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“Yes, please, Master.”
“Thank you,” he said.
He tapped the tip of the cane a few times on my upper thigh. Then it landed higher and harder, right where my thigh met the
flesh of my lower ass. Gentler taps interspersed with heavier strokes, landing oh-so-close, but never exactly in the same spot. Deeper and deeper I sank as the sensations intensified.
Whenever the cane hit, I first felt a piercing sting and had to breathe through the pain, knowing it would disperse into a pleasure that would leave me right on the edge of wanting more. Some of the strikes reverberated through the entire portion of my lower body. Almost as if stroking the needy and wanting part of me.
Then it stopped and I was still breathing deeply, still right on the edge. Waiting. Wanting.
And completely encased in a deep, throbbing desire that pulsed throughout my body.
His hands were at my waist and I sighed.
“Still okay?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said, thrilled by the affection and pleasure in his touch.
“I’ve marked you,” he said, and at that moment, I felt every stripe. “They’ll probably fade later today, but you’ll be sore.” His fingers skirted my waist, dancing over the ache of my backside, dipping between my legs. “Mmm,” he hummed. “What is this?”
I held still, knowing he felt the evidence of just how much I’d liked what he’d done to me.
“You enjoyed yourself,” he said.
“Yes, Master.”
He gently pushed my legs apart and moved a few of the rolled towels under my stomach for support. “I can smell you,” he said, his breath tickling my exposed flesh. “I want to taste you.”
His mouth was warm, and his tongue playful and teasing as it darted around me. His teeth nipped my skin and I moaned in pleasure. As always, the combination of pleasure-laced pain excited me further.
He’d told me to come when I wished and though I never thought I’d come from the feel of the cane, I was surprised at how turned on I was in its aftermath. It didn’t take long before I felt my body approach its climax.
He licked me again from end to end, swirling his tongue, dipping it inside me. I clenched the blanket underneath me. My orgasm was soft, but intense, and I shook as it overtook me.
“Beautiful,” he whispered and I knew I was beautiful because of him. Any beauty of my orgasm was a result of what he did to me.
He kept touching me while the tremors of my climax subsided and afterward, he placed a soft kiss on my still weak flesh. I felt soft and weightless, and sighed.
He rubbed my neck. “Rest here or in bed?”
“Bed please, Master,” I said, struggling to keep my eyes open.
With a tenderness that seemed at odds with his strength, he pulled me close and carefully lifted me into his arms.
I was asleep before he laid me in our bed.
Warmth surrounded me as he placed soft blankets around me. His hands, strong and sure, splayed across my upper back with his fingertips touching my shoulder blades. And I melted into his touch as his lips pressed softly against the nape of my neck.
“Your trust humbles me.” His hands were warm and slick with lotion. As he talked, he slowly massaged my back. “The way you give yourself to me.”
He continued his sensuous strokes as he spoke in soft tones. “Vocalize and come as you wish. BE sure to remember your breathing.”
At his reminder, I fell into the slow, deep breaths of my yoga instruction.
“Yes,” he said. “Very good.”
I closed my eyes as he transitioned from massage to a fingertip percussion of sorts. Up and down and along my spine he went. Tap. Tap. Tap. Dipping lower at times to play his staccato beat along the curve of my backside. Kneading there as well. Tap. Tap. Tap. Knead.
Gradually, the tap, tap, taps got harder. Gradually, they became more focused on my backside. And every so often he’d give a slap to one cheek or the other in between his taps.
I focused on my breathing and how the sensation of his touch warmed me from the outside in. How the sharpness of a slap diffused into a pleasure than sank deep within and slowly spread. I felt myself seeking the familiar feeling of inherent trust and submission that allowed me so much freedom.
I wasn’t expecting the rapid stroke that must have come from a cane and I grunted at the sharp sting.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said. Already the sting was subsiding, leaving behind a warm, spreading ache.
The next stroke was still singular, but a bit harder than the first. I sucked in my breath.
“They won’t be any harder than that,” he said. “Should I continue?”
Finally, he decided I was ready. That Saturday night I stepped into the playroom and stopped immediately.
Since suggesting to Master that my limits on canes had changed, and especially since he told me to expect a scene this weekend, I’d imagined several ways he might use one on me for the first time. But never had the playroom looked like this in my mind.
Candles of varying height were scattered everywhere: on top of tables, lining the window sill, and along the countertop. Soft piano music paired with the candlelight made the playroom into something I didn’t think fit with what he had in mind.
I gave a stifled half laugh once I situated myself on my stomach atop the padded table. He’d tried to set a beautiful scene up, but all I kept thinking was: He was going to use a cane. Holy shit. Surely he knew candlelight wasn’t was going to make that thought go away. As it was I felt so tense, I’d probably jump ten feet when he touched me.
Soft footsteps sounded on the floor and I took a deep breath. He rustled around the room, opened a cabinet, then a drawer. The entire time my heart pounded so hard, it probably shook the table.
The footsteps approached me. I closed my eyes.
Was I ready?
