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Of Canes and Men
by Sacha Lasalle



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Of Canes and Men

by Sacha Lasalle

 

Kinky eroticaHe leaned over and whispered in my ear, "She's quite exquisite."

I simply nodded.

"Is—"

I silenced him with my finger and stood up, motioning for him to follow me out of the room. Waiting until he was through the doorway, I closed the door quietly behind him.

"I'm sorry. No, she's not."

He put his hand in his pocket and nodded. "I see. That's a shame. I could make it worth your while."

We both laughed. Even if I desperately needed the money, my answer would still be the same.

"Where did you find her? It's not like you to hide something so beautiful. Although we all know your habit of sharing...you're not usually interested, unless you're ready to let them go."

I shrugged. For some reason I was reluctant to discuss it. "It's only early days."

He nodded again and I opened the door. We re-entered, taking our seats. She hadn't moved. I watched as he admired her form. Finishing the last of his drink in a large gulp, he stood up. I walked him to the front door as he collected his coat and we shook hands.

"Well, if you should ever change your mind, I'd like you to call me."

I raised an eyebrow. "I see. Not at the club?"

He cocked his head slightly and looked at me. "Yes...but for some reason, I don't think I'll be hearing from you."

I gave him a measured smile and tried not to give anything away.

After he left, I returned to the den and stood there watching her for several moments before removing the tumblers and gently lifting the glass tabletop from her back. I put it away and came back, circling her naked body slowly. She still hadn't moved. I was pleased.

"You may sit, pet."

Eyes shut, she sat back on her heels. I watched her face and noticed her bottom lip quivering. A tear ran down her cheek.

"What is wrong pet?"

She opened her eyes, her dark irises focusing on mine. "Please...please...I don't want..."

I sighed and shook my head. "You did not ask and I did not give permission to speak freely. I thought we would have been clear by now."

She stiffened, pursing her lips together tightly, trying not to cry. I sighed again. Disobedience after such good behaviour.

I spoke quietly. "Now, what did you do wrong?"

She sucked in a deep breath, struggling for control. "I'm sorry Sir. I spoke freely without permission and I allowed my emotions to get in the way. I am not here to serve my needs. I am here to serve yours."

Her husky voice did not miss a beat. I would have been proud—it had almost been a perfect night. I pressed my lips together as I contemplated her punishment. To be honest, I wasn't really in the mood, but I could not let this go unpunished.

Reluctantly, I opened the cupboard and surveyed my collection. It seemed that I had developed quite the cane fetish over the years as it rapidly dominated all my other tools. Eventually I packed away what little I had left, just in case.

Several years ago, I was put onto a man who had spent decades making canes. His was an interesting story. He had become so obsessed with making them that it had taken over his life. Word had it that the closest he seemed to get to any sort of gratification these days, was watching his partner stoke specific canes with her slender fingers, which then drove him into a frenzy.

Of course, I never did ask. Seeing him was by appointment only. In fact, you could only meet him by referral and even then, he decided whether he would allow you to purchase or make your custom request. Thankfully his reaction to me was a positive one.

I wasn't sure what he saw in me but he'd taken a liking, often asking me down to his place of creation and bantering with me to try out his prototypes. Though I suspected he had me figured from the very first moment he met me. He also seemed to be able to predict with uncanny accuracy, how long I would keep the partners that I had.

The canes were mounted vertically in the cabinet. I was primarily a single shaft man, with only one multi-strand cane in the closet. My eyes stopped on the whangee that I no longer used.

I doubted it was an uncommon story among the men I knew, but once was enough for me. For awhile I knew an alluring redhead. Very Jessica Rabbit-like. Quick-witted and highly intelligent. Corporate ball-buster by day and pain addict during the downtime. She was an interesting creature, with perfect, creamy, unblemished skin.

At first, and even occasionally afterwards, it seemed to me that it was almost a terrible thing to mark her flesh. She was a dangerous woman too. Afterall, we were only men. I should have known the moment I looked into her eyes, as she was bent over on all fours. Her derrière was irresistible, and out of her mouth came everything you wanted to hear, but it was her eyes that told another story. Continuous pale green ice; goading, challenging and almost contemptuous. That look could drive a man to lose control.

Sometimes it concerned me that she was possibly vicariously administering self-punishment. For what reason, I didn't know, but it eventually came to a head. After several sessions, it was clear that beyond anything, the pain had become first and foremost. It was bigger than the both of us and driving us down a hazardous path. On the final night, I had severely bruised her skin and broken the flesh in two places as I teetered on the edge, and then regained my senses and pulled back.

Her fiery red hair was matted around her forehead in a combination of perspiration and tears that covered her face. With serene eyes she looked at me and whispered, "Thank you" before promptly passing out. After I checked her pulse, I cleaned her wounds, applied ice, and then a salve for the bruising, very aware of how painful it was going to be. I attempted several times to discuss our last session but she remained mute on the subject.

