At some point, you began with the thickest of the three canes. I thought I was prepared for it. I could see you, feel you, take your backswing. But when the cane landed, it jarred me. It had a denser, deeper feeling than I expected, its pain not immediately searing. But then came the second and third blows. They seemed to cut right through me, and I began crying out, wondering why I had ever wanted this and knowing I was a long way from the finish line. I wanted to know how many times you would cane me, and you said, you couldn't answer that because you didn't know. I felt that familiar drowning sensation, going under in the sea of pain, as you began caning me over and over again, with the thickest cane, and then with the medium cane. I felt that feeling of gasping for air, unable to breathe between strokes, the pain biting through my latex shorts, across my upper thighs and soaring through my body. I know I begged you to stop, told you that I had had enough, and cried out in pain. You kept on caning, switching sides, and I didn't even try to count. What was the point? I had no idea where it was leading.
And when I thought I could take no more suffering, you said, we're going to try something different now. I felt a momentary sense of relief. Perhaps you had pleasure in mind. But something in your voice led me to understand that more misery was on its way. I think you started with the razor strop, but I'm not sure, because when I'm tumbling around in the pain world, my memory starts to fog over. I remember seeing you out of the corner of my eye. I could see the determination on your face, the intensity of your desire to punish, your arm cocked to deliver as much pain as possible. To be honest, the familiarity of that pain was a sort of relief. It was all-encompassing, and I could breathe into it, let it wash over me -- until you strapped my thighs. That was unbearable, and I know I screamed out. I know I said, you're strapping my thighs. I don't remember what you said, but I remember that the next stroke landed across my upper thigh as well. I would have leapt up to the ceiling from the fiery sting had I not been tied to the bed.
I don't remember what else you used on me during this intermezzo. After the stropping, I was beginning to lose focus to the pain. I think there was the bathbrush and the lexan paddle. I was now sobbing, intermittently begging you to stop, and fighting hard against my misery.