by Frost, E J
I use the cane to tap the outside of each thigh until she brings her knees together and gives me a perfect target. Switching the cane to my right hand, I warm her up with flat-palmed slaps across the tops of her legs. She presses her thighs together with each slap; this is more pleasure than pain for her, little masochist. She trembles as a I pepper her thighs with slaps and makes a keening whimper. Is she coming?
“If you come without permission, I guarantee you will not be able to sit down for the rest of the cruise, Miss Martin,” I growl in her ear.
“Yes, sir.”
“Do not test me, Miss Martin,” I say, because I like hearing her respond. It keeps communication flowing during the warmup. Once I begin caning her, we’ll get to more serious subjects.
“No, sir, I won’t.” She whimpers, a sweet little sound of submission.
Once the tops of her thighs are blushing pink, I switch the cane back to my left hand. I’m going to use a shortened version of a Cavalry Cut swing, which will bring the cane down perfectly flat across her thighs. I don’t want the cane to bend at all. A bent cane leaves stippling bruises on the far side of the target that take a bizarrely long time to heal. I prefer straight, parallel cuts, which, on her thighs, will be exquisitely painful, without leaving deep-tissue damage.
Given how reactive she was to the tawse, I can’t wait to see how Emily handles the cane.
“I’m going to use the cane now, Miss Martin. You will count each stroke and thank me afterwards.”
“Yes, sir,” she says, her voice throaty but strong. She’s enjoying herself so far.
I tap the cane across her thighs three times, letting her get used to the feeling of the wood on her skin, building the anticipation. Then I lift my arm over my head, rotating my shoulder as I bring my arm down. I let the energy flow through my wrist and slap the cane across the tops of her thighs with a whistle and pop like a gunshot.
Several of the onlookers flinch at the sound. Not Emily. She squeezes her thighs together and takes several fast, huffing breaths, working through the pain, before she says, “One, thank you, sir.”
“Good girl.” Now she’s earned it. I give her three taps, watching her thighs clench, before the next cut.
“Oof,” she huffs out at the stroke, breathing hard, her ribs heaving. “Two, thank you, sir.”
She deals with each stroke the same way, panting through the pain. Sweat beads on her skin and glimmers under the room’s lights. Her head tips forward as she pants, but she doesn’t shake her head or try to deny me. I work carefully down her thighs, laying out parallel, evenly-spaced cuts that flush deep pink, deepening to red in the minute after the strike. I catch a blood vessel on the seventh stroke and watch redness flare under her skin like a firework. Spacing the eighth stroke further down her thigh, I’m pleased when nothing blooms.
“I’m very proud of you taking your punishment, Miss Martin,” I tell her after she thanks me for the eighth stroke. “But I’m still disappointed with your propensity for lying. Why did you feel the need to lie to me?”
I know why she lied to me about her name when we first met. We’ve been over it, she accepted her punishment, and I’ve forgiven her, but this is an opportunity to reinforce the lesson. Lying will not be tolerated. I let Mir get away with lying and look where that led. Emily will be honest with me, always, about everything, no matter how uncomfortable the subject.
“I was afraid, sir,” she says in a small voice, no longer luxuriating in the pain she likes, although I can smell how much the caning is exciting her. Little masochist. Even the antiseptic smell of cleaner is drowned under her musky, gingerbread scent.
“You were afraid of the consequences if you admitted the truth,” I say as I give her three firm taps with the cane in advance of the next cut.
“Yes, sir,” she whimpers.
I bring the cane up, flick my wrist to make it swish in the air, then bring it down with a whistle and pop. Emily cries out at the cut, the pain overwhelming her for a moment. She pants through the burn.
“Nine, thank you, sir,” she whispers, the tears she hasn’t shed yet thickening her voice.
“Good girl. One more in this position,” I say, tapping her with the cane. “Do you understand now that the consequences of lying are so much worse than admitting the truth?”
“Yes, sir, I understand that. I won’t ever lie to you again.”
