Mark Me

I can't imagine the punishment it would have to take for my bottom to mark the way it used to after a single spanking. I'm sure it could be done, but I think even Mr. W, lover of all things spanking, would have trouble delivering that level of corporal discipline to me. The strapping that resulted in the above pictures seemed to go on forever, and it was on top of the spanking I'd received the day before. By the end, I was pink. Not red, not scarlet, not crimson. Pink!  By morning, most of the marks were barely even a blush. There were a few tiny bruises on my innermost flesh and the tenderness remained, but the proof of my pain was gone.


That two-day spanking session was last weekend. This past weekend, we didn't have a chance to play until Sunday night, so when Mr. W and I found that we had time to ourselves, I asked for a cold caning. Without any other weekend play, it would truly be without any physical or mental warm-up, but I wanted to test myself and give him a gift of trust, love, and my about-to-be-welted backside, Of course, he agreed.

As I bent over the wooden spanking stool, grasping the lowest rung and spreading my legs just to the width of its legs, he picked three canes from the cabinet - a small, whippy crooked handle cane, a straight cane of medium thickness and severity, and our thickest and heaviest,  a senior cane that is just as suitable for sex scenes as it is for role-playing schoolhouse and reformatory scenarios.

I didn't know how many strokes I was to receive, or even if he planned to use all the canes or was just frightening me with the threat of an extended thrashing. He kept me wondering, tapping me with the smaller cane, aiming, planing his blow, then whipping the air instead of me. When the first stroke landed, I was shocked that it had finally arrived and I unexpectedly screamed. I'd almost begun to think he wasn't actually going to go through with the cold caning, that it was just an elaborate ruse to get my legs spread and backside towards him. I was not to be granted such a reprieve. After briefly rubbing the sting from the first stroke, the cane swished again.

He continued to rub each welt after placing it. It was too early in the session for me to ride the pain or fall into its rhythm. Each stroke was a quick but agonizing blaze hastily extinguished by Mr. W's own firm but gentle hand. After the sixth stroke, he laid the cane aside. "Well done, young lady. Well done."

I had expected at least twelve strokes from each cane, so I allowed myself a sigh of relief. I looked over my shoulder to see him picking up the straight cane. We've been using this one most often for over a year and I'm familiar with its sting. When we have longer sessions, or those where I become the recipient of an amorphous rhapsody of cock and cane, this is the one he reaches for.

My backside was hardly warmed from the first cane, but I know how to take this second one. How to breathe, how to bend my knees the moment after he raises each new stripe, how to pull back into position. I would like to say I took this round of the caning gracefully, but I might be romanticizing. If nothing else, I can say I took this round decently, as he once again assured me after six strokes that I was doing well. "So sexy," he added. He let me stand a moment, kissing me, before bending me back over the stool.

I still wasn't sure of the plan. The first twelve strokes might have been the warm-up and now I had an indeterminate number coming in the form of the heavier senior cane. As it always does, the first stroke knocked the breath out of me. With this cane, there's always a moment when I exhale and I'm not sure if it hurt or not. Then, as I breathe in, it's as if I breathe in pain as well.

He landed another stripe, touching the welt but then letting his fingers wander. "I think you like the heavier thud of this cane," He rubbed deeper between my thighs, spreading wetness in tight little circles pressing into my flesh. "In fact, I think you like being punished a little too much. I think I have a lesson to teach this naughty bottom that will teach you the proper response to a caning."

Removing his fingers, he placed two quick hard blows to my backside. I moaned and clutched the rung I was grasping as hard as I could. "Two more, young lady," he advised. Okay, I told myself. I can do two.

I didn't breathe during the last two strokes. No breath in, no breath out. Just pain. Switching gears, he helped lift me to a standing position. My legs had gone stiff and I was now gasping just a little, tears welling up in my eyes. "You took that beautifully," he told me, wrapping me in his arms. "Why don't you kneel on the bed?"

I was so relieved. I'd taken an eighteen stroke cold caning, my first in so long I can't remember the last one. He rubbed me softly, promises of aftercare and whispers of how sexy the caning had been on his lips. I pressed my face into a comforting pile of blankets, my knees on the edge of the bed, legs spread, welcoming him into me. I turned to look at him, to whisper back, to tell him "Thank you, Sir," to tell him I love him. Instead, I burst into tears. He was picking up the small cane again.

"You didn't think we were done, did you?" he said, the words a little cruel but a genuine smile in his voice.

I frowned and pouted. "I don't knowwww," I cried.

"Can you take a little more? For me? I can't resist this bottom."

I knew I could take more. I'd been feeling vulnerable and tricked, but when he tells me he wants to play just a little bit more, I can never resist. I love the challenge, especially when it's one I know I can meet.

"Just to thirty-seven. Can you make it to thirty-seven?"

I nodded. "Yes, Sir. Is it for my birthday? And for my birthday you'll give me thirty-eight?"

He stroked my hair. "That's right. Now, bottom up. Back arched." He tapped the small of my back with the cane, then the outsides of my thighs. "Legs together just a little. Perfect."

Part of me wanted to beg him to go much harder on this second half of the caning, now that we were going. I wanted not just the sensation or to give myself over to him, but also the marks. Even if nothing else marks, paddles, straps, floggers, or slappers, I expected a cold caning would. But knowing we'd have another night of play, perhaps even two or three in the coming days to celebrate my birthday, he went light on me, and I did not beg.

When I woke up Monday morning, examining myself in the mirror and finding not one remaining welt, I nearly regretted not asking for at least six, if not more, of the best. But we still have tonight. Tomorrow's my birthday, and we have no other plans than to be each other's for the rest of week. One of these nights, my flesh will have no choice but to yield to him. His birthday gift to me will be a shared gift for him - he will mark me.