The doorbell rang. I knew who it was - he'd texted me as he left work to warn me he was on his way. I was halfway down the stairs to the front door when I realised that I was only wearing a bra with my jeans. I'd taken my t-shirt off earlier - it was a sunny afternoon and my room was too warm for me to need it.
We kissed our hellos, and he made himself tea and went into the back garden for a smoke, saying he'd come upstairs and find me when he was ready. I got a few more minutes' work done before he came in, then finished the bit I was on and joined him on the bed. He kissed me appreciatively, fingers running lightly up my spine. I purred against him. "It's good to see you, sir."
He decided to cane me over my jeans, which he hasn't done in a while. I followed his instructions, arranging pillows in the middle of the bed and lying across them, bottom lifted towards his attentions, while he selected a couple of canes. He told me he would give me eighteen strokes, but that I shouldn't worry about counting them.
They hurt. I was wearing knickers under the denim, but each stroke bit as sharply as if it had been delivered on the bare. I don't know if he was compensating for the extra protection, if I was still being a wimp or if the jeans in fact offered no protection at all, but those strokes were definitely no joke. I managed the eighteen without breaking position, but there were a couple of outraged yells among my responses. The second one was particularly vicious. I struggled to present myself in the way he likes; back arched, bottom raised. I didn't want to present myself; I didn't want to relax my muscles before each stroke. My body was desperate to tense, to poise for flight. But he gave me time after each stroke to compose myself, and I fought to present myself properly, to relax.
Afterwards I was okay, even beginning to warm towards the caning a little. I was cuddled and then told to take my jeans and knickers down - he was going to switch to a more senior cane and give me another twenty four. And these he did want counting. I whimpered a bit - twenty four! Surely that's not reasonable! - and felt even sorrier for myself when I noticed which cane he was picking up. I thought he'd already been using that one - if the biting eighteen strokes I'd felt so far were from a junior cane, what would these feel like?
I arranged myself back over the pillows, and he admired my marks. "Can you take a photo so I can see, please, sir?" I asked. I was curious how much protection the jeans offered against welts, since they seemed to offer so little against pain. He was happy to comply. Then he asked if I was ready. "Yes, sir," I said, quietly, making involuntary fists and trying to relax. And he began.
It wasn't easy. The low strokes were particularly unpleasant. I felt thoroughly sorry for myself, hiding my face in the duvet to hide my scowls, grinding out my count through clenched teeth. The strokes were hard, and they were effectively delivered cold. At twenty-two the blazing pain broke through my self control and the tears started to flow. And suddenly all the tension seemed to flow out of me. I sobbed my way gratefully through the last two strokes, which were slow, measured, and hardest of all. The pain became exactly what I needed. I accepted it, took it into myself. I offered no resistance. I let it wash over me.
Afterwards he showed me the photo he'd taken, my marks from eighteen canestrokes delivered over jeans. I asked if I could post it on my blog, and he said of course. I'll let you into a secret: that was the reason I wanted a photo, all along. I wanted to show you my marks.
This isn't just the usual blogging addiction, for me. This is a familiar CP trope. After a trip to the headmaster's office, a school boy or girl returns to their dormroom for a public display of the damage; for sympathy, comparison, perhaps even help from a close friend putting lotion on the wounds. It turns private suffering into shared bonding. The experience is transformative, from the shame of punishment to a badge of honour, something to take pride in.
I took pride in my submission long before I started blogging about it. I take pride in pleasing my Dom. And I've always taken pride in my marks; but being able to show them to you, to those of you who are familiar with what I've just experienced, lets it become a different kind of pride. It's not only a secret knowledge I carry with me for the rest of the day; it's also a collective bonding, an opportunity for shared empathy and respect.
We didn't get a second photo, after the twenty-four strokes on the bare; we both had other things on our minds. So these are my eighteen cold canestrokes over jeans, and this is me in the virtual dormroom, showing you my marks.
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