I’m still figuring out whether I can balance work and my mental health while maintaining my blogging schedule. However, if I had posted this “on time” (according to my meticulous calendar that ensures I get round to writing all the filth) it would be a very different piece of erotica. This one is inspired by an impact play scene I did where I surprised myself by actually asking the sadist caning me for more horrible, stingy cane strokes.
Being told to spread my legs and present myself for her inspection is even worse than when she forces me to do so. When she holds me open I can fight and struggle against her, and when she uses restraints to display me spread wide I can pull against them. There is safety in pretending that I don’t want this – the vulnerability and shame. Which is, of course, why she loves to make me admit that I want it.
It takes a lot more self-discipline to spread my legs wide while she investigates how wet I am in anticipation of how much she’s going to hurt me. My face burns and my feet don’t touch the ground, and my nakedness contrasts with her jeans and bra. I feel way to exposed, which is exactly what she wants. Especially because I was foolish enough to ask for this, to ask for a caning.
I desperately want to be caned, but having to acknowledge that is hard. It becomes part of the mind-fuck: her forcing me to remember with every movement that I asked for this. Which I did, even if I’m having a hard time remembering why as I hook my hands behind my knees and spread myself as she runs a finger up between my labia and scolds me for squirming.
“If you can’t stay still while I’m inspecting you, perhaps you should stay like this for your caning. How does that sound, slut? Holding yourself open like this while I lay searing stripes on your sweet little arse? I could watch your cute wee asshole clench prettily – it always gives away that you’re in pain, no matter how stoic you’re attempting to be.”
I try not to pout, but her smirk suggests she knows exactly what the words did to me. She runs a finger around my asshole, and I fight not to react.
“Tell me that you want this.”
“I want this, sir.”
“What do you want, slut?”
I curse myself – again – for asking her for a caning, for putting me in this situation. I wish I could control
“I want you to bend me over and cane me, sir. Please.”
“It’s tempting to keep you like this, just because you’ll really hate it. But since you asked so nicely… stand up and bend over for me, slut.”
I scramble into position, feeling extremely undignified in exactly the way I’m sure she intended, and brace myself against the desk. She makes me wait for
“Ready for me to take you apart?”
“I think you mean fuck you sir.”
Even bent over the desk, I know that she’s grinning. I hate her for that, and I would reply with a snarky retort if she wasn’t holding an especially evil cane. She taps it gently against my arse, lining up for her first stroke.
I choke on the cry that escapes me at the first hit, because it’s directly followed by a second one. Too fast, too much – the pain is sharp and burning. She barely gives me a chance to breathe before the cane comes down again – and again and again and again.
She hurts me, just like I asked her to, and what’s worse is that she reminds me that I asked her for this. My arse stings and my cunt drips, and I do my best to staying bent over the desk and not curling up into a ball.
“Are you enjoying this, slut?”
I shake my head; still struggling to breathe, struggling not to cry.
“Then why are you wet, little bitch?”
She teases my cunt for a second, and then her hand is on the small of my back. She pushes me into the desk and gives me a few breathes to recenter before she continues caning me. She keeps her hand there, and that pressure finally gives me something to surrender to. After that the pain is still almost unbearable, but it’s a little easier to open myself to it. I don’t realise I’m crying until the caning has stopped and she’s gently tugging me upwards.
“Anything else you want to ask for, slut?”
“Slap my face before you kiss me, please.”
She does, and bites my lip as my cheek smarts. She pushes me against the desk while she kisses me, so the hard wood presses against the cane strokes. The pain makes it easier to yield to her kiss.
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Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.