The Stories of Yvonne Sinclair
The Story Of T
The Sacred Feminine
The Weight Loss
A Caning By Miss Spiteful
Always On The Bare
A Visit To Greenwich
At My Lady's Pleasure
Ball Shackle Story
I Met Claire In A Coffee Shop
Long Weekend Conclusion
Robin's Electrical Torture
Slave To The Cane
The Escape Artist
The Huntress Caning
The Language School
The Worm's View
The Bossy Bank Women
The door opened slightly, "Charles?" "Yes" I replied and the door opened widely enough for me to enter. "Follow me", and we went up the stairs into a darkened room at the top. "Strip" was her first instruction, and I placed my bag on the floor and did just that, told immediately to stand in the middle of the room so she could look me over. Hands behind my neck, legs apart, her firm hands excited me as she looked over my cock, weighed my balls, worked over my buttocks. "Touch your toes", which I could not do, but was told not to be silly, but to grip my legs as low as I could. A hard slap or two, her hands parting my buttocks, then a longish session over her lap, hard slaps, but easily bourn, the feeling of submission, of naked openness to every movement of her hands - something to be relished. "Stand up', at last, and as I did so I explained that I had brought shorts and plimsolls to give evidence to the schoolboy's punishment by his angry Governess. "Put them on then, hurry", and I pulled them from my bag and prepared myself anew. I had bought a lady's silk G-string in the market, telling the stall-keeper that I had been told to buy it by my Mistress who was going to cane me, he had made no response, other than to give me my change, but now I put them on under the shorts at Miss Spiteful's orders.
"I understand that you have been masturbating?" "Yes" I admitted, "And which hand do you use?
I stretched out my right and she swung a braided tawse across it, cutting the base of the fingers, hurting badly with just the one stroke. "I will not allow that sort of behaviour', staring me in the eye, then forced me quickly over to a whipping bench, bent me over it, strapped my wrist and arms, ankle and thighs; shorts and panties pulled down to my knees, and began to cane me very hard and slowly enough for the impact of each cut to be felt to the full. How many strokes, I did not count, nor so far as I could tell, did she, but there were many, thirty, forty, hurting severely.
I had tipped out dildoes and an Australian whip that she said was too dangerous and would not use, but "Had I had the biggest of the dildos used on me?"
"Yes", I was able to whisper back, pain in my arse consuming all my thoughts. So it was forced slowly, firmly into me, my anus hurting as it was forced open. "I shall leave you for a while to recover', she said, "Don't let it slip out." And when I said that I should not be able to stop it since my hands were strapped down; she pulled up my G-string and shorts and told me that they would keep all in order. Then she was gone, the room quiet for five, ten minutes - I could not tell, lying still over the bench, the inch and a quarter, six inch dildo nicely filling my arse.
As I recovered somewhat, I was able to look to each side at the line of straps to my left, the canes standing next to them. Mistress walked into the room to look at something behind me then left again to leave me in short lived peace.
At last she returned, withdrawing the dildo, then unstrapping me and telling me to stand, then to strip completely again. A thought that she had finished was quickly overcome, as she forced me back over the bench, strapping me tightly down. Now there was the question of which cane to use, which strap, what else to hurt me with and whichever seemed to please, and then there were three or four or more vicious strokes with it. Half a dozen canes, some very thick, all biting upwards into my stretched buttocks, and tawses of various weights. There were to be special strokes between the cheeks, to cut the tender flesh round the anus, and I had thought these would be struck by Miss Spiteful standing at my head, downwards, but there were three or perhaps four violent strokes in the other direction, maybe with a thick tawse, but whatever it was struck into the crease and down against my balls, that were blackened by the bruise when I examined them next day. "My balls!" I called out - "Too bad', the only response.
Then there was a rubber Roman flagellum that struck very hard, but would have been more painful had it been of thinner, harder rubber. If you think that is not severe enough', she said at one stage, "try this" and swept a double thonged whip with a long handle round my thighs, leaving two blood red bites on the side. "That hurt", I gasped, to be told
"So it was supposed to."
