Silent Submission

This story is continued as "Sarah's Way" in subsequent chapters, having discovered that there is already a series under my original title posted.

*

Coming from the hall, I met my wife, Sarah, in the middle of the living room, dressed like she was headed out the door on her usual Saturday morning errands.

She stopped in front of me with a serious look on her face and said,

"Mark, today at 5 o'clock you are to meet me right here, in the living room, completely naked. You are to bring with you that tall stool you've had since college and a paddle from the ping-pong set with the game table downstairs. And, before then you are to go out in the yard and from one of the trees or bushes cut me a switch. More of a rod than a flimsy twig, actually. It is to be flexible, but firm, not brittle.

"You are to be caned," she said, without breaking her tone or increasingly stern expression. "And you are to provide your own instrument of your torture."

My jaw dropped further and further as she went on. I gazed at her with disbelief, not knowing what other emotion to show.

But when a fiery redhead fixes those bright green eyes in a stern stair at you, the idea that "she's kidding" does not seem to be one of the most likely explanations.

Sarah and I had been married for five years, dating for a few years before that and now in our late 30s without children, but still with a declining sex life.

Sarah had the kind of body I love, but not the kind that most men find ideal. She had long, bright red hair and a fair, freckled complexion. She carried a few extra pounds on that 5'5" frame, top heavy with large breasts.

Not that she was in the "BBW" category -- not at all according to my definition. But that little extra weight for me gave her a feel of authenticity, a real woman from strong country stock and not the drop-dead figure of a beauty that so often seems unreachable.

Still, those few extra pounds made her sensitive about her body, and uncomfortable being undressed in front of me. I wasn't even allowed in the bathroom with her and had grown to resent her physical bashfulness. So, too, did I resent her bossiness around the house.

Of course, resentment manifests itself in small ways that become large in a relationship, and our marriage was under some strain, though nowhere near a break-up point.

As we had grown more apart physically, I had taken to indulging in sexual fantasies on the Internet, including some long-held fascination with female dominant CFNM and BDSM scenarios. Sarah was quite a neophyte at using the Internet with search engines and web browsers, so it seemed easy to hide my secretive stuff from her view. Or was it?

With this out-of-the-blue declaration of what I was to do leading up to being caned (and I knew from the Web what that meant!) I didn't know how to process it.

Was Sarah displaying some hidden sexually dominant side of her personality? Was she angry over those little ways my resentment showed through and wanted to physically punish me for it?

Worse yet, there were those times that I half-heartedly dabbled in searches for casual sex or affairs over the 'Net. Had she discovered those with computer skills I didn't know she had and was ready to administer severe punishment for it?

Did she just discover my Internet porn surfing and find my interest in female domination fantasies, and decided to play the role because she thought that's what I wanted sexually? But fantasies are not realities, and I didn't necessarily want to experience anything like that for real.

So was this a sexual game? An attempt to punish me for wrongdoing? An outrageous step taken to force a breakup she wanted?

All of this flashed through my mind in a matter of seconds as she relayed her orders and maintained her demeanor.

Then it was my turn to speak and I had to process and think of something quick.

"You can't be serious," I laughed, though nothing in her demeanor suggested she was not serious.

"You want to cane me? Why do you want to cane me and why in the world should I let you? Is this some kind of joke?"

"She continued to glare at me in an enigmatic way, still impossible to discern if this were a game or revenge for wrong at play.

"I have good reasons for wanting to do it, and I think you know that. If you want to talk about it first, I suppose we can," she sighed. "But knowing how you hate talks about 'our relationship' or problems that we're having, it may be less painful for you to just bend over and take it rather than talk about it first. But if you insist, we can talk before your caning, if that's really what you want to do."

"Well. . ." I stammered, "What if I don't do what you say? Why should I let you cane me? That would hurt."

"A lot," she replied sternly. "Well, if you don't, I guess I might as well not be home tonight. I'm not going to talk about this now. I think you know what this is about. If you want to talk, let's have one of those talks you hate tonight at five, or just show up here naked like I said and we won't have to talk. You have a few hours to think about it, and to get ready for your caning.