Afterwards, everything changed. I lost whatever desire I had for her, and she—for lack of a better word—had been broken in. Her demeanour had changed. She became completely acquiescent, with a hint of desperation, and no longer the defiant woman I once knew. She also wanted to continue, and whether she wanted more or less as result of what happened, I didn't have the heart to discover.

I recommended her to a gentlemen I knew. She didn't need an extremely hard Master. She needed someone who was experienced enough to be able to understand what was going on. It was possible I could've read it wrong, but an absolute pain slut was not what I was particularly interested in.

It was difficult to say whether what happened was any sort of achievement, triumph or dismal failure. Either way, it was something I'd never forget. Perhaps it explained why the whangee was mounted at the very top of the case. I knew I'd never use it again.

I often thought about whether it was significant, but to me, it was. When it no longer mattered who was administering the cane, like a flaccid cock, I lost interest. It seemed that maybe over the years I'd become too apt with the cane, and that was the phallus they fell in love with.

Still despite it all—and a period of hiatus where I wanted to see if I could survive without my dark affliction—here I was. And there she was—the dark-haired woman kneeling in my den. I didn't mention it, but I'd ordered a cane especially for her. It had never bothered me before. I'd used all my canes on several bottoms, but I didn't want that for her. I wanted her to have her own, regardless of what happened.

Somehow yet again, the custom cane maker knew something I didn’t. When I arrived to pick up the cane I'd ordered, he unwrapped a cloth and handed it to me.

"What's this?" I frowned.

"Your cane."

"I didn't order this."

"I know." He grinned at me. "Go on, pick it up."

I shied away from fancy or adorned canes. Some of the designs I found far too garish, although others no doubt would have found them beautiful. All my canes were undecorated, right down to the handle. This one was embellished—a simple black handle, with what looked like an onyx embedded on the top. The wood was not rattan, only betrayed by its reddish colour.

I held it in my hand. It felt perfect. I'd never thought of that before and it struck me as odd. I let the cane bounce downward between my palm and thumb, and then gripped the handle and rotated my wrist, flicking it back.

He'd lost his grin, giving me a serious knowing look. I felt that he wanted to tell me it was the one, but restrained himself.

"It's certainly beautiful."

He nodded. "That it is."

"What is it?"

"Padauk." He shrugged. "I've had it for awhile. It just didn't come to me, how to fashion it, until recently."

I nodded. "I see. What do I owe you?"

He waved his hand in the air as if to dismiss my question.

I shook my head. "I can't."

"You can and you will. You know what to do with it." He smiled kindly at me. "Take it as a thank you for being a friend."

I didn't know what to say. I rapped it against my palm, feeling the sting. "Thank you. I'm honored."

He smiled again. "While a gentleman never tells, should you ever feel inclined..."

I smiled back. Perhaps I would offer him something more descriptive to go with his visual fetish.

I did have a looped cane which sat unused. The thought of adorning flesh with petals or butterfly wings appeared to appeal to me, but when it came to deciding, I seemed to always reach for my trusted rods. Picking up her black handled cane, I closed the cabinet and turned to her.

The fear flashed in her eyes before she tried to replace it with resolve, and I paused. This would be her first time and I considered giving her a choice.

"My pet, do you wish for an alternative punishment?"

She looked down at the floor. "No Sir. I will accept my reprimand, however you choose to deliver it."

I didn't realise I'd held my breath. The anticipation stirred in me instantly, and I wondered where it had been before this moment. I touched the tip of the cane with the pad of my finger, and slowly ran the shaft back and forth over my palm.

Sometimes it didn't matter how well practised or controlled I was, occasionally I still had the urge to go against common sense. To let my lust distract me from my sense of responsibility. The thought of caning her backside without mercy, and the visualisation of the angry red marks on her flesh made my cock excruciatingly hard.

I gripped the cane tightly, my knuckles whitening at the imagery. I almost lost it when I envisaged pushing through her tight sphincter, as it resisted my forceful entry. For a split second the line blurred as carnal lust almost overtook me. I hadn't moved, but it was as though I'd reached for her.

I looked back at her, and was grateful that she hadn't looked up, or tried to. If the appearance of the cane instilled fear into her, no doubt my moment of inability to keep my desires from my face would have inspired tenfold. I silently took slow deep breaths to regain focus.

I pointed to the couch with the cane. "Pet."

She obediently got up and kneeled on the couch, proffering her unmarked ass in the air. I gently ran the back of my fingers along her flesh, noting it was a little cool to the touch. The temperature had dropped a couple of degrees, and while I hadn't looked outside, it was obvious that evening had fallen. She would be warm soon enough.

I tapped the cane gently, watching it bounce against her skin. Although it barely carried any force, her initial reaction was to flinch. I stopped and looked over her body. What dark hair didn't cover her shoulder blades, hung down past her neck. I traced the curve of her spine to where it met the small of her back, and then curved over yet again, into the crevice that hid her lips from view. Despite the curves, her body was rigid. This would not do.

"Relax."

I watched for several minutes as she battled to control herself and stop from tensing. Somehow she managed something in between. I knew she wouldn't stop from flinching, at least not this time.

"Breathe."