“That’s right, you won’t.” I bring the cane down for the final cut, same strength as the others. I don’t want to break another blood vessel with this last stroke.
“Ah-ah-ah,” she cries. Dropping her chin to her chest, sagging against me, she pants, “Ten, thu-thu-thank you, sir. Thank you so much.”
“Well done, Miss Martin. I’m very proud of you. I want you to relax for a minute and then we’re going to move so you’re kneeling on the bench.”
“Yes, sir.”
When her breathing has slowed, I lift her off my chest and help her kneel on the bench, then guide her down until she’s on all fours.
“Brace yourself, Miss Martin. I’m not going to restrain you, but I expect you to hold the position no matter what I do. I’ll be very disappointed if you move.”
She nods. “Yes, sir.”
I let her arrange herself on the bench, going down onto her forearms, with her bound hands in front of her, arching her back, hardening her leg muscles. I tap her thighs with the cane until she gives me the flat target I want, then begin warming up her skin with flat-palmed slaps.
“Let’s return to the topic of lying, Miss Martin. Other than the fearful consequences, why is it important that you be honest with me?”
She lets her head hang. “Lying’s bad, sir.”
“True, but not a particularly thoughtful answer, Miss Martin.” I tap her with the cane to prepare her for the cut. “I’ll let you think about that a bit more. Remember to count and thank me.”
“Yes, sir.” Her muscles tighten in anticipation of the blow. I build her anticipation by whipping the cane through the air so it sings, before I slap it against the backs of her thighs.
“Ah-ah!” Emily cries out, then pants. Her legs shake, but she holds her position gamely.
I reward her by running my free hand up and down her back, over her hips, while I watch the pink stripe darken to deep red. No fireworks and no purple hotspots. A good cut. Her skin hums under my hand, and I’m not sure if the sizzle is coming from her, or me, or the connection between us.
“Miss Martin?” I prompt, when she doesn’t count or thank me. I’ll add to her tally for that.
“One, thank you, sir,” she breathes.
I lean over to check her. I can’t see her eyes because of the blindfold, but her cheeks have cooled from their earlier fiery red to a rose-pink and the muscles of her face are slack. She’s soaring into subspace. Beautiful.
Her rise boosts me, too. I hear the heavy thud of my heartbeat in my ears. Feel the electric fission run over my skin. Every movement of hers, the slide of her ribs under her skin as she breathes, the brush of her ponytail against the bench, is amplified as I rise into topspace. I block out the small sounds of our audience to focus entirely on my bottom, her pain and her pleasure. I wouldn’t need that cape to fly right now, but I can hear it snapping.
I give her three taps with the cane to let her know the next strike is coming. “Have you thought of a better answer than ‘lying is bad’?”
“Lying makes you not trust me, sir,” she says softly.
“Yes.” I pause after the stroke, wait while she pants and counts and thanks me. “Are we a team, Miss Martin?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s right. Can team-mates trust each other if they lie?”
“No, sir.” Her voice has risen to that girlish pitch. Interesting, her little comes out when she’s in subspace.
“Each team member needs to rely on the other, Miss Martin. Can they rely on each other if one of them is lying?” I give her the three warm-up taps.
“N
o, sir.”
I slap the cane against the backs of her thighs and hear the wood crack above the pop of the impact.
She grunts and pants, but holds her position, shaking all over, fresh sweat sheening her skin, her toes curling against the bench.
I rub her ass and hip while I reach under the bench to change canes.
“Three, thank you, sir.”
I test the cane, slicing it through the air a few times, then give her the three warning taps before another hard blow.
She lets out a gasp and her body shakes, but she doesn’t scream, which tells me she’s fully in subspace.
“Breathe, Miss Martin.”
She does, panting softly. “Four, thank you, sir.”
“Three strokes fast now, Miss Martin, to make sure you understand the point about lying.”
“Yes, sir,” she whispers.
I give her three taps, then a blow and as soon as she thanks me, the next blow and then the next, so the pain doesn’t fade between strokes. She screams on the last stroke of the set, but it’s a very happy sound of release rather than agony. I nearly come myself at the sound.
