The First Time

A woman explores her deepest desires as the door to a new world opens

She approaches the door that will open the path to a new life and wonders if she will have the courage to bend over and bare all.

The path led up to a grey stone Victorian house, the residences on each side were only just visible through the high hedge that encircled the garden and was shedding the last of its leaves, freeing them to blow across the neatly trimmed lawn. Good, she thought, no one to hear the noise, but then no one would hear if she screamed for help. She shivered slightly in the cold autumn breeze. Her hand trembled, not violently, but just enough to force her to concentrate on placing her finger firmly on the doorbell.

The door opened.

“Come in.” He stood to one side to allow her to enter. He was as she remembered, not much taller than her and stocky, as if his grey suit concealed a muscular frame. He looked a little older in the daylight than he had had in the dark of the garden at the party, maybe in his early fifties. His hair had greyed slightly at the temples but showed no sign of thinning.

He took her coat and hung it on a hook in the hall. “Follow me.” His face was expressionless as he started to climb the stairs; something in his manner reminded her of her last visit to the dentist.

She hesitated at the bottom step.

He turned to look down on her. “The front door is unlocked. You may leave at any time if you wish.”

“No, it’s OK.” She smiled up at him and hoped that her nervousness did not show.

He led her into a room on the first floor. An antique mahogany desk stood beneath the window, its green leather top scuffed with age. In front of the desk, angled slightly towards her as if he had just got up from it to answer the door, stood an old-fashioned wooden swivel chair, its green leather seat matching the desktop. There were bookcases lining the walls, but two objects held her attention. The first was a single, plain dining chair with an open woven wicker seat that stood in the centre of the carpet, its back facing one of the walls and the second was the reason she was here.

Laid across the desktop was a cane, its shaft about as thick as a man’s little finger and its handle bound with black tape.

“So what do I do?” She looked at him and tried to smile as she wondered whether her voice was shaking as much as she was inside.

“Firstly, you must choose a safeword.”

He sounded like a school teacher.

“That is a word that, if you say it, everything will stop. You will get dressed and go home. It must have no connection to what we are doing or how you feel.”

She thought for a moment. “Jehovah.”

He nodded. “Now you will do exactly what I say. Nothing more and nothing less.” He picked up the cane in his right hand and rested it across the palm of his left. He bent it slightly as if testing its suppleness for the first time, although he gave her the impression that he knew it like an old friend.

“Lift up your dress to your waist.”

She started to unzip her dress. She had agonised for hours over what to wear. The white dress patterned with blue and yellow flowers had thin straps and the light material was more suited to the summer than the cool of autumn but then she had thought that, if you were going to be caned you probably would not be wearing anything for long anyway, so what you wore was immaterial. The cane cracked across her behind; she barely felt it through the material but jumped at the unexpected contact.

“I said lift, not unzip.”

She slid the zip back up and obediently lifted the hem of the material, gathering it around her waist. For a moment she regretted choosing to wear a thin white thong that left the soft skin of her buttocks exposed but then, she told herself, that was the point.

She stood, exhibited from the waist down, all her senses seemed to be awakening, she could hear the wind rustling the dry leaves outside, smell the faint odour of the musty books on the shelves and feel, and almost hear, the blood pulsing through her veins. Her skin seemed to prickle with a static charge that tingled through her nerves and seemed to already be cascading down between her legs.

“Bend forward and place your palms flat on the seat of the chair.”

She felt her nipples swelling and rubbing against the material of her bra as she complied; moving slowly and carefully, trying to obey precisely.

This was what she had wanted, what she had pleaded with him to do. The room was quiet as she waited. She could hear a clock ticking and felt as if time had slowed and she remembered the casual conversation at the party. The comments that had aroused her suspicions that he might be well practiced in this art. She had quizzed him quietly amongst the throng of guests with slowly mounting anticipation. This was a world she had no experience of but, deep within her core, there had always been the desire to explore.

Later as they smoked in the garden, evicted from the crowd by their shared vice the questions that had been smouldering in her mind poured from her. What she had really wanted to know was, did the women who submitted find it as arousing as they said? Rooted in her mind was the question she could not ask, and he could not answer, would she?

He had told her about the woman who begged to be beaten with a cane so hard that it broke whilst others erupted with delight at the firm contact of a strop or a hand. Her mind had whirled imagining exciting sensations as she had stubbed out her second cigarette and, looking into his soft brown eyes. she had asked quietly whether he would be willing to cane her.

“What about your husband?” He had asked.

She shrugged. “He thinks sex with the lights on is kinky.” She turned away. “No that’s not fair. He is a kind man and I love him; we have had nearly twenty years of happy marriage, but sex has always been . . .” She looked back at him as if searching for the words in his eyes “. . . ordinary.” She stared at the grass beneath their feet. “This desire is something that churns around inside me. Do you understand?”

He nodded. “The cane can be brutal; it may be better to start with a simple spanking, or maybe a strop, and work up to it.”

She shook her head. “No, I may never get another chance. I will be forty next year.” She stared at him, pleading with her eyes for him to say yes. “I don’t want to grow old wondering what I missed.”

He did not speak but handed her a card. She looked at the printed phone number before sliding it into her pack of cigarettes.

It had been three weeks before she had summoned up the courage to call. The cane, she had asked again for the cane, not wanting to delay the experience and now she was here, bottom bared, waiting. She felt the cane brush across her skin, she could feel the slight texture of the stem. It exerted only gentle pressure as if someone were running a single finger over the round curves of her behind. Her mind was telling her that pinpricks of static were jumping from the rod to her skin, but she knew this was impossible. She tensed with anticipation.