"But you are going to be caned," she went on with a definitive tone. "I suggest you be careful in cutting the switch. Don't make me go out and find a good one myself. Right now I am going to Michelle's and we're going together to see Suzanne, who just got out of the hospital. You can think about what you want to say about this, or just get ready for it."

With that, she left me, dumbfounded.

How indeed was I going to play this? What was it all about?

I figured out that that was the key -- determining what her game was.

Was this some sort of sexual fantasy she had and decided to boldly act on it? That was an intriguing thought, as her lack of an adventurous spirit when it came to sex was perhaps my chief frustration with Sarah.

Did she discover that it was a fantasy of mine?

But I wouldn't even call it much of a fantasy. When I fantasized about sex, it was usually pretty conventional, if somewhat graphic. I got turned on by reading BDSM stories, but never thought about approaching Sarah about acting out those kinds of scenes, or looking for others to do them.

Still, she would have assumed it was a fetish I was drawn to had she probed my Literotica searches. Was she trying to reach out to me by fulfilling what she thought was my fantasy? Did she discover that we shared the same fantasy but had never communicated it with one another?

But maybe it wasn't really all that sexual. Maybe she discovered my probing for possible affairs and decided this extreme form of corporal punishment would be her response?

Perhaps she had discovered both at once -- a reason to punish me and to draw me closer by fulfilling my supposed fantasy?

Clearly, I could not be sure what this was about without talking.

And she had me on that point.

I really did hate talking about our problems or our relationship, because I always seemed to end up on the short end of those discussions, even when I was sure I was right.

Clearly, I wanted to avoid being confronted with my activities on the Internet. If she knew about them -- well, she was right. I'd rather endure a caning than that conversation, as long as I didn't have to endure both.

But what if this was just a sexual fantasy and she was taking a direct approach to making it happen?

There are times in life when realizations cause great anxiety, even fear. I felt that when a wave of fear went through me and lodged in the pit of my stomach. I admitted to myself that my cock stirred when she told me to be in the living room naked at a certain time. The obvious implication that some sexual situation would follow and the fact that she had ordered me to do it started to arouse me.

The paddle and the cane surprised me, scared me, and aroused me at the same time.

What would it be like to in reality submit to what had aroused me when I read those stories?

If I wasn't careful, I could talk my way out of a good sexual fantasy come to life and replace it with one of those annoying relationship talks.

Was I rationalizing what I was doing? As I leaned more and more toward complying it was while I was outside with a sharp pocketknife looking through the branches of trees and bushes for something that would be suitable.

At what point in my thought process did I come outside and start looking? I didn't even know. I seemed to justify the search by thinking I could process this all at the same time I was looking, but was that action a signal that I was looking for a justification for complying?

Most men would have told her off when the time came and demanded an explanation from her.

For whatever reason, I picked out a young branch from a Willow tree.

It tapered thin, as Willow does, but by cutting it off at its base at the trunk and about five feet in length, it retained the flexibility of Willow, but was still fairly thick and firm.

I took it back to my workshop, where I built my fishing rods, and sanded it down smooth. The top end had frayed a bit where I cut, but I lacquered the entire length, then wrapped some of the line I use for tying eyelets on rods around the end, securing it with the usual clear glue. I did the same on the thick end, wrapping a good eight inches of it in line, glued down, to make a fine handle.

There was plenty of time for it all to dry before Sarah returned.

She didn't return much before 5. She did not greet me or make any references to her demands of that morning. She didn't speak to me at all. Something told me she was as nervous as I was, perhaps afraid that I would confront her with her totally unreasonable demand.

But at 5 p.m., I walked into the living room nude, carrying the stool she ordered. She was sitting on the couch, and looked up from reading her magazine. I knew she was not really concentrating on it, instead focused on how I was about to react and perhaps wondering if she had overplayed her hand.

I placed the stool in the center of the room, where we had met some hours before, then returned to the bedroom.

When I came out, still nude, carrying the paddle and the cane I had made, she was standing by the stool, expressionless.

