NSFW, caning, established relationship

This Hurts Me More

Don’t move or this could hurt you.

That’s funny. It’s a cane. It’s going to hurt no matter what I do, but I know what he means so I relax, waiting, waiting…

Searing pain, clawing into my flesh, hungry for blood.

The first stroke’s the worst.

Breathe, in, out, that’s it. Good boy.

I know what’s coming now, the pale memory of other canings lost in a vivid wash of now, here, this.

A fresh stroke, angled to reach untouched skin.

The agony bleeds from the new stroke to the first, a steady beat of pounding blood filling my ears.

The second stroke’s the worst.

Then the third, then the fourth, the fifth, all worse, all of them, until I’m sobbing, squeezing my hands into fists, curling my toes. I’m bound, wrists and ankles, but holding still beyond the split second of receiving the stroke is impossible.

He murmurs praise, encouragement. This isn’t for punishment, but pleasure, his pleasure, and as much as I hate a caning, I love giving him joy at any cost.

The final stroke lands, finding nothing but bruised, swollen flesh, and I scream, sobbing out his name.

It’s over.

The last stroke’s the worst.

Why?

Because it’s over.

I’m not the focus of his attention, the source of his pleasure. I’m a hurt sub in need of care, a duty.

And so I beg for another, please, Sir, one more, and he chuckles, indulgent, happy, and gives it to me.

Does it hurt?

It’s a cane on raw, welted flesh, wielded by a strong arm.

Hurts like fuck.