Candy Cane Part One

Home sweet…

What the…!

She told me she needed the car today. Errands. This left me to take the bus home after a long and extremely stressful day. I am tired. I do not need this. I arrive to find my basketball net has been run over by my newly scratched car… From the other side of my fence. I am not a handyman, that fence took me ages to erect, by myself. What the hell was she playing at?!

I struggle to feel for the right key, then let myself in and slam the door behind me. The sound of the TV switching off and the two seconds of movement interrupt my intention to shout her name. I make my way to the living room, the smell of lamb temporarily distracts me, I am hungry, it is my favourite, she knows I’m not happy. I open the living room door to find a 30 year old schoolgirl, sitting like a geisha; head bowed, and laid in front of her is what my parents would call a switch.

“What happened?” I ask, keeping my mind on the matter at hand.

“I’m sorry, my heal broke when I pulled into the drive.” She does sound genuinely concerned. “And some guy in a taxi scratched the car when I was parked in town, but he didn’t stop and I couldn’t get his numbers.”

“Were you wearing your glasses?” I already knew the answer.

“No,” she replies quietly, “I’m sorry.”

As my blood simmers I ask her “are you ok? Are you hurt?”

“I’m ok, I’m not hurt.”

My heavy breathing is the only thing disturbing the silence. Then she stands up and moves towards me “I really am sorry.” I don’t respond. Everything and nothing is going through my head at this point, like a white noise.

She reaches out to touch me, but I step back. Neither of us expected that. She turns around and bends over to pick up the cane she had laid in front of her… Damn! Mini skirt and no underwear, that’s not fair… she turns and offers the cane to me from her outstretched palms.

“What’s this?” I enquire as to what’s expected.

“Please take it.” She requests. I comply. She turns and walks away towards the sofa, hitches up her skirt, leans over the arm of the sofa, tightly grips a couple of cushions, and looks at me, bottom lip firmly gripped between her teeth.

This is new. We’d talked about this before, but never got around to trying it. And of course this situation is different.

I dropped my bag and removed my coat, swung the cane a few times, and checked her reaction… She gripped the cushions a little tighter. I approach her position and held her skirt up against her back, and truthfully told her “This will hurt me more than it hurts you.” She let out a quietly muffled, nervous laugh.

I take a small swing, to give her a light tap; I feel her body relax beneath my left hand. I take another swing… Her grip on the cushions loosens. One more swing, and I see her head drop. What is she thinking? Deep down I know it’s not hard enough for her. But I love this woman, I swore to protect her from harm… but I also promised I’d keep her happy, and she vowed the same. I started reflecting on where we were, and working backwards, thought about the events that lead to this moment. My jaw clenched and my fist tightened. I struck a little harder, she flinched. I thought about my basketball hoop, that’s my usual stress relieving spot… I hit a little harder, I hear her exhale sharply. I bet she hit it deliberately. I hit harder still. That damn fence! I hit even harder. Her body tenses. My fucking car! Another hit! Her nails dig into those cushions. Fucking taxi driving bastard! Another crack, this one produces a yelp. I’m lost in this now. Every thought of the events of this day, from the moment I stepped into work to the moment I reach home, leads to an increasingly harder swing that lands a sharper hit. Her exhales turn to moans, turn to screams. 15 minutes of intense lashings later, I notice the myriad of red lines I’ve left across her ass. I stop and pick her up, I have no idea how long she’s been crying. I want to apologize for making her cry, I haven’t done that for years, but she hates the ‘S’ word, so I don’t say it. Instead I intend to hold her, but she quickly pulls away, takes off my tie, and suggestively holds her wrists together. Something else we hadn’t tried… Yet. I tie her hands together tightly, and she returns to the same position. I take the cane to her again… The first strike was as hard as the last from the previous round. “Fuck!” She screams out. I don’t think she expected that. A few more hits has her sobbing into a cushion. I change my method; the ‘switch’ gets dashed to one side in exchange for my hand. On the first strike I notice how wet she has become. In this position I can’t resist, I insert a finger, which incites a sharp gasp from her, shortly followed by her verbal rejection as she tries to stand up.

“Shut the fuck up and get back to where you were!” I command.

“Shit.” She quietly exclaims, and I continue to punish her bare handedly.

That wet pussy is on my mind now. I skill-fully unzip and remove my trousers and boxers without missing a beat, and without giving the game away to her. I stop her spanking and keep her held down while I repositioned myself behind her. She couldn’t see what was happening; I could feel her quizzical expression. I answered by slowly entering her.

“No!” She half heartedly protests.

I ignore her. I had no idea this was what I’d been waiting for all day. As I held her down in the position she’s already been stuck in for the last 45 minutes, I quickly build up a strong rhythm that transforms her original protest into painful moans of acceptance, quickly followed by my moans of enjoyment, shortly echoed by her moans of agreement.

Our, or rather my, pace increases. By now her hands have shaken free of her binding. This is unacceptable. I rectify the situation by leaning forward and holding her down by her wrists. She can’t escape the force of my weight. She forces her hands closer to her face and sinks her teeth into my arms, but the harder she bites; the harder I plough into her tight, wet pussy. She buries her face into the cushions, but her muffled screams still came through loud and clear. Then her volume decreased a little as I increased in speed… I love this part, this song, it spurs me on: With every exhale she moans. She starts low, quiet, then gradually her voice gets higher, louder. Sometimes there is the request to go harder or increase my speed, then she fidgets if I don’t… Not tonight, tonight we go by my rules only! I keep my pace, but slightly increase my power, and I stand my ground in holding her down… She is going nowhere this time. I make it last. Eventually she reaches her final stages, her chorus approaches its peak, and as I conduct her with my baton, I join her as she reaches her climatic ending.

We pause for a second before bowing; collapsing on each other, then dropping to the floor, where way lay for maybe 10 minutes. Once again the silence is disturbed by heavy breathing. She rolls into me to cuddle momentarily, before rising to her feet, adjusting her clothes, and nonchalantly asking “Hungry?”

I had forgotten about my treat in the kitchen. Little did I know she had other ideas. But that’s a story for another time.