Flecks of sweat, I thought, were flung up onto my back - "Am I bleeding?"
"A little" as the brief response.
The pain was beginning to overcome my spirits somewhat as she leant down beside my head to suggest that "Perhaps you have begun to learn your lesson?" True enough, indeed, but all I had strength to mutter was a "Yes, Mistress.' Half a dozen more severe strokes with the cane, my head starting up from the bench as the pain bit, though each time I was able to arch back my buttocks for the next stroke. Then a pause at last and I was left alone in the darkened room, exhausted over the red leather of the bench.
A long pause - ten minutes perhaps, maybe longer - saturated with pain, time had no measure. Then she was back again, her strong figure in the doorway, the plastic tunic gleaming in the light from outside for a moment.
"I think you have had a sound enough lesson, now, and will not masturbate for a while." To which there could only be a tired assent on my part.
"So a final twenty-four strokes to settle matters."
"Twenty-four? I am not sure that I can take another twenty-four . . .", but we had agreed there would be no let up, no soft beginning to my punishment (though the time over her knees had been no more than painful excitement in truth), that what Miss Spiteful decided upon would be what I should get, with any extras that might please her sadistic nature. No safe word.
I had to count these last strokes, "One, thank you Mistress", and onwards, the pain now excruciating, the cuts harder than ever, my head flying into the air after each stroke, yet pride forcing up my buttocks for the next stroke.
We got to six, and I thought 'a quarter gone', then to twelve and as I thought 'half way' the thirteenth was upon me. At seventeen I begged a moment's respite, granted, though briefly, and then the final seven, agonising blows. At twenty-four I sagged down, only to find there was more to come -- sharper in their attack, and swifter -- one and I thought that's it -- two, and then as I began to fear it would never stop, the final cut. She laughed, my Mistress, and I laughed back as she put down the cane at last. Pain there still was, but no longer reiterated at every few seconds, and it was time, I remembered, to take photographs of buttocks in that immediate state of scarlet agony.
She got out the camera from my bag, and with one hand freed I showed her how to manage it, the results, immediately visible from the digital image, showing just how much blood there really was - a flood over both buttocks, the right hand side streaming down with rivulets over my balls. "They weren't cut' she said, "it is just from your bottom, but you had best lie still while I undo you and dry away the blood.' And so I lay there while she anointed me with surgical spirit "This may hurt', but that was what I had come to her for in the first place, then pads of cotton wool before I could prise myself up from the leather, where there was still a pool of blood below my right knee.
Now it was time to make my offering in gratitude for the pain so thoroughly inflicted, to say my thanks for taking me so instantly into nakedness and pain an hour and a half before. To have avoided any introductions, simply to have taken me, stripped and caned me, to have left me bleeding on her bench -- only now falling into ordinary conversation.
I stood in the bus, hoping that the blood would not have seeped through my trousers, and similarly in the train to London Bridge and the tubes home, but those who stood behind me on the escalator - one tall young woman I remember still - must have seen the mark across the back of the trousers, and the sodden state of the patch between my legs. I had to throw away the trousers and the pants too, of course. The blood had dried within a couple of days, but lymph ran slightly for five or six, and only by sleeping on a groundsheet with an old cloth on top could the sheets be kept clean. After three weeks the cane marks are still there, though fading now, and the six inch bruise across my thigh has almost gone.
Next time I shall beg for as much pain, whatever marks are necessary, but will beg that the blood not be drawn as it was this time. Perhaps to be caned more lightly, but longer, a hundred strokes, fast and excruciating, repeated several times, with five or ten minutes between; perhaps the tawse up and down the legs, over the buttocks, inside the thighs, across my back, and then biting into my chest, biting my nipples. And when we have agreed the limits, there my Mistress of Pain will take me with no respite, and doubtless into some biting finale that goes well beyond.
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