The Caning
The dominant's view
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The Caning
The first thwack lands and he marvels at the way her buttocks respond. A ripple of flesh speeds out from where the strap touches her. It is like dropping a stone into a pool of oil. She does not flinch or cry out. She knows the rules just as he does. He brings his arm back and the strop whispers through the air again, landing harder this time.
He pauses, admiring the three tongues of red that are appearing on her right cheek, a clear imprint of the leather. She is kneeling on the floor, bent forward onto the leather seat of the antique carvers’ chair that they keep especially for this purpose. Her body presented for his, and her, pleasure.
Attacking her left buttock with more force, he drops two strikes onto the same spot. She gasps, sucking air through her teeth with a hissing sound but still does not cry out. He can feel his erection growing and rubbing against the restraint of his trousers.
Moving around her he shifts his position and swings backhand at both cheeks, like a tennis player returning a volley then, bending his knees and aiming lower, he plants a strike across the back of her legs.
‘Iyya,’ she gasps but does not move.
He smiles as he watches the two round globes of her behind reddening like apples ripening in the sun.
‘Stand up.’
Jerking at the sound of his voice more than at the contact from the strop she comes up off her knees to stand, head bowed arms meekly at her side, in front of the chair. Her reddening bottom wrinkled slightly and beginning to turn the purple of an over ripe plum,
‘Bend over.’
She obediently places the palms of her hands on the seat of the chair.
‘Lower.’
She bends forward onto her elbows, her forehead nearly touching the seat. Her flesh stretched firm again. Between her legs, he can see the lips of her sex, engorged and waiting. The room smells of sex and anticipation, that strong, sweet, hormonal smell that makes his nose wrinkle and draws him to her.
He slips off his clothes and his erection rises out in front of him as she stands silently waiting. He can feel his blood pulsing through it, urging him forward but he senses that she is not ready yet.
He picks up the cane. It is as thick as his finger but pliant and hisses through the air beautifully. He brings it down so that it swishes malevolently within millimetres of her skin. He loves the way she flinches at the imagined contact.
He brings it down again at an oblique angle so that it contacts with her left buttock but then folds itself around both cheeks.
‘Yee … aagh.’ Her legs buckle.
He swings again, careful to avoid the bruising red stripe appearing from the first strike.
‘Count,’ he orders.
‘One . . . two . . . three. . . four, oh fuck, five.’
He waits and then moves around behind her. ‘Are you wet?’
‘Yes sir,’ she murmurs.
‘Legs apart.’
She complies and he taps the tip of the cane on her sex.
She gasps. Not in pain but the short little staccato gasps of a woman close to orgasm.
He pushes her swollen lips apart with the cane and slides it between them, not penetrating her but rubbing it along the length of her sex. The end of the cane gleams sliver and her knees buckle at the stimulation. He taps with small sharp movements and she starts to make small bird-like sounds as she tried not to come.
It is all part of the game. She tries not to come and he tries to make her. He knows he is winning and steps back. He crashes two more smacks of the cane down onto her. Her legs crumple and her hips jerk as if she has already been impaled by an invisible lover.
‘Oh god … six,’ she wails.
He steps forward and slides his erection into the wet cocoon between her legs. She feels hot on his hard flesh as she jerks back against him, trying to prolong her orgasm.
‘You know the penance for coming before you are commanded,’ he slaps his hands down on her bruised buttock causing her whole body to shudder.
‘Yes sir.’ She slid obediently off his cock leaving it slippery and silver and pushes the dark bud of her behind against its head. Firmly he pushes himself into her and she gasps.
Where her cunt had felt like a soft warm glove slippery with desire her arse is firm and grips him like her hand does when she masturbates him. He pushes in deeper, feeling her flesh stimulating his. She wriggles, trying to make him come.
‘Keep still,’ he slaps her hard with the palm of his hand. It is no good. Disobediently she continues to slide up and down his shaft. He cannot stop. He feels the jolt of electricity as he spurted into her. He buries himself as deep as he can between her buttocks and she cries out with desire.
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The Donnington Chronicles is a BDSM romp with a twist set in the 1980s.
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Dang, ive got to make sure I come back to this. I mean, return to this. Enjoy your style so much.
I wish I could I already have KATE granger PT Brown DREW writes and a few more.That story was absolutely fabulous just to let you know I greatly appreciate your writing.