"Here is the paddle you asked me to find," I said, handing it to her. "And I made this."

I presented the cane, resting between my upturned open palms. She took it from me, her eyes widening and brightening.

"Wow!" she said, suddenly changing her demeanor and looking in amazement at what I had handed her.

"You made this?? I can't believe it!" she said. "This is wonderful. You even finished it -- and this is like a little handle," she went on, wrapping her hand around the widely threaded end. She waved it in the air as if taking some practice swings, a smile broadening on her face.

I felt a knot in the pit of my stomach, not understanding why I had made such a nice rod for her. I stood there entirely naked in front of her, having presented her with what she had earlier that day referred to as the instrument of my torture, which I had been made to provide for myself.

Unless I did something to put a stop to this she was indeed going to torture me with it -- for real.

"Why, this is just amazing," she said, still turning the instrument over and over and examining it, as if I had given her a wonderful piece of jewelry for Christmas.

"Thank you for putting so much work into this!" she gushed.

Then, after a brief pause, it began.

"Well, Mark, it's time," she said.

Sarah put an arm lightly around my back and guided me a couple of steps to the other side of the stool, then gently pressed between my shoulder blades to guide me down over the padded top of the tall stool. She had me scoot forward a little and showed me how to place my feet right up against the insides of the two legs closest to me. Moving to the other side, she took my hands and pulled them down as far as my arms would reach.

"Now grab onto the legs here," she said, placing my hands low down on the two legs on the opposite side. My body was stretched out, my butt high in the air, my cheeks and legs close together.

"Now, hold on real tight, and don't let go until I tell you you can stand. That's important," she said, the sternness returning to her voice.

She walked around behind me.

"I'm going to warm you up good with the paddle first. That will make you even more sensitive for your caning," she said, sounding like a dental hygienist explaining how she was going to floss her patient's teeth.

"That will be hard enough on you, but that's only the preliminary," she went on. "You're going to have to hold tight and concentrate on holding tight. Believe me, you don't want to start acting out on me."

I felt the rough edge of the paddle touch my right butt cheek. There were small, slightly raised bumps on the surface, designed to add friction for putting a spin on a ping pong ball. Those would add to the sting, I thought, the knot in my stomach getting tighter.

But at the same time, adopting this submissive attitude and the anticipation of what was about to take place, made my cock start to rise. I swallowed hard.

Whap!

The first impact of the paddle came down on my right cheek, stinging even harder than I expected.

"Ow!!!" I exclaimed, and instinctively reached back to protect my ass.

"Don't let go!" Sarah shouted. "That was nothing! You're going to have to be a lot stronger than that!"

I grabbed the legs again.

"Now concentrate!"

Whap!

Whap!

Whap!

Whap!

The blows came slow, but hard, alternating between the cheeks, with the last landing between.

"Uh! Uh!" I grunted in pain, reacting to each blow.

"Just getting started with the warm-up," Sarah said matter-of-factly.

Whap!

Whap!

I got two more, this time lower down on my butt. She was trying to cover the entire region, I could tell.

"Ok, hold on real tight, Mark. I'm going to start warming you up now."

I though that's what she had been doing.

Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap!

The blows came harder, and in rapid succession.

"Ahhhhh!" I screamed, but still managed to hold tight to the legs. My ass was already on fire and she was continuing to pour it on.

"Sarah! Stop! Stop! Pleaaaaase! No!"

Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap!

"Hold still!" she shouted, since I began to squirm, my feet starting to rise in the air, wanting to run.

Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap!

"Please! Noooooo!" I pleaded. I had begun to cry from the searing pain.

Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap!

I have no idea how many I took or how long it lasted, but I was crying like a baby when she stopped.

"Ok," Sarah said calmly, ignoring my tears and the pleading she had just heard. "I think you are about the right color now."

My ass must have been a very bright red by then.

Sarah knelt by my face and spoke softly into my ear.

"I know that was tough on you, but it's going to get tougher. You have to concentrate hard on holding on. This will be over soon, but the rest is not going to be easy. But you can do it. Just hold on."

