Posted at 23:04 on 18 Oct 2010 by Pandora / Blake
Saturday: I'm looking through an audio story a reader has sent me, so I can give them a quote for recording it. It's rather good. A first person narrative describing the protagonist's first memories and experiences of corporal punishment. It's restrained, believable; no florid, extended descriptions of unrealistically severe discipline. Instead, it describes all the context and relationships, anticipation, build-up and aftermath surrounding a few tiny events - each episode only involving one or two whacks - so trivial in the course of things, but to the protagonist (and the author ... and me) glowing with deep personal significance. The caning sequence in particular is so well-evoked that I find myself responding as I read it. This appeals to my tastes, alright. After I've replied to the email I have to nip off to bed for a few minutes to indulge the fantasy now crowding my head.
Later that night: Tom emerges from his room, over-worked and exhausted-looking. We collide over the kettle and I give him a hug. He's sleepy and bearlike, nuzzling and pawing affectionately as if I'd disturbed his hibernation. I hug him back tightly. "Do you know what I've been thinking about all day?" I murmur into his hair.
"Being caned by you."
"Mm." He kisses me. "I'm getting there, slowly. It won't be too much longer now. I do have a bit more energy these days than I did."
"I know, I know, it wasn't a demand. I just wanted to let you know you were in my thoughts."
His health this summer has taught me a bit about patience, although it's still hardly my strong point. But I find it helpful to check in with him, to reassure each other we are still interested, still think of each other in kinky terms, even if playing isn't currently on the cards. It's positive reinforcement, and it helped keep me going during the months when even a spanking was too much to ask. I thought that getting a quick bottom rub in bed as he told me I was spankable would have made me acutely aware of what I was missing, but even that level of interaction eased the ache a little. Sometimes, when you really miss it, the tiniest spark of kinky interest can be enough.
Sunday: We're spending a lazy evening together, recovering from another mad, full working week. Lots of snuggling. It's good. I'm really not expecting anything, and so the surprise is all the nicer when I discover that he's feeling playful. I sit astride his lap in my pyjamas, cradled in his arms as we kiss; my top is pulled up, exposing my breasts to his big, rough hands.
Once over his lap I'm relieved when the spanking is slow, giving me time to unwrap the caning fantasy from the day before, hold it gently in my mind. I remember how much the idea of those few, harsh strokes turned me on, and the firm spanks warming my rear become easier to take. I breathe deeply and let the sensations wash over me.
It's a perfect nice spanking - right up until the end, when he makes me squirm and beg with a series of very slow, very hard smacks that crash into my arse so hard I can't think. When he finally stops I'm feeling pretty sorry for myself. But he makes it up to me: a lovely, light switching which lights up my tail and re-ignites my interest. When he lays down a few harder, stinging strokes with the whippy little switch the bite of them is a tantalising foretaste of the deeper sensation I've been craving.
Next, a satisfyingly solid, slow twelve with the leather paddle which I don't have to count - bliss. When he stops I crane back over my shoulder to see what he'll pick up next, willing it to be the cane. I'm eager and thoroughly warmed up. I earn myself a sharp glance for peeking, but to my delight we're on the same page. He's picked up one of the shorter, denser straight handled canes, medium thickness. He asks me to count.
"How many am I going to get, sir?" I venture.
"I haven't decided yet."
The first six whet my appetite. The next six fulfil it. Thirteen to eighteen, therefore, are a challenge, and I'm proud when I get through them. Each stroke is getting harder. Nineteen to twenty-four are hard, self-indulgently miserable, making me arch my back and half-jump up as I struggle to process the pain, count the heartbeats until I manage to bite out my thankyou.
Afterwards he's all warmth and praise. I'm not able to speak yet. I curl on my side in the crook of his arm, and he holds me close as I re-surface.
I don't get what I ask for every time, but when I do, I appreciate it all the more.