Erotic Caning

My laptop should be ready for collection tomorrow morning, apparently they’ve had trouble recovering my data but their chief geek's on the case now, keeping fingers crossed as I'm away overnight Sunday and I'd like it with me. P has to see a client on Monday up north and as it's our sons 21st on Sunday were going to take him out to dinner and stop over.  He's going out with his housemates tonight, which probably means he won't be fit for much tomorrow but that's students.

Having no laptop the past ten days has been a real pain and haven't been comfortable drafting posts on P's, anyway so I'm posting a story I found a while back and sent to P, I do such things occasionally, and found it this morning still in his 'Ronnie' folder where outlook express automatically stores copy mails I send him. I can't remember where I got it from so can't give anybody credit for it. It didn't fire P up to doing that to me by the way, maybe he didn't read it, maybe I'll drag it across to his inbox, I quite liked the story or at least the thought of it. 

Hope you enjoy it.

Story...

I had a horrible week last week. Just horrible. I could very easily look back on it with the kind of urgency as if I were fleeing the scene of a frightening accident. I was battered, wounded, torn from the inside out. I'd accumulated so much negative energy, I walked around with a sombre thunderhead hanging over my head, the storm front waiting to burst, just edging along my forehead. I needed a release.

I came home and found the darkest corner, and just sat. I didn't turn on any lights. I wanted to see if the total shadow would relieve me, help me disappear a little, distance myself from the events of the week. My girl came home, and the sound of her heels clicking on the tile shattered the silence surrounding me, but even this lovely song couldn't rouse me from my sullenness. She sensed my composition immediately and came into my study. She knew a little about how horrible my week had been, and embraced me, stroked my cheek and just held onto me. She asked me if there was anything she could do. I looked into her eyes, and she knew immediately. Without any words, she got up from my lap, walked to our bedroom, stood at the side of the bed and arranged herself for me.

I needed this.

I collected one of my rattan canes, a small pelt of white rabbit fur from my shelf, put on my jacket and walked to our bedroom. There she was standing. She'd hoisted her skirt up, her stockings and suspender remained, her heels of course she'd kept on. Her magnificent buttocks hung in the air. I walked behind her, gliding my hand over the flesh of her backside. Not a single muscle in her moved. She could sense how much tension I had inside, and I could tell that she was a bit apprehensive about what lay ahead for her. But I never turned it on her, she wasn't the cause, nor the victim, but the outlet. I held up the cane in the air in front of her face, she opened her mouth, and clamped down on it, putting her lips between the rod and her teeth. She has learned that I do not like indentations in my equipment.

I swatted her right ass cheek with my hand, snapping a loud pop into the air. I peppered her other cheek with short quick slaps, moving down her thigh, over the round shape of her butt, in between her legs. I started building a cadence that I could slowly begin to channel some of this energy through, finding the pulse in my head and pushing it out with each impact. I listened to her breathing. I watched the muscles beneath her flesh tense, and knew when to stop, take a step back, let her exhale.

I enjoy paying attention to her breathing, reminding her to in fact breathe (because she has the tendency to not remember). I'll put a hand on her back and simply say:

"Breathe."

And she'll resume the function that helps deliver her to a very small, safe place. I grabbed the rabbit pelt, and ran the soft milky fur over her cheeks and inner thighs. This helps as well. It soothes her, pulls her out of her real world self of bumping into strangers, loud city noises, navigating sidewalks, and sitting at a desk all day. By now, her skin on her ass was glowing pink, radiating a nice heat from the friction of my spanking.

I put the pelt down, and resumed swatting her. Harder, closer together. I sped up my rhythm, bringing heavier blow after heavier blow down onto her cheeks. Without realizing it, I've snapped. I'm in a completely different world. This world consists of energy, and specific postures, and correction. I felt a connection to her, one I'd needed all week long. Each time I told her to stick her bottom out, and she obeyed, the connection grew stronger. Every time I pulled back my hand and she winced, this action reinforced the connection.

I alternated between swats and caresses with the fur. These are not mechanical, clinical reactions. I wasn't suddenly counting the minutes.

Everything was fluid. My mind divined that ebb must arrive, I turned to the fur. Then, I felt a flood, I slapped my flesh against her flesh. Her backside screamed with a fiery redness.

I brought myself close to her, kissing her neck, breathing softly into her ear. I held out my hand beneath her chin, and she dropped the cane from her mouth into it. I had her lay over the edge of the bed. I tapped the cane on her left cheek. She yelped. She fears the cane. But this was the particular instrument I needed to exorcise the week's events. I patiently held the cane horizontally stretching across both cheeks.

"Present your bottom." She obligingly pushed her derriere higher into the air, almost daring the cane to meet it.

I pulled the cane back and stung her with a slice that gave her right buttock the worst of the blow. I paused. She pulled a groan that emanated from the point of impact, all the way up through her insides and out of her mouth. She shivered, and stomped a few times on her right foot. I reviewed the mark, comparing the result to the force behind it. I gave her three more trial marks, finding my touch once again. I asked her for a number. She does not know how hard each stroke will be, she can only give me a number that I will then use to allocate stripes across her lovely ass

"10" she ventured.

"Let's make it 12."

By the end of it all, my actions find me carefully rubbing her throbbing skin with the supple rabbit fur, holding her, praising her for several minutes. I thank her for the release, the ability to express what I held inside. This is far removed from the typical regimental spankings I use as correction and reinforcement of her place. I've taken the malicious battering I've accumulated during the week, transformed the energy and from it, forged a stronger fellowship with my girl. Something beautiful has emerged.

Finally I drop the rabbit fur and feel between her legs. She is wet and now I must help her release some of the tension of her own week. It is a task I will relish.

Have a good weekend.

Ronnie
xx