“Seven, thank you, sir. Thank you so much,” she pants.
“Good girl, Miss Martin. Three more fast and then you’ll take two additional strokes for me for not thanking me until I reminded you, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
I’m pretty sure she’d agree to anything at this point, which is the danger of subspace. Without any conscious control, with none of her usual emotional defenses, she’s vulnerable to both interrogation and suggestion in subspace. Just as she would be in a full trance. If we’re working through an issue, that can be useful, but otherwise I think it’s unethical to use the vulnerability of deep subspace against a submissive, and I try my damndest to be an ethical top. I’ll give Emily the two additional cuts she’s earned, but nothing more, and I won’t ask any questions now, when she could spill much more than she wants anyone to know.
I give her the next three quickly, still tapping between each hard blow to pace out the strokes and give her a chance to recover. I’m careful to space the cuts down her thighs and watch for fireworks or spots that darken too fast. She whimpers but her breathing stays deep and even.
“Last two, Miss Martin.”
“Yes, please, sir. Thank you, sir,” she says, soft and breathy.
“Good girl.”
I up the intensity of the last two strokes, making the warm-up taps harder, hitting her right in the “sit spot” at the top of her thighs. Each blow takes her breath away. Tears soak her blindfold, but she barely makes a sound, and her body remains locked in position, swaying just a little as she absorbs each impact. Her feet quiver against the bench as I finish and rub my hands over the bright red welts.
“That’s twenty-two, Miss Martin. I think you’ve learned your lesson about lying, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
The heat inside me expands and soars. I really could fly at this moment. My wonderful girl.
I rub my hands up and down her back, gentling her while she endures the fading burn of the cuts. Moving a step to her head, I wipe tears from her cheeks as I speak gently to her. “When you’re ready, Miss Martin, you will lower yourself until your cheek is against the bench. Stay on your knees, ass up high.”
“Yes, Daddy,” she murmurs. It takes her a moment to relax her muscles and I help her, rubbing her shoulders and upper back, until she can press her cheek against the bench.
“Now let’s talk about why you came in here in the first place, Miss Martin. You know it’s off-limits.”
“I just wanted to see you in the shower,” she says dreamily.
“But you didn’t get your wish, did you, Miss Martin, since you ended up blindfolded. Why did you want to see your coach naked?”
“Everyone talks about you,” she responds. “Please, can I see you? I want to so much.”
“You want to see me so much?”
“I want you so much.” Her voice drops, a husky whisper. “Please, Daddy, so much.”
“That’s very naughty, Miss Martin. But since you’ve taken your punishment well, I’m inclined to reward you.” I untie the blindfold and slip it off her, cup her cheek, and tell her to count to ten before she opens her eyes, so her pupils have a chance to contract after being covered for so long. On one, she blinks glazed eyes and looks up at me. “Take a look, Miss Martin, and then I’m going to take what this naughty little girl is offering me. You will not get to watch, because you’re going to close your eyes and focus on what I’m making you feel. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Daddy.” She blinks again and licks her lips. “Yes, sir.”
I can see she’s coming up from subspace and trying to get her head back into the scene. “I think we’ll stick with Daddy, Miss Martin. Take one look and then Daddy is going to fuck his girl very hard.”
She lifts her head. Her eyes flick over me greedily, gleaming green in the changing room’s lights. She smiles like my nieces on Christmas morning, then sinks back down onto the bench, squeezing her eyes closed. “You’re beautiful. Thank you so much.”
I chuckle to myself. Little subbie with rose-colored glasses. I kiss the back of her head, on the strip of pale scalp where her hair parts. She murmurs and wiggles her ass invitingly. I give one round cheek a tap with my palm, then move around behind her and mount up.
