Bookbabe and the Cane
by Michele (Bookbabe)

Mmmmmn mmmmmn mmmmmn. I've had my post-caning nap and lolled in bed and had a bit of sustenance and read the NG and written some e-mail and I'm still buzzing and humming from the cane.

(I tend to write and speak in run-on sentences when I'm still bliss-y).

Canes have always scared me, and I'd always thought they were a hard limit for me; I'd seen some caning videos that scared the bejeezus out of me, and figured they were too severe, that they'd send me zooming outside my pain threshold.

Wrong. One good thing I learned today is that it's possible to play moderately with a cane.

Not that they still don't scare me, but it's a good kind of scared- the kind that gets me wet. That's a tension I like playing with, getting to the point where I'm losing control and feeling messy and struggling to breathe and so afraid of the next stroke of a toy but wanting it so much.

We didn't get there this time with the cane, but I know we will soon, now that we've tried it.

I spent some time lying on the bed in the spreader bar, with Mike ensuring that I was properly excited for the caning. Arousal makes everything easier- I feel more relaxed, confident about my ability to process the pain the right way, and eager to push at my fears. Instead of feeling anxious, suddenly my apprehension of the unknown is an incredible turn-on.

Before the caning Mike restrained me; I'd been worried that I'd flinch or try to crawl away, and so he used ankle and wrist cuffs to lock my arms and legs together, and a belt to tie my upper legs closed. We've never played much with bondage, so the restraint itself was new and arousing, something to savour as I lay, face down on the bed, a pillow elevating my hips.

Mike spent some time spanking me with his hand, telling me about the caning- how many strokes I would have to take (8) and how long I'd have in between strokes (20 seconds). And he rubbed my bottom and told me it would be a hard caning and I would take all 8 strokes. No going back.

I was moaning softly to myself while he rubbed the cane against my ass, showing me where the strokes would land- on the backs of my thighs, under the swell of each cheek, across the swell itself. And I kept breathing slowly, trying to stay in control. But when he stopped using the cane to caress me, I knew that first stroke was coming and I stopped breathing.

Until that first stroke landed and I cried out. Oh it hurt. It hurt so much more than I thought it would, and right away all I could think was, "I can't take seven more of those." But even as this thought raced through my head the heat and pain from the stroke started to spread and deepen and lordy it felt good. I wanted some more of that <g>.

Stroke number two hurt far more. The cane is so- I'm searching for the right word, here, and can't find one. It's just . . . so . . . so . . .Not like a belt or strap. "Focused," perhaps. Perhaps further canings will help me figure out the adjectives I'm looking for <g>. Anyway, I'm sure stroke two was responsible for the nice mark across the fatty part of my left cheek, and I remember pleading with Mike, breathing heavily, saying, "I can't take six more. I can't."

"You will, Michele," he tells me, rubbing the weal with his fingers. And yes, I took six more.

And he made me ask for the last one. He knows I hate that <smiling>.

There is something so incrediblyfuckinghot about a man who knows what I want and need and wants to give it to me. Who takes so much pleasure in showing me what I can take, and edging me past that point, little by little.

The twenty seconds in between each stroke were really good for me- I could keep my breathing relaxed and slow and steady myself. And it was also enough time to process the fact that I could take the pain. Of course, the downside of that interval was time to anticipate and dread the next stroke. And get wetter thinking about it. Okay, so that's an upside <g>.

But I think if the caning had been very fast, without time for me to process the pain and pay attention to my body's reactions, I might have gotten anxious and panicky. Time enough for that later. I only feel comfortable being out of control when I've felt in control previously, if that makes any sense. Now that I know I can enjoy the cane, I feel confident having the play intensified, next time. Faster, or harder, or maybe more strokes. But it was reassuring to learn that it's possible and enjoyable to play moderately with a cane.

The thing that surprised us was that I didn't flinch from any of the strokes. I stayed very still and didn't wriggle around much, even after a particularly hard stroke. That's unusual for me. The tawse, for example, generally has me writhing all over the bed.

I have three particularly nice marks gracing my bottom, and I will gleefully rub them and stare at them in the mirror over the next couple of days, and mourn a little as they fade. Even now, as I sit in my scanties, writing this post, I'm grinding my ass into the chair, to feel that little surge of pain. Yum.

I know Mike could have caned me harder, but he caned me hard enough. Hard enough that I enjoyed the caning, hard enough to keep me a little scared. Hard enough to make me want him to cane me again. Soon.

I can't wait <very happy smile>

Michele, cane-convert




This story is the property and copyright 1999 of Michele all rights reserved. Please don't repost this or make it publicly accessible via FTP, mail server, or archive site without explicit permission. Permission is granted for one hard copy for personal use.