Sorry it's been so long! I'm still here. Here's something to make up for it. And yes, I really did dream this last night. I'd go hunting for a picture to post with it, but honestly, I actually just turned myself on enough in writing this that I've got to go...
I've missed you all. Hope everyone on this fabulous spanko planet is well.
I dreamed last night that you caned me in front of your father.
It wasn't your father as we know him, in body or in spirit, but a mustached athletic man always wearing track suits. He constantly created competition, whether it was playing chicken by driving on the wrong side of the road with me in the car or racing me up a long flight of steps, even when he knew he was in better health and had given himself a head start. He was known for womanizing and for as long as I'd known him, he'd had a different girl on his arm each time we saw him. All this I intuitively knew at the beginning of the dream.
When, in the dream, you told me we had to move in with him, I fought it by drinking rum and cokes and adopting puppies. My tactics were not successful. As we moved in, we learned that your father had finally found himself a steady girlfriend, a woman my age who would be living in the house with us as well.
Our living quarters were cramped. We were hesitant to have sex, nevermind to play as we were used to playing. Everytime you passed by me, you'd whisper that you wanted to spank me, or strap me, or cane me. You never had the chance.
Your father found me a job at the marina where he rented speed boats at outrageous costs to tourists. I wasn't quite clear on what I was supposed to do, but it allowed us time to chat, and it became apparent that he was growing to like me. Up until then, it was a known fact that he thought I was a tight-ass in all the wrong ways.
At home that night, as the four of us fought for room in the cramped kitchen, he asked me how many vibrators I owned. I told him only one, though I later remembered that I had three, I just didn't use the other two very often. He laughed and told me that his girlfriend had twenty and that she ought to give me lessons or loan me a few. I was embarrassed by the conversation; my face burned and I couldn't speak. You saw my discomfort and, at risk of your father's disapproval, told him of the toys we did own.
His jaw actually gaped. He kept looking at me like he'd never seen me before, and I suppose he hadn't. "And she likes this?" he asked you. "I can see what you'd get out of it, but why would she like something like that?" He looked to the girlfriend, who shrugged. She certainly wasn't interested in our kinds of toys or our kind of play. She was happy with battery-powered silicone. I laughed a little to myself. Some days, I couldn't blame her.
Your pride, I could tell, was a little bit wounded, as was your honor, I suspected. The last thing you wanted was for your dad to think you abused your wife, or took advantage of her. You pictured the news getting to your mom, and then your grandmother, and soon the entire family would look at us askance on holidays. It all flashed across your face too quickly for me to stop you. "Why don't we show you?" you said.
The girlfriend shook her head. She'd finish making dinner. The rest of us shuffled tentatively into the bedroom.
"Strip," you said. Your father looked towards me expectantly.
"Seriously?" I asked. "That's not usually how we start. If you want to show him what we do, then shouldn't I at least begin on my knees?"
Your dad snorted a bit, holding back a laugh. "I said strip," you demanded.
I rolled my eyes. "Okay, yessir." Oh, this was going to be a disaster.
I took my clothes off uncermoniously, not even bothering to fold them as each item was removed and tossed onto the floor. You were aware enough of your father's presence to not request tidiness. After all, you were trying to prove that I was into this as much as you, not that I am your housecleaning sex slave.
For some reason, we had a small dinette set in our bedroom. You told me to bend over the table and touch the edge on the other side. I did so, and spread my legs without instruction. I got up on tiptoe to fully grasp the table, as much to keep me in place for show as to give me something to squeeze when the pain came.
As I got into position, you had gone into the closet and brought out the crook-handled set we ordered from the UK two Christmases ago, the Nusery-Junior-Senior set. You showed them to your father. "Can you guess which one she prefers?" you asked.
He pointed to the nursery cane, the thin whippy rattan that stung like a row of vipers biting my ass. You laughed and shook your head, holding up the senior cane instead. I called out, "I thought the same thing, before I'd felt them. But that little thing makes me cry in two strokes. It's like plucking pubic hair with dull tweezers. Not worth the trouble or the watering eyes."
You walked up to me and ran the senior cane across my bare backside, marking the spot you would strike first. "You like this one, don't you? You like when I cane you like this?"
You pulled back and swung quickly, your aim exact, the pain a blossom of purple as I gripped the table as tightly as I could and squeezed my eyes shut against the shock. I knew better than to scream; I didn't want to frighten anyone. Still, I think my gasp was not as loud as your father's, who had not expected the sudden violence or the pulsing welt that appeared instantaneously across my otherwise unmarked skin.
"Well?" you said.
Your father tried to answer, but could only say, "Umm." I tried to reassure him. "He doesn't mean you. I'm meant to count the strokes. Failing to do so or losing track earns me more. One, Sir."
You touched me with the cane just above your last mark, tapping a few times before the second blow came. I cried out with my mouth closed, a distorted groan that vibrated in the sides of my cheeks. I saw my knuckles briefly go white before I reminded myself to relax my grip. "Two, Sir."
When you struck a third time, a stroke more vicious than the last two, the kind you would have normally reserved for a well-warmed bottom, I couldn't hold the scream back. My knees buckled slightly, my head spun for a moment. I sputtered out a mumbled, "Three, Sir," and was ashamed that I was falling apart so quickly in front of an audience.
