by Trent Evans
“Which one should it be first, Lacey?”
All she could manage in reply was a strangled whimper. It didn’t matter; his question was rhetorical anyway.
“Do you think you should be caned?” He tapped the rattan up and down her bottom, even over her tender thighs. “Or should I fuck you first?”
She wanted nothing more on this Earth than to feel the delicious deep penetration of his thick cock. Oh, how she craved it. But she took this for what it was — a game. He’d do whatever the fuck he wanted.
And she liked it that way.
“The cane, Sir.” Uttering the words was so difficult; she had to consciously force her lips to form the proper shapes.
“Good idea.” He sounded cheerful, relaxed.
Lacey railed inwardly at the unfairness of it. She didn’t really deserve the bite of the cane, did she? It didn’t matter what she thought she deserved; all that really mattered was what he wanted to give her. She knew he didn’t need a reason, other than it made his cock hard to watch the weals swell and darken into purplish tracks of woe across the vulnerable curves of her bottom.
The wicked rattan pressed against her ass, rather high up onto the upper curves of her buttocks. It was up far enough that the swing would be more down than sideways. She knew even that was absurd — he didn’t need to swing it. A stiff flick of the wrist was all he’d need. A simple, quick movement. Pure, unadulterated pain.
“Are you ready?” His voice was laced with a faux solemnity in its deep tones.
“Yes, Sir.”
No!
The snap was so quick, for a split second she wasn’t sure he’d struck her. Then the sting clawed in, and she yelped at the crescendo of agony across her bottom.
“One,” he intoned, tapping the wicked rod somewhat lower down her clenching bottom.
The pain was intense, even worse than she remembered it had been the last time. Well, she was about to be intimately reacquainted with it.
“Unclench your cheeks, Lacey.”
She tried, she really did, but the muscles of her buttocks balled up with a singing tension. He rubbed the hard length of the cane over her bottom. “Just take a deep breath. Relax now, girl.”
She felt the tension ratchet down a few degrees.
“That’s it, let them hang. I want them loose.”
You can do this, Lacey. Just get it over with.
The second cut laid itself down across the middle of her bottom, the flesh quivering with the blow. She cried out at the sting, worse this time. Oh god, there was no way she could take more of this. It was too much!
“Please, Troy,” she said, her voice breaking. “How many?”
His hand whispered over the scorched curves. “How many would you say would be fair?”
He asked it as if he were bartering for a purchase at a market. Perfectly calm; perfectly callous.
She could feel the juice running down her inner thighs. For the millionth time she was in awe of her twisted, dark urges. Her cunt was gushing in spite of, because of her husband beating her ass mercilessly.
“Six?”
She thought two was quite enough, thank you very much, as the pain of the strokes slowly morphed into the second stage of heavy aching which followed the sting. But she knew Troy would consider two just the opening course. An appetizer.
“How about eight? That seems fair, doesn’t it?” His fingers pressed at one of the swollen tracks, the pain flaring anew.
“Seven?” She didn’t think it was possible to want something less than seven strokes of the cane.
“Nine?”
“Troy!”
“Should we make it ten?”
She shook her head vigorously. “Please, please no. Okay, nine.”
His palm patted her bottom gently. “I thought you’d come around.”
Oh God, no!
The next stroke, much harder, caught her across the widest part of her bottom. She rose up at the fire blazing through her flesh. ‘‘Oh fuck! That huuurts!”
His soft hand rubbed soothing circles on her upper back. “I know it does, girl. Back down now.”
She could feel it swelling by the second, the heaviness of it warring with the sensation of fire burning just under the surface of her skin. She was quite certain it was the hardest stroke he’d ever given her.
Lacey tried to reach back to rub at the latest track, but Troy batted her hands away. “No, you know better than that, Lace. Get your hands back on that bed. Now.”
She obeyed, biting down a snarky reply. Any lip from her would just make the situation worse for her poor, throbbing ass.
