The Spanking Writers

Since I was very, very young and a pretend-Victorian teacher at a pretend-Victorian school slammed her cane down on my desk, the thought of a cane - not even being caned, just the cane itself - has terrified me. Schoolfriends (who don’t know I’m kinky, but do know that watching “Jane Eyre” in class made me cry, and that listening to an audio clip of “Boy” - complete with swishy cane sounds, loud cracks and yelps as an invisible boy was caned - made me throw up) always reassured me that it was okay, because I could just flick past paragraphs or scenes with caning - nobody could make me read about it, or watch it, if I didn’t want to, and it’s not like it comes up a lot. And hey, caning’s illegal, so it’s not like anybody’s ever going to be anywhere near me with an actual cane, right?

Right. But then I came across Abel and Haron’s blog, and realised I was kinky, and discovered that actually, being afraid of the cane wasn’t okay anymore, because now canes did come up a lot, and all of a sudden, I actually wanted to read about it. Abel had always known how scared I was, and he kept saying that the only way to get over it would be to be caned. So I said no way, and he said he wasn’t going to.

Until last week when we went to London, and he told me he was bringing a cane. That was fine - it’s none of my business what elderly men keep in their luggage, is it? - but then he said he was going to give me six of the best.

Afterwards, Abel said that he wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been ready. Well, I didn’t feel ready. Not before, when he was telling me to bend over and then getting fussy about the way I was bent (I mean, really), not after, when I was sitting on the desk to see if I could feel it and cuddling up to Abel, and especially not during, when I really, really wanted to not be being caned.

But I must have been ready really, even if I didn’t think I was, because I knew all along that if I said no, or if I asked him to stop, he would, and I didn’t. Plus, I trust Abel more than I can even say (more, I think, than he actually realises), so if he says I’m ready to do something, I am. Even if I think I’m out of my mind to believe him at the time.

So I bent over the desk and looked into the mirror, watching Abel, then the cane. I was glad the mirror was there, because it meant I could watch Abel line up the cane and draw it back, closing my eyes at the last minute so I didn’t have to actually see it strike, then open them again and watch the next stroke; if I’d had to wait between each stroke, not knowing when the cane was going to land, I don’t think I would have got through all six. I knew it would be six, because Abel told me so, but to be honest, I didn’t care. He may as well have said six hundred: it didn’t matter, because I was convinced I was going to leap up in agonised panic somewhere around the second stroke, and that would put an end to this horrible little plan, and I would never be caned again.

But then the first stroke wasn’t that bad, and neither was the second. It hurt a little bit, but it wasn’t awful, so I stayed where I was. The third stroke, though… that hurt. A lot. I automatically straightened up, still leaning over with my hands on the desk but not properly bent over anymore. That was more like how I’d thought it would feel. It was almost more cruel to wait like that, to give two light strokes and a false sense of security, than it would have been had Abel given the strokes that hard from the beginning. I was going to stand up, then. Say that it hurt, and I was scared, and I’d had enough caning for the moment thank-you-very-much, I needed a break. Only, I knew that if I did stand up and say that, nothing - even Abel - would persuade me to bend back over anytime soon. Possibly ever.

And even though it did hurt, and I was scared, I didn’t really want to stop. I wanted it to be over, but I wanted it to be over because all six were done and finished, not because we’d got halfway through and had to give up because I couldn’t take it. So I un-straightened for the last three strokes, and watched the cane, and wondered why on earth Abel thought I could do this.

And then it was over, and I was relieved, and I was glad I hadn’t stopped halfway. Even bent over the desk waiting for Abel to begin, I never thought I could ever get through six strokes of the cane. I’d only ever had one before: bent over the end of Abel and Haron’s sofa a few weeks ago, with Haron holding my hands and Abel tapping me with the cane, before asking very nicely if I was capable of dealing with one proper stroke without getting hysterical and disturbing the neighbours’ Sunday morning (that’s not what he actually said, though, because he’s not mean enough to make fun of girls who are afraid). But I’d had six, now. It hurt, but it wasn’t that bad, and it was frightening, but nothing bad had really happened.

I’m still horribly, horribly afraid of the cane, but I’m a little less afraid of it than I was before. I don’t think I’ll ever actually want to be caned, or enjoy it; if Abel said he was never going to cane me again, that would be okay. But I am glad I was caned, and I’m especially glad - and immensely grateful - that Abel was the one who caned me. And I think that, if he said he was going to cane me again, then that would probably be okay too.