I straightened myself then arched my back, spreading my legs just a little bit wider, the way I know you like them. You raised your arm high and I clenched my buttocks just as I knew I shouldn't. If the last stroke was hard, I wondered if I could stand anything harder than that. I wondered if, in your quest to show off, you would draw blood. You swung quickly but slowed at the last moment, the difference too subtle for someone new to watching this to notice. The welt blossomed just as brightly, but I held myself together. "Four, Sir. Thank you, Sir." I hoped you knew why I was grateful.
You offered your father the cane for stroke five. It was brave of you, and it was only your trust in me not to refuse that enabled me to accept the offer willingly. Out of curiousity, he took it. "Touch her here," you told him, showing him how to saw the cane across the intended landing spot. He pulled the cane back and forth, back and forth, and knowing he was afraid to swing the cane, I allowed myself the small pleasure of the rattan stroking my backside, the sweet anticipation of what was to come. I was already thinking not of the next cane stroke but of the moment we could make your father leave the room, when you would plow into me without regard to my welts, would, in fact, scratch them and grip them with your nails as you thrust into me from behind, would make me cry out in confusion as to whether you were wounding me or making me come.
When the fifth stroke came, I realized he'd given the cane back to you and you'd landed one of your glancing blows, the strike and slide that raised the thickest and brightest welt. My cry this time was not the scream of surprised pain that had been released at strike three. It was the sobbing moan of a woman who knows her punishment isn't nearly over. It was pain and acceptance and resolution to bear the pain as best I could. Tears finally dripped quickly from the corners of my eyes down the arch of my nose and onto the table.
My sobs alarmed your father. "You see? She doesn't like this. She's crying, son. She doesn't want you to do this to her anymore."
With the ease of a man who has done so many times before, you stuck the cane between my legs, tapping the insides of my thighs until I was spread as wide as possible. Then you flicked the tip of the cane up to lick, to my embarrassment, the slick engorged lips of my vulva. You wiggled the cane back and forth, playfully threatening to slip inside my clearly wide open pussy. "How many was that, love?"
I moaned, and this time pain had nothing to do with it. "Five, Sir. Five."
You pulled the cane back slowly. I knew a web of wetness had clung to it, could feel it pulling away even after it was no longer touching my flesh. "Dear God," I heard your father whisper. I knew what he meant. The first time I'd been caned, which was the same as the first time I'd been caned by you, I'd had no idea what I was in for. The marks. The agony. The arousal so intense it bordered absurdity. When you caned me, no matter how hard I cried, no matter how scarred I was for days or weeks, I could only think of fucking you.
I resumed position. You saw my resolve, my desire to impress you and our audience of one. You tapped across my backside, five stripes already raised and stinging in scarlet relief against the full-fleshed ivory landscape. "Are you ready?" you asked, and the question wasn't for show. You wanted to know if I was ready to take a stroke that you would have given me as stroke twenty-three or twenty-four, after a full session of spanking, strapping, leather paddling, and only finally caning after my flesh was reddened and toughened, ready to take the strokes that could cut, that could leave me standing for days.
I nodded. I didn't trust my voice and I didn't want to ruin the moment. If we were going to do this, we were going to do it right, do it fully. We were going to send your father and his girlfriend out of the house with just my scream of agony and pleasure. And then we were going to fuck, whether I was weeping or not, and I was going to come so hard that you'd be hard-pressed to pull your cock out when you were through. Yes, I was ready.
I stood still for an eternity. Ten seconds, a minute, I had no idea. I don't think any of us were breathing. The tap came and it was high, the highest of the five strokes that had come before. Unsettlingly high - the spot sadists dream about for years before they are willing to risk a girl's flesh beneath their chosen implement. Even you, in all our play, had never caned me so close to the top of my bottom before, so near the spot where flesh becomes bone. After the tapping came the rubbing, the marking, the aiming. I stood as still as I could, terrified to breath, to tremble, to allow the tear quivering in the corner of my eye to fall.
I saw nothing but white light. Sound and time stopped. White, breath, white, breath. When crimson tinged the border of the white light, I knew I was alive. I was crying hard; I hadn't realized. My sobs wracked me forwards and back and your arms were around me, your cheek on my back, your lips pressed to my spine. I had never felt such pain. You had released me. You made me fly.
Your father's voice brought me back to the moment. "She didn't count six," he said.
"She didn't need to," you answered, but I was already laughing, sobbing and laughing, wondering what this could have looked like to a witness, even after being present for his first lesson in the pleasure of pain.
Despite the throbbing and my craving for aftercare, Advil, and a glass of wine, I allowed my hand to reach between my thighs, my middle and index finger to slide inside me. I looked over my shoulder at the third party in our scene. "You need to leave now," I whispered, my throat surprisingly hoarse from only six strokes.
He nodded, gulping, his hands over the erection in his track pants that he hoped I hadn't seen. You ran your hands through my hair. "Can I be inside you?" you asked, your throat as raspy as mine in your arousal.
"Just a few more," I whispered. "Please?" You reached for the cane, stroking the sweet spot where my bottom meets my thigh. You unzipped your jeans, your own erection as hard as I'd ever seen it pressing against the jersey of your boxers. A small wet spot had already appeared on the cotton. I knew the next six cane strokes would be hard and fast as you raced towards being inside me. I couldn't wait. I braced myself.
Well, neither my computer nor I had H1N1, but I thought this was a little funny anyway.