“Now, lay back down, girl. I know you can take these. You’ve had six before.”
Only six? That meant…
“Troy, please. I can’t take nine.”
“Yes, you can.” His voice had taken on that warning tone that made her mouth dry up, but she was frantic. She knew she couldn’t do it.
“No, I mean it. You’re killing me. It hurts!”
“Lacey, I want it to hurt.” His big hand stroked down the muscles of her lower back. “And you know what? You want it to hurt too. Don’t you?”
“No, not like this.”
He leaned close to her ear, the menacing rattan laid diagonally across her back. “Do you need to give the word?”
She would be a fucking liar if she said she didn’t want to. She wanted to scream it out. However, as much as she liked him to push her limits, she wanted to push herself too. To take it, rise to the challenge, to prove that she could do it. The coiling lust in her belly at the thought of what she must look like, prostrate before her husband, her big bottom laced with swollen welts was not lost on her either. The thought made her cunt spasm, the moisture trickling anew down her thighs. She knew he could smell her. Hell, she could smell herself!
Lacey buried her face in her arms, and hollowed her back, presenting her ass for more.
The way he’d taught her.
“Good girl,” he whispered, planting a light kiss on her shoulder.
The fourth stroke had no preamble, the fire lancing in without warning. The pain surprised her and she cried out again, shaking her bottom from side to side, trying to do something, anything against the agonizing sting.
Once she settled down, she felt the cane pressed to her once more.
Oh, no.
The cane laced a painful track across the tender flesh of her upper thighs. She screamed, reaching back reflexively, her hands operating on autopilot.
“No, Lacey.” The warmth of his large hand enveloped both of hers, straining her shoulders as he held them firmly to the small of her back. “I told you already — no rubbing.”
His low voice was back at her ear. “Do you need to say it?”
She shook her head, feeling the first tear track down her cheek. Her hands twisted in his grip, so determined were they to swipe away the evidence of her defeat.
“I’ll be right back.” He pressed his slacks against her, his huge erection hard against her soft, burning bottom. “Keep them there. If you move them an inch, we’ll start over.”
“Yes, S – Sir.” Her mouth went as dry as the Sahara at the prospect of doubling the tally of what she had already endured. She thought she’d do almost anything, anything at all, to avoid such a fate.
She concentrated on calming her breathing as best she could, marveling at the contrast of the soft, cool comforter under her, while her martyred buttocks burned and twitched, the very air currents making them sting further. The band of pain across the back of her thighs felt as if it swelled by the second, the aching setting in with a vengeance. Despite the pain, she wondered with a dark curiosity what colors her marks would be as they faded over the next week.
Heavy leather straps landed on her lower back, and forearms. “If you can’t keep those hands out of the way,” he said, grasping one of her wrists. “I’ll just take care of the problem for you.”
He quickly wrapped both of her hands in heavy leather manacle
s, the entirety of her wrists encased in the snug bindings. He cinched them tighter, checking to ensure he hadn’t cut off circulation. She wiggled her fingers at his urging.
Next, he grabbed both of her elbows, pulling them up and toward the center of her back. She felt cold leather at the bend of each arm, heard the clatter of a heavy buckle. The leather tightened, bringing her elbows together, but not quite touching. She hissed at the uncomfortable pull at her shoulders, afraid any further tightening might strain the muscles. His hands stroked over the flesh there, assessing the tension.
She yelped as he cinched the strap one notch tighter. “Close enough.” His finger waggled between her pinioned elbows. “We need to work on your flexibility I see.”
What the fuck was he talking about? He’d never once bound her arms that way. “Where did you get that?”
“Hmm? Oh this?” He yanked on the leather holding her elbows together. “I had it made.”
“What? When?”
The cane tapped against her buttocks. “Be quiet, Lacey. We’ve got more pressing matters to attend to, don’t we?”
