suffering. For now, I feel the intense connection with your agony. My intense need to prolong it and make it obey me.
You say, no, you scream through 10 more that you don't want it, please stop, stop, stop, stop, stop..... your words blur, I don’t understand them. Your pleas fall on my sadist's ears that are deaf to the message you send. My heart could have felt pity, but instead it adored your suffering.
It takes another 15 strokes, paid by your flesh, to satisfy my sadistic lust. I thrust you into the inferno and hold you there. These strokes produce a crescendo of howls of hysterical pain. As your agony comes from you, it enters me. Your torture is beautiful to me. And then, at last, I begin to feel the misery, in a different way, maybe the way you mean it, and I stop caning you.
I immediately try to kiss you better, but even after I stop flogging you, you continue to heave and cry, for the fire in your ass still burns even as it begins to diminish.
This caning brought me to new places though Doc. Places that have never seen the light before, places that frighten me. Part of my mind grasps this kind of suffering and loves it; loves not only the suffering, but also loves controlling it, being the cause of it, loves being the object of your desperate pleas.
I kiss you for your courage and for the suffering you endured for me. I gave it to you with the most loving intentions.
XO-
Steph