In a relatively short time, my darling Rafe has accumulated quite the collection for his time with me. It’s certainly been an investment – financially, yes, but also romantically.
First, it was a supple silk scarf graced by a lovely blue and white pattern. He used this to bind me, gently, loosely, when he first began to introduce me to this side of sexuality. It has occasionally served as a blindfold, softly caressing my face as my master pleases and torments me.
Next we acquired the cuffs – wide, soft leather dyed red, a thinner black strap to secure them. We also picked out a simple crop. It was our second visit to our favored shop. On the first, I had been too bashful to speak.
The Japanese clover clamps he picked up one week while I was away and had them waiting for me when I returned.
One day, rather spontaneously, we found the ankle cuffs.
Then another weekend, I arrived to a brand new leash – an elegant but sturdy chain with a leather strap on the end. That night, my master had arranged our collection on the floor of the living room. Then he had me crawl on hands and knees, bringing each item, secured in my teeth, to him in the bedroom, where he adorned his slave, piece by piece. That was a most arousing game – for both of us.
Last weekend, we selected a cane. Rafe enjoys dispensing a good old-fashioned spanking with his hand or belt or wide, flat-bottomed hairbrush (and much as I may protest, so do I). But he deemed it was time for something that might carry more weight as punishment.
We had just left our first instructional event. We stood together by the window of the store. I looked across the street as he tried out the different options with a good thwack across the front of my thigh. The simple unfinished thin dowel was a mere tingle. The thick, sturdy polished wood made me jump and, as evidenced later, bruised me. The thin, translucent plastic rod evoked a stronger reaction, a pronounced sting. He noted the tenor of my response, though admittedly it was hard to miss. He tried one more; I think it was a slender metal rod coated with black rubber. It struck where all the others had. “Shit,” I hissed quietly.
He gazed at me with admonishment. “Comport yourself, young lady,” he reprimanded.
We left the shop with the plastic rod.
When we returned home, my master tried out his new tool. And then I received my proscribed punishment – six strikes of the cane, a stroke for each time I had failed to address him as “sir” while we were in the shop and at the event. The cane did not fall particularly hard. It didn’t need to. The sting was sharp and lasting. I counted the strokes, as is my responsibility during my punishments. But it took more effort to expel some of the numbers and gratitudes, as I had to gain control of my breath and voice. My master ascribes some of my laments during punishments as “crocodile tears”, but my lacrimation that afternoon was very real.
And yet… despite – or, loathe as I may to admit it, perhaps because of – the pain, my caning was incredibly arousing. On some level, I wish I could explain it. On another, I’m rather glad I cannot. I have a strong reaction to that cane. Incredible that something so seemingly flimsy, something so fragile that I could snap it easily if I chose, should command such dread – and excitement.
At this moment, I know the next time I see Rafe I have a session with that cane. See, I was supposed to have this assignment done half an hour ago. But I left work a bit late. I had to prepare and consume dinner. I could have rushed. I could have made the deadline if I had pushed. But I didn’t. And I have a peculiar satisfaction that I didn’t.
– The Elegant Submissive