I heard her breathe out shakily. She didn't realise she'd been holding her breath. I tapped her again with the cane, and this time—although she flinched—she recovered quickly and tried in earnest to relax. This time I did not stop.

I applied the cane against her skin in short rapid strokes, working it against both cheeks firmly, but not enough to cause significant pain. Her flesh turned a pretty shade of pink under the wood. It was akin to quickly flicking paint with a long handled brush.

I noted she'd stayed silent throughout when I finally stopped and inspected her ass. I liked to keep the area confined specifically to the cheeks, and while I still enjoyed administering the occasional spanking—I was specific with that too. I disliked it when the colour travelled down past the top of the thighs.

I gently pressed my palm against her pink skin and felt the warmth as I gave both cheeks a rub. Pressing the cane between her thighs, I motioned for her to spread her legs, contemplating sliding the cane against her sex. Pain before pleasure. Eight. I would give her eight.

The cane whirred beautifully, complemented by the scream that ripped from her mouth. My lower gut tightened as I felt a small satisfied smile tug at the corner of my lips. I was controlled, but no doubt the tip would still feel as though it was slicing flesh.

By the third she was sobbing, and I executed the fourth, listening to her cry out. I almost wanted to stop, slide my throbbing cock into her mouth and feel her quivering lips around me. By the sixth stroke she was shaking, unable to control her body as it spasmed. I was harder and more coiled than I could recall.

There were two moments that often fought for supremacy, and it was merely a difference between standing or falling. Sometimes it was a twisted cycle between the satisfaction and pleasure of control. Occasionally when they broke and begged me to stop, it was both thrilling and disappointing, in the same way as when they withstood.

This time however, the pleasure and pride was overwhelming. I resisted the urge to make the last two strikes harder. Her screams didn't change, and neither did her sobbing. It probably didn't help that I hadn't told her how many she would receive.

I stopped and she flinched hard, feeling my palms against her burning skin. Rubbing gently over the eight welts, they looked like eight perfect fingers splayed over her cheeks. I relished the feeling of the raised flesh underneath my hands, until I could almost take no more. I slid my fingers between her legs, and to my sheer delight, found her incredibly wet. Flipping her over, I quickly freed my cock and plunged into her.

She looked at me wide-eyed, her lips forming an "o" as fresh tears slid out of her eyes. Her cheeks were scarlet, almost matching her backside and she grunted hard as I squeezed her ass tightly. More tears fell as I fucked her. I could feel the rise as she was coming apart under me. I gripped her hips painfully and continued to thrust, losing myself in the lustful high that fogged my brain.

"Permission to be free," I ground out, as she gripped my cock, and my head tipped back from the pleasure.

Her groans chimed in with the sounds of our wet flesh. "Sir. I'm. Sorry." She spoke haltingly.

I simply nodded. She'd already apologised. I'd accepted and reprimanded her. There was no need to apologise again.

"No sir, I'm really sorry. I-I—."

I didn't stop, but I frowned at her as I increased my speed, thrusting harder between her legs. I slid one of my hands between her breasts, and up around her throat as she looked me in the eye. The sharp rise clawed within, caught up in the vortex that was pulling us both down, amplifying every thrust.

"Don't share me."

I blinked. She'd said it so quickly that I wasn't sure of what I heard, her words drowned out by the rush as I came.

Her legs shook around me as I slowly rocked inside her, running my fingers over her insistent welts. I groaned. No matter how many times I touched the raised flesh of my own doing, it was like a never ending aphrodisiac. She tugged my wrist and brought my hand to her mouth, gently kissing my palm and I stopped, almost taken by surprise as what she said slowly registered.

She looked at me with not a pleading, but what seemed like determination. I couldn't suppress the short, sharp swell of my heart. It seemed that my one deeply buried desire had just been resurrected, and suddenly I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel.

"I see." I withdrew and pressed against her sphincter. My lids drew down as she pushed against me, forcing my head into her tightness. Our groans reached my ears as I slid in slowly, almost driven out of my mind. I thumbed over her clit and she bucked, the grip breathtaking as I started to stroke.

"Ohhh". A long low animalistic groan rolled slowly from her lips.

Grunting in unison, I pushed my full weight on her, pressing her legs back against her body and thrusting madly like a man possessed.

"Beat me if you must. Punish me. Cane me, or whip my cunt, but don't share me." Her words were punctuated by gasping breaths.

Whipping wasn't usually my thing, but the sudden image of whipping between her legs made me stop sharply, and squeeze her hips tighter. She grimaced, her face contorting. I watched in fascination before I realised how hard I had pinned my fingers to her flesh. Slowly I released them.

"Do you know what you are asking?" Of me, I thought. The words sounded strange to my ears.

She looked at me for several moments, and then nodded.

With a rush of violent possession, I took her until she screamed.

_______
© 2013 Sacha Lasalle. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

Bio: Sacha Lasalle finds pleasure in exploring the human landscape—flaws and all—and what it means to write erotic fiction. Follow her @sachalasalle or sachalasalle.com

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