She blew out a breath, laying her cheek against the comforter, eyes screwed tight. His hand moved between her trembling thighs, caressing her swollen pussy. The heel of his hand pressed against her, the pleasant heaviness of the pressure making her moan softly, his fingertips easing up and down over her swollen clit.
His soft laughter made her want to slap him — after he fucked her, of course.
“I wondered if you’d dry up on me,” he said, fingers stroking back through her slit. “I’ve been been hitting you pretty hard.”
Too hard!
“But your cunt is a fucking lake, girl”
She turned her face into the blanket, her cheeks hot against the soft fabric.
“I knew you liked pain, Lacey.” He took his hand away with a stroke to the curve of her ass. The cane tapped against the fleshiest part of her bottom. “I just didn’t know you enjoyed it quite this much.”
The cane snapped in at an angle, crossing already throbbing marks. The heat seared through her, the pain spiraling upward. She groaned, choking back a sob. She bucked her hips up and down, not caring one whit about the way the motion made her cheeks wobble. The red haze of her hurt was all that she was at that moment, the insistence of her throbbing, empty pussy an undercurrent just below all that pain.
“How many was that?”
She sniffled, her voice catching. “Fi — six, Sir.”
Three more? There was no fucking way. No way at all.
Still she laid her cheek on the bed, her body alive with tension. She wiggled her bottom a little, insanely daring him to go on. She knew it was the best way to get over with, then he’d finally sink deep within her. He’d fuck her, claim her.
His.
“These will hurt I’m afraid.” The cane stroked over the curves of her bottom, making her picture a violinist’s bow playing the strings. Only the song Troy played was her pain, his cane the instrument.
Pain slashed in across her thighs, low down toward the knees, and her high, clear shriek pealed through the quiet room. She hopped up, the muscles of her legs taut, her buttocks clenching and unclenching. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck!”
She grunted, her teeth clenched as the sting sunk in, burning deep. Her legs finally unlocked, her thighs whispering together, vainly trying to assuage the hurt.
“Shh, Lacey.” His calm voice at her ear again. His hand stroked up and down the side of her neck, massaged the tight muscles at her nape. “Just let it go. Breathe through it now.”
She took a deep breath, then another. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, his lips smearing her tears against her heated skin.
His hand grasped her shoulder, easing her back down. “One more, girl. You can do this.”
She shook her head, her tears coming on full force, the comforter already wet with them. “I can’t, Troy. I can’t do it. Please, no more.”
The room went very still, and she could feel her husband’s gaze burning into her. Fingers palpated both of the throbbing, aching tramlines across her thighs. She whimpered as he gently squeezed the flesh of the newest track.
“Almost broke the skin here,” he said, seemingly to himself. “Need to be more careful.”
His hands eased over her trembling thighs, kneading the muscles, not intentionally irritating her marks, but not avoiding them either. He patted her bottom, which, compared to her burning thighs, now felt relatively good.
“Last one, girl.” He kissed her hip, his hand delving between the cheeks once more, fingers gliding across her untested bottom hole. He chuckled as she clenched it reflexively. “Soon enough, Lacey.”
She didn’t have time to wonder what that meant, as the cane was laid gently across the junction of her thighs and buttocks once more.
“Troy — Sir! Not there, please!”
“I’m going to whip your thighs again, Lace. Nothing you can do about it.” The intent rumble of his voice both chilled her, and made her pussy ache for his cock. She was truly one fucked up woman.
“Do you need to say it?”
She gulped in a great breath of air, and shook her head, trying to still the trembling of her body. She feared that cane stroke — yet she craved it as well. Taking it meant she had endured, conquered. She knew it was completely crazy, but she regarded it as a point of pride, a demonstration of her strength. She tried not to think of why the searing pain transformed itself into intense, forbidden pleasure, shooting straight to her clit, making her lust for more. So much more.