It’s a fast fuck. A reward for her for submitting so well. A relief from the excitement that’s soaked her thighs and turned my cock to stone. She’s so close that it only takes a few strokes before she’s begging to come, my good girl who remembers the rules even now, when her brain must be mush from all the sensations. It’s a few more strokes to push her over, convulsing under me while I grip her hips to keep her in position, ramming into her as I feel her squeeze hard around my cock. She makes mewling noises as she comes, which elicit chuckles from the crowd, reminding me of our audience for the first time since I hit topspace. Then the pleasure of Emily’s slick, clutching cunt drives out every other sensation. As I pound her, chasing my own orgasm, Emily settles deeper onto her forearms, tipping her ass up to let me fuck her as hard as I want.
I feel the boiling in my balls, the tightening of every muscle. As my pleasure reaches a fever pitch, I slide my hand around and pinch her clit. I keep the pressure on until Emily begins to buck under me, her back pummeling my chest as I lean over her. I let go and listen to her howl out another orgasm, her raw screams tearing the humid air.
I slam my hand on the bench next to hers to support myself as I give over to my own release. Bright shocks of pleasure pour through me, followed by a drawn-out spasm as my body empties into hers. Behind my closed eyes, red fireworks, like the broken blood vessel in Emily’s thigh, flare and fade. I shudder into stillness over her, my cock still pulsing with each heartbeat, caught and held deep in her cunt. Her small hand slides over the bench and curls around mine. Seeking connection, my sweet girl. I pull her up, back tight to my chest, hard against my heart.
When I can speak, I murmur to her, “I have you, Emily. I have you. You’re such a good girl.”
“Daddy,” she whispers.
“Relax now, my wonderful baby. Belly down to the bench.” I lower her, pulling out of her perfect sheath as I do. She collapses onto the bench, her legs sliding between mine. I help her curl onto her side on the wide bench. When I’m sure she’s in a safe position, I clean us both up. Once I’ve got everything put away and my gym shorts back on, I unbind her wrists, wrap her in her blue blanket, and sit on the bench with her in my lap.
Niall straddles the bench beside me. Although I’m generally fine with nudity, I’m glad he’s put on shorts so I’m not staring straight at his meat and two veg.
“Anything yeh need meh to do?” he asks.
“There’s tea tree oil in a brown bottle in my bag, if you could get that out?”
“No problem.” He rummages in the bag beneath the bench and hands me the bottle. I hold
Emily in one arm, her head against my shoulder, while I shake a few drops of the oil over her thighs and rub it in.
“Smelly,” Emily murmurs, rubbing her cheek against my shoulder.
“Yes, little girl, but it’ll keep any cuts from becoming infected.”
“Better than arnica?” the scene monitor, Paul, asks from where he’s standing a few feet away.
“It’s not safe to apply arnica to broken skin. Tea tree oil has stronger antibacterial properties,” I explain. “If Emily develops any deep bruises, I’ll apply T-Relief to them tonight, as long as her skin’s closed.”
Paul nods.
“Logan, what’s the stroke you were using?” a brunette wearing peacock-patterned short-shorts and a matching corset asks.
“It’s called a Cavalry Cut.” After I finish rubbing the tea tree oil into Emily’s thighs, I retrieve a cane and demonstrate the swing. “The cane lands flat, which minimizes soft tissue damage. It rarely wraps even a smaller surface like a thigh. Since most of the motion’s over the head, it doesn’t require a lot of space for the swing. I could do it while holding Emily in that chair position, without worrying about hitting anyone else. But there’s a lot of kinetic energy imparted even in the flat strike. I wouldn’t use it on a bottom who can only take mild pain. Emmy, on a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the pain of the cuts on the back of your legs?”
She blinks up at me as she considers. “Like seven point five.”
“How would you compare it to my whippy paddle?”
“Belphegor?” She giggles and one of the older women in the lingering crowd snorts. I’m really not going to like what I find when I Google this name, I can tell. “Belphegor’s a five in comparison to the cane. It’s a sharp sting and a deeper ache, but nothing like the cane. That feels like a knife cut.”
“Well said, sweetheart,” I praise her and cuddle her close.
“You did a great job of holding still, Emily,” the older woman who laughed at my paddle’s name says. “Did you consider restraining her, Logan?”
