♥ Site recommended story ♥
Outstanding erotica by guest author Fred Spankmanbare
In an earlier post I told you how our marital CP sessions moved gradually from mutual bare-bottom play towards a situation in which Pat, my wife, administers all the spanking. This time, I would like to tell you about the night she finally moved beyond spanking just for sex play and gave me a thoroughly severe caning – not just because she considered I needed the discipline, but because she needed to do it as therapy for herself. I remember it so well!
Things had been rocky for over a week, irritability and bad temper from both of us, no sexual activity of any sort, tension high. When we had got into bed on the night in question I had tried to make some clumsy overtures to improve things, but had been promptly rebuffed. I eventually dozed off, but this was difficult both because of my unassuaged sexual hunger and because my wife kept tossing and turning restlessly. Some time later she woke me up. It was past 1:00 a.m. She said “I’m all churned up with tension. I haven’t been able to get a wink of sleep. I’m going to have to either take a Valium tablet or give you a caning”. The latter sounded like an interesting development, to say the least, so I said that I would accept the caning. My heart started to thump with anticipation, and the thought of getting the cane did nothing to calm down my returning erection. Little did I know how short-lived THAT would be, and how different this caning was going to be from the ones she had given me before!
My wife turned on the bedside light and got out of bed. She went over to the chair which we use for some spanking positions and also for putting clothes on, and removed the clothes from it. She got two pillows off the bed and placed them on the chair. At this stage I thought she might be going to use her hairbrush instead, but I was wrong. “Get up”, she ordered me, “and stand over here by the spanking chair. And bare your bottom”. I did as she instructed. I dropped my pyjama trousers to the floor and stepped out of them. Wishing to avoid earning any extra discipline I picked them up and put them neatly on the bed, and while I was doing so Pat selected one of her canes. I heard them rattling softly in the drawer as she considered which one to use. To my dismay she chose the thickest one (I already told you that she has three – a thin whippy crook handled one, a thin straight handled “travelling cane” which is only 18 inches long and easier to pack for holiday discipline sessions, and a thicker 25-inch straight-handled one which was what she had decided to use on me now). She came back to where I was standing and tapped the cane against her hand. “Now”, she said in a strangely quiet voice, “bend over. Get across the pillows, elbows on the floor”. I bent over obediently, got into position and raised my bottom submissively. I lay still, waiting for the discipline to start.
She started whipping me rapidly. Hard strokes, well delivered, all on target. After about five or six strokes the fire built up in both buttocks, and I squirmed and cried out with the pain. The room was filled with the sounds of really strict discipline – the whistling whisper of the cane, its whup, whip, whap on my poor bottom, and my cries of “Oh! Oh! Ah! Oh! Aaaah! Oh! Oh!” punctuated by my wife’s stern commands of “Stay down, stay down” as she continued to whip me relentlessly and very, very thoroughly. I was sure the neighbours would hear it all.
Somewhere between 15 and 20 I lost count of the number of strokes she gave me, but it must have been over 30. Towards the end she slowed down, and I could hear her breathing heavily. As she delivered the last three strokes she panted with each one in turn, “Yes! There! Yes!” and then there was silence. What a caning it had been! She put her cane back in the drawer and told me I could get up, so when my bottom had stopped quivering I got up carefully and looked at it in the mirror, a mass of horizontal stripes of white and dark red, with thick ridges. I climbed into bed gingerly, without replacing my pyjama trousers. My wife fell asleep very quickly, but I lay in the dark as the fiery pain in my buttocks gradually subsided to a throbbing glow. I tenderly explored with one hand, and felt rising excitement as I stroked the thick, raised welts she had given me. My whole bottom was beautifully corrugated.
The next morning my wife was in a great mood. “I know I was severe on you last night”, she said, “but I really needed that workout with the cane. It relieved all my tension and I slept better than I have for ages”. She asked to see my bottom so I showed her. She was very impressed, and I was quite proud of it, even though the rich colours of my cane marks and the thickness of my lovely weals were not quite as spectacular as they had been immediately after she had finished her new-found stress-relief therapy.
I knew then, if I hadn’t realised it already, that the spanking lifestyle as a regularly (and strictly) disciplined husband was going to be the path to many adventures of tingling excitement, erotic thrills and deep satisfaction.
Story © Fred Spankmanbare, 2011 and used here by kind permission