The cane tapped, directly across her vulnerable ‘sit spot’. For the next week, she’d feel the stroke every time she sat down, every time she bent over. A reminder of his ownership — and of his love. It would be the last stroke to heal, and though she’d never admit it to anyone, that lingering pain throughout the next week would be reassuring. Comforting.
“Ready, Lacey? This will be the hardest one.” The cane stilled, pressed to her flesh the way an executioner sights his sword on the neck of the condemned.
“Yes, Sir.”
She heard the snap before the pain flashed, the hurt so intense she froze with the white heat of it. Then she straightened and shrieked, her hands yanking at her bonds. Troy’s hands grasped her shoulders, turning her to face him.
He looked down on her, his arms crossed over his chest, the menacing rattan angling out of the crook of an elbow. The corner of his mouth quirked and his eyes narrowed, as she bounced in place. She couldn’t do anything else. The pain kept clawing, sinking, burning. She knew her breasts bounced obscenely as she jumped and wriggled. But all she could think about was the agonizing, stinging smart of that stroke. She wondered if the moisture she felt trickling down her thighs was sweat — or blood.
Troy’s big hand captured one of her wobbling breasts, and she forced herself to meet his gaze. His eyes softened, a lazy smile curving his lips. “I’m very proud of you.”
It was too much for her, and Lacey burst into tears.
Troy’s strong arms enfolded her, big hands stroking her back. He pressed soft kisses to her forehead, nudging her sodden locks away with his nose. “Breathe. Just breathe through the pain, Lacey.”
She hiccupped as she sobbed, her body shaking with her weeping. She buried her face in the warmth of his broad chest, smelling his cool cologne even as she cried.
“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the curve of her ear. “Caning is done. You did so well.”
She yanked at her cuffs again, her fingers writhing. Oh how she wanted to put her arms around him!
“Not quite yet, girl.” His voice lowered. “We aren’t done.”
She tensed in his arms. “W – what do you mean?”
There’s more?
It was easily the hardest caning he had ever given her, and she still wasn’t sure she wasn’t bleeding from that last, searing cut across her upper thighs.
“I said we’re adding something new tonight, and I meant it.�
�� The tight-jawed cadence of Troy’s words chilled her. “Do you think you’re being treated unfairly?”
She looked up at him, his visage blurring through her tears. “No. No, Sir.”
“Good.” He patted her cheek, his thumb rubbing through the wetness on her cheeks. “Next time, I’m going to make you wear mascara before your punishment.”
Lacey pressed her forehead to his chest, careful to keep her soaked cheeks from dampening his expensive shirt. She knew he enjoyed her tears, but the mental image of rivers of dark mascara flowing down her face was both repellent and fascinating to her. Would that really turn him on?
When she’d calmed down somewhat, Troy tipped her head back, brushing her hair back from her eyes. “Get on the bed.”
She glanced back, indicating her arms. He shook his head. “No. You’ll do it without them.”
As she struggled awkwardly to climb up onto the high mattress, she wondered where this was coming from. He was stern with her, and had always been since they’d decided to introduce discipline into their relationship. She thought that would be the extent of it, based on what she knew of her husband. He cherished her, and she knew that (initially, anyway), spanking her had been as hard on him as it was her. Maybe more so. However, as time went on, she found he’d come to enjoy it, to look forward to the next time he had his trembling, naked wife bent over his lap.
But this was something entirely new. He was almost...cruel. Shouldn’t she be pissed off about that rather than feel her womb spasming at the thought of his cold callousness?
What the fuck is wrong with you, Lace?
“Come on, you’re stalling.” He tugged on the weight of her ponytail. “Get up there. You’re getting fucked before we do anything else.”
She should have been ashamed at how much she wanted to scream for joy. But considering the fact that she now knelt on their bed, her naked ass sticking up like some bitch in heat, she knew she had more pressing things to be embarrassed about.
“No, not like that, Lacey.” His hand pressed at her hip. “On your back.”
“Troy, my arms.”