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The online diary of an ethical pervert.

Thursday, 20 May 2010


I'm scared of canes. Before I even knew what they felt like, I was scared of them because everyone told me how much they hurt. They are my own personal bogey man, the thing under my bed. I now know that they do hurt an awful lot, and the knowledge has not made me any less afraid. But for the first time in my life, I actually want to be hit with a cane.

This all stems from Monday night. I can still feel the three stripes on my thighs from the "light taps" I received from Captain, and I'm trying to bring the sensation that caused them to mind. As always, I know that it hurt a lot, that it was intense, but the exact amount of pain is hard to say. It's always more than I remember and always unpleasant and d
elivers nothing but pain, taking my breath away and forcing out a cry. It's a clean and sharp pain, a hot cut that slashes the skin and pushes deep into the muscles. A bright pain too, I almost always see stars behind my closed eyelids. It almost always makes me cry.

Tied face down to a leather padded bench. Rope criss-crossing me and pulled tight like a net from the tips of my toes all the way up to my head. I was relaxed, lying sweet and comfortable, setting into the nest of tense rope that holds me in like a comfort blanket. That was before Captain went over to get the canes. I saw them earlier, all laid out, as he sprayed them with water to keep them supple, so I was already partly aware of possible intentions. We'd been playing with some shibari positions, working out which ties could be slipped easily, which were actually secure, what felt "right" and what pulled awkwardly. I'd happily been moved around into different positions, a content and supple doll for rope practice. Now, upon hearing the swish of a cane cut through the air I went tense, an attempt at readiness that can never be realised.

The first few blows were taps, and the relief I felt was balanced out by the knowledge that the cane was going to be used, not just a noise to surprise or shock me. When the first stronger blow came I cried out, there's no control or resistance when I'm being hit with a cane, it's just pure aversion response. I can't keep quiet and keeping still is hard. The rope took care of the latter. A few taps and another blow later and I was in floods of tears. Being frightened makes me cry, being in pain makes me cry. But more than that it was the sadness at being so vulnerable, so unable to take what is perceived as such light and little blows. Unhappiness at my own weakness, at the speed at which I gave in and cried. Added to that, the uncertainty of not knowing how long this would go on for, whether the blows would get harder.

The tears were cathartic, crying is energising in a way, allowing those horrible thoughts and feelings to bubble out and disperse - pushing them away from my mind and body. There is something satisfying in having a good cry, and having a reason to do so. The same with canes. Which is why when he leant over me, so I could feel how hard he was and how much he was enjoying himself I felt better, happier. He asked me whether I would take more, for him and I replied "yes, Sir" instantly, naturally. Because that helped me. Knowing that I was doing it for him, that it was pleasing him and having that connection. The thing I was giving up. The thing he was taking. As the words left my mouth I wondered at the pleasure in saying yes like that. In acquiescing to something I was scared of, something that hurt. It's wrong to say I got no pleasure from it. There was the thrill in being brave, in saying yes, certainly there was the knowledge that I was pleasing him (of course) but there was also power in consent.

Which brings me to the strange realisation that I do want more. To give myself over and to endure. I have a strong suspicion that when it comes to it, I will not want it, but now, removed, I do. I want the pain and the fear not for themselves, but to have someone take me through them, beyond my own personal barriers and aversions and into a place where the pain can become something beyond the pain itself. I want to be able to take more than I currently can, so in a way it is part of a personal challenge. I want the cane to be in context, to be part of something that is meaningful. I also want to be able to inhabit the pain in a way that I can do for other sensations - flogging, needles and spanking spring clearly to mind. They all give me something else, deep spaced out sensations or high as a kite giggling. I'm sure that there must be some equivalent with canes rather than just short, sharp shocks of pure punishment.

1 comment:

SapioSlut said...

I so get this..."I have a strong suspicion that when it comes to it, I will not want it, but now, removed, I do." This is me and canes.

They are, even after some play, a scary place to go. They are punishment and yet occassionally I find myself wanting them. Your comment nails it though because as soon as they are out I am wanting to run. If in a space of not wanting them and it is brought out it has made me cry without even being hit.