Caning the Caner

An imagined privilege to come.

He had done this many, many times to others.

On the bed. On all fours. Ass up. Spanked and rubbed and pinched to get the blood to the surface. Right now I'm going to beat you and you're going to enjoy it. But not as much as I'm going to.

He never thought he would ever switch like this. But then Prim had made him re-evaluate everything these past 6 months- his submissiveness, his sexuality, his devotional spirit, his desire to take her pain rather than give it. And here he was- remodelled, new and improved, with his big muscular white ass presented and awaiting her pleasure.

He could hear her behind him preparing and felt she was deliberately spending too long over it...it was his first time- their first time- and she wanted him to wait just that wee but longer- even though he had already waited for this for 6 long months.

It did at least give him time to think as crouched like a pet animal facing the wall of the rented cottage. He always loved to gag his caned victims- she did not- she wanted to hear his pain. He also restrained them- but she wanted him to give himself to this barbarity willingly, gratefully, wantonly. He loved that idea.

A breeze blew in through the window. Outside he could hear shoppers gossiping and seagulls calling. A radio played far away and a car hooted angrily. He felt the breeze on his already rosy and warm backside, like a lovers kiss.

She was ready. He could hear her breathing heavily and he thought he could smell her arousal. He looked between his legs and saw the pool of pre-cum on the chintzy bedspread, and knew she must already have noticed his.

She ran a gloved hand over his back, across both cheeks, dallying briefly at his gaping asshole.

"Well Russell. I think we've both waited long enough don't you, my love?"

She paused. He waited. He wondered if he would hear the swish before he would feel the impact.

He thought he heard her giggle quietly to herself- that part little happy girl, part ardent sadistic witch that made him love her so.

He felt the disturbance in the air as she took a practice swing. Then another. If she was trying to scare him it was working. A gloved fingertip to steady him. The tip of her cane to target him. His heart beat like it was bursting and he remembered just in time to breathe in and hold it.

When it came it hit his right buttock amidships. It was warm and welcoming, almost like an old friend. It stung and hummed but was almost pleasant. The second on his left cheek almost the same. Another dollop of pre cum landed on the bedspread as if to say thank you.

Then she got serious.

Four strokes, much harder, and all on the same spot in quick rapid fire succession. She didn't adhere to protocol- she wanted to hit the same spot, she wanted to see the damage, and she wanted to see him take it for her.

Those blows knocked the wind from him and his legs buckled under his knees a little. His head dropped slightly, and once the percussion of the sixth blow had subsided he felt the searing heat and absolute humiliation of her caning. He let loose a cry of pain, and felt her smile behind him.

"Oh Dear Russell. Look what you've let me do to you. Nasty red marks."

The next six were harder, but alternated between each cheek. It hurt more as he had a chance to feel each blow. He was venting agony long before the last one. She paused and regulated her own breathing. She caressed and then kissed each welt, as if trying to soothe but also trying to taste his discomfort. His heart sang nearly as loud as his white skin did. His brain whirled in a confusion of lust and shame and hurt.

Minutes went by as she inspected his torn skin and bruised dignity. She moved up the bed and looked in his face. She wanted to see him feeling, him accepting, him struggling with his perverted desires, and the manifestation he had brought upon himself.

Moving back behind him she rested the tip of her cane on his thigh, just below his seared buttocks.

"Tell me you love me." she said. He didn't have time to even process the question before she let him have it hard. He screamed at the wall and felt his throat dry and his brain fog.

"Tell me you love me." she said again, and he was just forming the words when two more blows, lower down the back of his thigh, forced the words out in a protested bellow.

"There's a good boy." she said. That made his cock twitch as it always did.

She moved calmly around to the other side. With one gloved hand she pulled back his grey clad head, looked him in the eye, and kissed, licked and then bit his mouth. She then let his head drop and inflicted three more precision strokes machine gun style to the back of the other thigh.

Facing the wall, he could feel the tears begun to prickle his eyes, as he let loose a long wail of acceptance and submission, a lone wolf now just a puppy, wailing forlornly at the moon.

"Last six Russell. You really have got yourself in a pickle haven't you, you silly boy?"

He felt her move and heard a rustle. She moved up on the bed and crouched over him, embracing his supine whiteness, pressing her now naked breasts against his back. He sighed and drunk in the sensation. She tested his sopping erection and seemed pleased his was still present and dripping despite her punishments.

Then she was gone. No warmth. No comfort. Just six very hard strokes, three to each buttock. He was wailing by the second. By the fourth he was screaming her name. At the sixth and final stroke, she broke him and those hot tears burst from his eyes like needles.

They lay on the bed together, perverted spoons, watching the June sun lap at the curtains. His tears were dry now, mopped by her wonderfully full and heavy breasts. She inspected her work on his ravaged ass and thighs and he knew she was masturbating from the sighs and the coos she was making, and the gentle swaying of the bed, bobbing like a boat on the ocean. His body felt used but his mind felt complete. He felt her shudder with the strength of the orgasm, breath on to his back, nuzzle into his neck and whisper how much she loved him.

This was where he belonged. Never a Caner again. Always a Canee.