They go to a caning workshop, sit on the comfortable couch, touching gently, watching the woman in leather deftly wield the instruments, listening intently to her explanations as she demonstrates her craft.
She strokes his puppy head, he shifts closer to touch more of her, she leans into him now and then to whisper about what they are seeing. She had never been so interested in canes, she is not a sadist (she sees him smile at that, a soft, amused ‘yes Ma’am’ wanting to trip off his tongue, she shushes him and continues…), she is not a sadist, so has never been so much interested in the hardness, the unforgiving nature of canes. This one, though, this boy, has some depth of masochism that she hasn’t seen before, she doesn’t attract the masochistic boys, but she has one now and she wants to see where she can take him. She watches, and learns.
Later, she has him tied over a bench, bent over, naked and exposed. She touches him gently, he quivers, he is afraid. She leans down to kiss him and she can feel him drawing comfort from her, sucking her courage into him. She strokes his body down, like he is a wild thing that needs calming, then steps back, hefting the cane, getting used to its weight, its length.
She starts softly on his arse, judging the distance, the angle of the strikes, watching the slight marks appear. He lifts up to her, offering himself, it makes her smile. The flick is enough to see a reaction, she holds it lightly, gaining confidence, taking her time, they have all the time in the world.
The rhythm comes easily, she finds her stride. Steady at first, she changes it up, faster, then slow, a few hard strikes in a row, the sound cuts into the room, harsh and sharp. She checks the marks, she whispers to him, she kisses him, he starts to lose focus.
“Are you paying attention, boy?” she asks.
“Yes Ma’am”, he murmurs. “While I can still kiss you I am ok Ma’am.”
She laughs and continues.
Some time later, his arse is a mess, his thighs, his calves show the marks of her enthusiasm also. He squirms away from her strikes, his knees bending sideways as he tries to escape the next hit, he is silent, his face is resting against the bench, a puddle of spit is flowing away from his mouth, when she leans down to him, his unseeing eyes barely register her presence, when she closes in for a kiss he no longer reaches for her. He is high on the pain, he has drifted away from her, he is floating, he has had enough.
She looks at his arse, it is darkly purple-bruised, pulpy, like ripe fruit, she touches it with her fingertips and he moans, she can feel the blood right under the skin, a few more strikes and she would break through to blood-splatter.
She unties him, he gazes at her, surrender and hope, he can barely move, she helps him up and leads him to the bed.
“I’m not done with you yet, boy,” she whispers.
He nods, “Yes Ma’am, I’m glad.”