tagBDSMFetch the Cane

Fetch the Cane


"Fetch the cane." Despite the warm summer weather Ruth shivers at his instruction, her apprehension based on rueful experience. Her husband's tone of voice implies an expectation of unquestioning and immediate obedience. Unsuccessfully attempting to quell a sudden flash of arousal she clenches her thighs. Heart racing Ruth forces herself to calm down; walk slowly, short steps, no hurry, she'll feel the bite of the bamboo across her posterior curves soon enough.

Why so excited, her predicament is no surprise? The cane has been lying prominently in the centre of the dining table since the previous evening, an unambiguous signal of intent. Ruth has kept furtively glancing at it all day, her only uncertainly being exactly when she'll be chastised.

Just a few minutes earlier they'd been sat in the lounge; with a satisfied smile and a glass of red wine, Ruth fidgeting and visibly on edge.

"You seem a little apprehensive?" he observes.

"You know why," she sulks petulantly.

"Yes, I thought that might focus your attention„" he agrees evenly, "and goodness these days you do need to concentrate..."

"I'm focused now," she says, a little too quickly, this is not the moment for spousal defiance.

"Good, because I am about to cane your bare bottom" announces her husband firmly.

"How many strokes?" she enquires tentatively

"That will depend on your behaviour while being punished, no fewer than six but otherwise..."

Ruth's fate hangs in the balance as she leaves the lounge walking slowly towards the dining room; an indeterminate punishment is unwelcome news. She knows 'good behaviour' means staying in position, pushing her bottom out for the cane and not making a noise, simple enough rules, but dependent on how hard Jason wields the wicked rod.

Ruth has, of course, been caned many times before. The cane is the sine qua non of punishment implements. A bottom may be gently smacked, not so with a caning, that always bloody hurts!

Further unpleasant permutations elbow their way into her consciousness. Might he wish her to count the number of strokes out loud; the timbre of her voice becoming increasingly strained and sorrowful as her poor bottom stings and burns? Unconsciously she cups her buttocks, pre-emptively massaging them as she walks.

And there it is, the instrument of correction, Ruth's nemesis. If only she'd been a bit less scatterbrained this week. Well, it's pointless brooding, in any case Jason would probably find another spurious excuse for 'domestic discipline'; some alternative pretext of wrongdoing requiring his wife's willing surrender.

Wholly complicit in the charade, knowing she needs this, understanding it's the way she's wired, Ruth picks up the cane in trembling hands and retraces her steps.

Jason has placed a chair - straight wooden back, cushioned seat - in the centre of the room.

"About time," he says tersely, "Perhaps your tardiness warrants extra strokes?"

"No, please, I'm scared enough," Ruth pleads plaintively,

"Hmm, perhaps you're right,'' muses Jason, "no need anyway, this will be a harder punishment than you've had for a while." He pauses, allowing this unwelcome news to sink in. "Kneel on the chair, facing the rear and lift up your skirt please."

Ruth scrambles to obey, trepidation rendering her clumsy and uncoordinated as she assumes the position. She's wearing a figure-hugging pencil skirt and struggles to wrestle the material up to her waist. Jason's hand presses into the small of her back; Ruth guesses what's coming. He caresses her shapely bottom, questing fingers tracing the vertical line between her buttocks before stroking the tender 'sit spot' at the top of her thighs.

Abruptly Jason smacks his hand down hard, alternating between each of her full, firm cheeks. Again and again it descends, rhythmically spanking her mature derriere. Ruth gasps and twists against his restraining grip.

To no avail, the application of Jason's palm is relentless, Ruth moans her bottom throbs; senses in overdrive. Jason allows a brief respite to deftly pull Ruth's seductively flimsy parities down below her stocking. Caught between intense but conflicting sensations Ruth yearns to touch herself, but dare not disobey his instruction to keep still.

Taught suspenders deliciously frame her hot red bottom as Jason appreciatively surveys his punitive handiwork. "Beautiful as ever," he murmurs appreciatively. Ruth permits herself a fleeting feeling of pride - still got it girl! Her pussy aches to be filled.

"Ooh! Ahl" Despite all her attempts at maintaining dignity and poise Ruth annoys her inner feminist with an involuntary whimper as two unexpected cuts of the cane interrupt her reverie. Familiar with Jason's chastisement rituals she knows this isn't yet her punishment proper, just him gauging the cane's suppleness and measuring the distance. Eventually satisfied with these finicky preparations her tormentor cups Ruth's chin and turns her to face him. °Count them out loud" he instructs curtly.

Hands holding up her skirt, struggling to maintain balance Ruth does as she's bid, albeit in ever more distressed tones until at stroke number eight a tear rolls down her face. Immediately Jason halts the fiery onslaught on her hindquarters, reaches out and carefully wipes her cheek.

She tumbles into his arms, in search of hugs and consoling kisses, perversely proud of the burning stripes etched across - she loves this crude vernacular- her arse.

Surprised at her fortitude, Ruth gingerly rubs her sore bottom; caught on the cusp between pain and pleasure, feeling loved and very naughty. She's about to be even naughtier...

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