Author's note: This story contains graphic descriptions of fully consensual corporal punishment in the form of caning. If this is offensive to you, please be warned, and don't read on.
All the participants in this story are adults over the age of eighteen years. As usual, none of the characters depicted are real and any similarity to real places or people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Please comment and score. Any constructive criticism positive or negative is welcome. Far too few folk score and even fewer make comments, especially after reading BDSM stories.
As always, any errors in editing are mine and mine alone.
The Story of Thao (Part 1)
I am a thirty-year-old Vietnamese lady with a very unusual kink. I am a teacher and a part-time dominatrix. Men pay me to punish them. My services are very specific. I provide straightforward severe corporal punishment and nothing else. My clients are a small group of discrete and wealthy men who, like me, wish their activities to remain hidden.
I do not offer my services to women, only men. I punish men because I do not like them, and not just because they pay me to do it. In general, I dislike most men, but not all of them. I love fucking, and I like Christopher and love to fuck him, but I love to spank him too. That service I provide, quite happily, for free.
I have disliked men for many years. I have good reasons which will become clear, although I have only started to discipline them more recently after I learned how good it felt to hurt them. That, and how I met Christopher, is what this story is all about.
Vietnamese people are not that big, and I am only five feet one inch tall and weigh a mere eight stone, but nonetheless, I am very good at meting out suffering. You do not need brute strength to use a strap, whip, paddle, or cane, just good technique, and a merciless unforgiving nature.
I have both.
***
I came to Canada via the Philippines in 1981 when I was ten years old. My father was some kind of civil servant who worked for the government of South Vietnam in Saigon during the Vietnamese War. My mother was a government interpreter. I was their only child, born in 1971 during the last years of the war.
Following the fall of Saigon in 1975, my parents were sent by the communist government to "re-education" camps, and I was sent to live with my aunt. My mother was released after six months of incarceration, but it was not until early 1977 that my father was released, and we were a family again.
Even with my father and mother back home, life was not easy. They had no official status, had lost their jobs when the South Vietnamese Government fell, had no access to food rations, and I was not allowed to go to school. I still do not know how we survived during that period. My parents did not speak of it, and I knew enough never to ask.
Then in 1978, on a warm dark January night, we left the country on a boat, with maybe thirty other people. It was a cloudless night when we left the beach and set out into the dark and I remember the stars shining brightly above us. There were men, women, and children amongst us, and I remember the boat was open with no shelter from the sea or the weather. I also remember being very scared indeed and hearing my father tell my mother that if we stayed in Vietnam we would surely die and that it was better to take our chances with the sea.
Even at seven years old I found myself hating the soldiers who had brought this misfortune upon us, and rather unfairly my father for holding his political views. Nothing that happened, either on the boat or later, did anything to change my view of men.
I did not know where we were headed but heard the men talking of the Philippines. We had taken food and water with us for the voyage and my father told us that we should reach an island in the west of the islands in about four days if all went well.
Predictably enough, it didn't. But it could have been much worse,
About twelve hours into the journey a Vietnamese fishing vessel appeared on the horizon. They forced us to stop dead in the water by threatening to ram and sink us if we did not heave to, and then six of the fishermen, who had turned pirate, boarded us and demanded our gold. valuables, and money.
One man protested and was hit over the head and thrown into the sea, where he soon drowned. After that, we quickly gave them what they demanded, and they left us to continue our journey.
I was outraged by that event. It was not just the casual killing of a man that upset me, but that my father and his male companions gave up without a fight. Unrealistic as this may have been, I vowed to myself that no man would treat me like this if I survived and grew up.
We did not know it at the time but were very lucky. Then, the South China Sea was infested with pirates who preyed on the hundreds of thousands of "boat people" fleeing Vietnam. Many of these pirates robbed, murdered, and raped, at will.
We encountered no further pirates on our voyage, but on the second day, first one, and then the other outboard motor stopped working. With no sail, we drifted, at the mercy of the elements for four more days. Huddled in the boat beneath our traditional leaf hats we tried to hide from the blazing sun and waited to die of thirst.
For the second time, we were lucky. On the sixth day, a freighter spotted us, took us on board, and transported us to Manilla.
For the next three years, there in the Philippines, inside a refugee camp, we remained. Then without warning, we were informed that Canada had agreed to give us refuge, and when I was ten years old my family was relocated to Montreal.
It made perfect sense. Both my parents were educated in South Vietnam and spoke excellent French whilst my mother also spoke English fluently.
And so, my new life started. I went to school and learned French and then English, and slowly became accustomed to the strange land in which I found myself. Despite my culture shock, I was very keen to integrate myself into the community in which I found myself. My future was now in Canada, and I wanted to be a good citizen. Not so my parents, who found the predicament in which they now found themselves more shocking and did not wish to lose any of the old ways. When I was eleven years old, they insisted I start to learn Vietnamese Ashtanga Yoga at which, to my surprise, I was surprisingly adept.
***
When I was twenty-one, with no little disquiet, I married Dinh. It was an arranged marriage. Although I did not love him, he was handsome and had a future as a teacher. He was a member of the Vietnamese community in Montreal and had been chosen by my parents, as I had been chosen by his parents. My name is Thao. In Vietnamese it means, "respectful of her parents," and that is why I married a man I had no feelings for.
When I married in 1992 my mother was forty-five years old and dying. Years of war and subsequent "re-education," the boat crossing, and her time in a refugee camp had taken their toll, and then she was diagnosed as having breast cancer.
Now all she wanted was to see her grandchild born. That is why I consented to a loveless marriage.
Unfortunately, the marriage was not just loveless but virtually sexless. Dinh had little inclination to fuck me, either for procreation or for pleasure, and soon I learned that he was gay. He had married me as a smokescreen to hide his extramarital activities, and when my mother died, only six months after we married, we separated, Dinh was just one more misogynistic male who seemed to be hell-bent on fucking up my life.
Just a month later my father had a heart attack and died. I prefer to believe he died of grief.
I was alone in the world. My family was dead, and whatever relatives I still had were halfway across the world in Vietnam.
Life is for the living, however hard that may be, and I knew that my parents would want me to carry on. I had already qualified as a teacher and wanted a fresh start away from Montreal and just four months later I was teaching mathematics at a school in Toronto.
***
I did not set out to become a dominatrix, but like so many things in my life, both before and afterward, it just happened.
I was a virgin when I married Dinh and whilst I was technically not a virgin when we separated, I might as well have been. I never experienced an orgasm at Dinh's hands (or his dick for that matter). In the months following my separation, I never had a lover. My sex life was a solitary one, alone with my dildo(s) and vibrator. Although I was attracted to men, I didn't trust them, and while I trusted women, I wasn't attracted to them. It was Catch Twenty-Two.
At first, none of this mattered. I had other things that kept me busy including burying two parents, divorce proceedings, finding a new job, and relocating three hundred and fifty miles west to Toronto.