The pressure ceased. There was an almost inaudible hiss like a distant sigh closely followed by another sound like a twig breaking. It took microseconds before the nerves in her behind connected with her brain and announced the stinging sensation in her skin.

She yelped. It was a sound stimulated by the contact but borne of a release of longing. There was a second strike and then a third. Each increasing fractionally in intensity. Her skin began to smoulder as if someone was holding a fire close to her rump.

Fingers grasped at the thin elastic of her thong and tore it down to her the middle of her thighs.

“Spread your legs,” the voice was firm and quiet.

She obeyed, the thin material of her underwear bit into the muscles of her legs. There were more cracks and the smouldering embers on her behind started to flicker into flame. She squealed at each strike, it felt as if something was biting into her as she heard each crack. He increased the pressure, her squeals became gasps, as she sucked in air like a woman close to drowning reaching the waters surface. Slowly, as her body assimilated the new sensations, her response began to change. Arousal began to flood through her until she found herself craving next strike.

“Harder,” she whispered, “harder.”

She wriggled her rump; was it beginning to stripe? She longed for a mirror; she knew the sensual globes of her behind were redding but were there the purple stripes as she had gazed in awe at on the internet. Was she wearing her caning across her skin like a badge of office?

“What had you done to deserve this punishment?” His voice came from in front of her and she could sense his presence as she stared at her hands on the seat.

“Nothing Master,” she whispered without raising her head.

“You have been completely innocent for the last few weeks; I find that hard to believe?”

“My life is very boring.”

The cane cracked and bit into the top of her behind.

“Do not be flippant.”

“No Master.”

“You have exposed yourself wantonly to a man in the hope of receiving some sexual release. Its that in itself not worthy of the penance?”

“Suddenly life isn’t boring.” She stretched her head up to look at him over the back of the chair.

“I can see we are going to have to teach you some decorum.” He moved round behind her.

This time she heard the cane hiss through the air. The contact with her flesh cracked like lightening and sent a wave of electricity through her body. There was a pause of several beats before the rod descended again. She could feel the sinewy shaft folding itself around the contours of her buttocks. Pain raced through her, charging into her mind and forcing a scream from her mouth which left her lungs empty. She made no sound as the next strike landed but the air hissed through her clenched teeth mimicking the sound of the cane traveling through the air as the next arrived.

Her behind began to blaze; she was sure she could feel flames licking across her skin and now the blaze was spreading. It swept through her like a fire devouring dry scrub and seemed to sweep down between her legs. Blood raced to engorge her sex and she could feel her body secreting juices as if attempting to extinguish the enveloping conflagration.

She gasped as the cane caught the sensitive skin at the tops of her thighs and realised the air she sucked in carried the scent of her arousal. The blows to her behind now felt distant; it was as if her mind had concentrated her entire sensuality on her sex. She became aware that her nipples were also pulsating with excitement. They felt so tight and hard that they seemed to throb with each frantic beat of her heart as she was consumed by sensuality.

The beating paused. She could hear a voice; it seemed far away, she had to shake her head to focus her concentration away from her concupiscence.

“Stand up and turn around.”

Slowly she moved her hands up to grasp the dress and, still holding it around her waist, turned to face him.

“Take off your dress.”

She unzipped the fabric acutely aware that every movement caused her nipples to rub against the material of her bra sending shivers through her. She let it drop to the floor, it sent sparks through her as it slid over her bottom and her panties fell away with it. She desperately wanted to turn and look, to admire her new behind.

“And that,” he pointed at her bra with the tip of the cane.

She struggled for a moment with the catch, her nipples felt so tight she almost smiled at the thought that the bra might be catapulted across the room, but it dropped lazily to the floor. She stood, naked before another man for the first time in years and waited.

“Stand with your heels against the legs of the chair and then grasp the back.”

She found that this position forced her to arch her back. Her breasts stood out surmounted by vivid pink buds whilst, with her feet apart, for the first time, she felt completely exposed.

Was he going to fuck her? Oh god she thought, she wanted it, wanted to feel a cock inside her, not just his, any cock. She felt as if the caning had built up an enormous lake of desire and that penetration, any penetration would burst the dam and let the sensations flood out; almost like taking a pee after a long journey but an infinite number of times more enjoyable.

He rubbed the cane across her hardened nipples. The sensation was exquisite; electric charges seemed to jump from the shaft to the engorged flesh. He flicked his wrist, the smallest of movements amplified by the length of the cane, causing it to beat against her breast. The soft flesh yielded at each impact but when it caught the swollen teats it seemed to bounce away. She yelped at each strike, a strangled cry that spoke of the ecstasy of pain.

He moved the cane down across her belly until it rested across her pubis. Again the flick, harder this time, the dam was almost breached. He moved the cane back to her breasts.

“You may place your fingers between your legs but do not change your position.”

She wriggled so that her weight was balanced on one arm and eagerly slid the fingers of her right hand between her legs. She had never felt herself so wet with desire, she could not hold herself any longer. The tips of her fingers touched the bud of her clit and her back arched as they moved rhythmically. She felt the wave of her orgasm approaching and the cane cracked down hard on her nipples sending spasms through her body. The wave crashed against the solid rocks of the pain and seemed to freeze for a moment before the spray arched up into air glistening in the sunlight like thousands of diamonds.

She did not stop; she felt the second wave approaching and crash into the rocks with increasing ferocity. The undertow sucked back seeming to pull the last remaining energy from her. She could hold the position no longer and sagged down onto the chair.

He stood smiling at her for a few seconds and then turned, placed the cane carefully back in a black leather sheath, and left the room.

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