I was still crying, and getting more and more afraid. I recalled again her words from earlier in the day: "You are to provide your own instrument of your torture."

If this was going to get worse, it would be torture in the truest sense of the word. And I had handed her a well-made instrument I created to do it. I realized she had picked it up.

Whoosh! Whoosh!

The sounds of her practice swings made me whimper softly. I felt the length of the rod across my butt.

Whoosh! Crack!

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!" I screamed and could not stop myself from standing up and reaching again to protect my sensitive, burning ass.

I didn't get all the way up before being pushed back down.

"Get down!" she shouted.

Sarah again knelt by my face. Later, I realized I could have easily pushed her away and put a stop to the torture then and there as having gone too far. But at the time the thought did not cross my mind. That she was in total control seemed to be a reality I accepted as inevitable.

"Mark, you have got to hold on! Mark, you are going to be caned! It is going to happen! It is happening! The best you can do is to hold on and get through it! Now concentrate! You can do this! You were to get ten, but that stunt has now made it 12. Just don't blow it and you will get through this."

I was crying, nearly in a panic, but somehow convinced that she was right and all I could do was hold on. I grasped the legs as tightly as I could and gritted my teeth.

Crack!

"Ahhhh!"

Crack!

Crack!

I stopped even hearing myself, but remember I was pleading for mercy.

The cuts of the cane did not come in rapid succession like the blows of the paddle. Each one was measured, deliberate, and carefully aimed, with time in between to anticipate the next.

Crack!

Crack!

I also lost all track of the count.

The pain was unbelievable. I would call it unendurable if I had not actually endured it.

Crack!

Crack!

Crack!

Crack!

"Ok, you've had your ten. Just a couple more to make up for you trying to get away. You're almost there, Mark."

Crack!

Crack!

I was crying harder than I have ever cried. Tears were dripping on the carpet, sweat rolling across my face.

"Ok, you can stand up now," Sarah said. "Your caning is over, Mark. You did well."

I slowly stood, and reached back to cup my butt cheeks in my palms to ease the pain. It did the opposite. I could not bear to touch myself there.

"Stand right there," Sarah said, then walked away toward the hallway closet by the bathroom.

She came back with a towel and a handkerchief for me.

I dried my tears and blew my nose, and tried to calm down while she moved the stool away and spread the towel out in front of me, reaching from my feet to the newly positioned stool. Sarah sat on the stool.

She allowed me a few moments to compose myself.

Sarah was sitting calmly and confidently on the stool, a very slight smile on her lips. I was standing naked and crying, in incredible pain, but with my humiliation not yet over.

Sarah was looking down toward me, and I realized for the first time that despite it all I had a raging hard-on.

"Now, Mark," Sarah said, nodding toward my penis, "I want you to take care of yourself."

When I did not move, being puzzled, she repeated.

"Go on now, I want you to take care of yourself," she nodded again toward my cock, not taking her eyes off of it. "Go ahead. Take your cock in your hand and finish yourself for me."

She smiled a slight bit more, still gazing between my legs.

I realized she expected me to masturbate for her.

I had never done that in anyone's presence. I was still sobbing a bit from the caning, but I reached down and started to stroke my erection.

"Don't look at your cock!" Sarah ordered. "Just look at me. Don't take your eyes off of me."

She kept her eyes on my cock, except for the occasional glace up to make sure I was looking at her.

"Now, Mark, when you get close to finishing, and you know you're going to come and can't stop it, I want you to let go of your cock and drop your hands to your sides. Then just stand there and let your cock squirt on its own."

She watched me stroke my cock, still with a slight smile on her face, seeming to enjoy the show, and as if the torture she had just administered to me had not happened.

I was in the position of the men in the femdom stories I had read, and I could not believe I was still aroused enough to masturbate for her, actually enjoying the fact that she seemed to enjoy watching.

"Uh! Uh!" I grunted as I felt it building.

When I reached the point of inevitability, I did what she had ordered. My hands dropped to my sides. A couple of seconds later, it started.