Bookbabe and the Cane

This story by Michele (Book­babe) is used on the Old Tom Archive with permission.

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


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