It’s 3 a.m. We’ve just climbed the stairs to bed after a night out, in which we’d had drinks and talked to people, but not played. I was too cold, and even when we got home, asked if we could just build a fire and cuddle on the couch until I got warmed up. I ended up falling asleep in his lap.
“Get me a cane from the cane bag,” he says now. I had taken note that he had had me bring the cane bag up to the bedroom, something he seldom does. But it was 3 a.m. I looked askance at him. “The skinny white plastic one,” he said.
I hunt through the cane bag, a little shiver going through me. I know the cane he’s talking about: thin, hard plastic. Short but severe. I bring it back to the bed where he is laying on his back, watching me, a gleam in his eye.
“Yeah,” he says, “that’s it.”
He instructs me to lay next to him, face down. I do as he bids, anticipation and a little bit of fear running through me. Also: his daughter’s bedroom is just across the hall. We don’t usually play in the bedroom for that exact reason. Can I keep quiet?
I find out soon enough. (The answer: the pillow helps.) He starts slowly: tap tap tap. Up and down my buttocks and thighs, over my calves, up on my back. Building up the intensity, slowly but inexorably.
Just when I think I won’t be able to tolerate anymore without getting loud, he turns me over on my back. Tap tap tap on my upper thighs, inner thighs, belly and breasts. Harder, but slowly, keeping the pace measured. I am breathing through it, then gasping, beginning to writhe a bit as the pain-that-masquerades-as-pleasure pulls its tricks on my body.
Then he is turning me over again. Spreading my legs. I feel his cock, hard and insistent. Hurting me, hearing me gasp and struggle to contain my yelps, makes him hard. It makes me wet. He pushes himself into me. He starts to fuck me, slowly at first, pausing every so often to tap tap tap me with the cane. One side, then the other, my thighs almost beneath him, my ass thrust up at him. He plays this game well – he should, he made it up: thrust, slide, push into me, feel me starting to rock to his rhythm, stop and slap me with the cane. Begin the process all over again. I am moaning and yelping into the pillow, panting.
And then: “Ask for it,” he says in my ear.
“Wha–?”I am momentarily confused. Ask for what?
“Ask me to hurt you,” he says. He is holding himself still now, his cock just at the entrance of my cunt. I can feel his arm raised with the cane. Ready to strike.
I want him to fuck me. And I want him to hurt me. I long for it. But I don’t want to ask for it.
“Please,” I say. But even as I say it I know it won’t be enough.
“Please what?” he says.
“Please…” I swallow. “Please hurt me? Sir?” My voice is a whisper, barely audible.
“What? I can’t hear you.”
I push back against him, open my thighs further. He withdraws further, letting me know the consequences. “Say it,” he says.
“Please,” I beg, “please fuck me. Please hurt me!”
He gives a soft bark of laughter. He knew I’d give in. He knows me too well.
He snaps the cane across my ass and shoves into me all at once.
“Again!” he says. And, “Say it again!”
And I do. I beg him to hurt me, and he does. It is ridiculously hot and humiliating all at once, being made to ask for it. And then finally, finally, the rhythm is there and I am panting and cresting that wave of pain and pleasure and the next time I ask him it is to come, “please may I come Sir, please, please…” He says yes and I do and moments later I feel him begin to shudder, his own breath coming short and fast, and I ask him for that, too. “Come inside me,” I say, “please…”
And he does.