The Caning

I guess it started when I asked Papi if there was anything he wanted to do to me that he had yet to try. He said beat my ass with a switch. It turns out he once saw a girl being caned and he liked it. Quite a bit. And he wanted to try it.

Periodically he would share with me some piece of information he had garnered about canes and caning. What kind of wood worked best. How to flick it with your wrist just so. Where to hit. At first I couldn't imagine enjoying being hit with a switch. It just seemed so barbaric. Cruel. Too stingy. But the more he talked about it, and the more I heard how intrigued he was, and thoughtful, and methodical about his education, the more it seeped into my fantasies and I wanted it too.

I wanted it for him. And for myself. I wanted to know what the sensation felt like. I wanted to know if I could endure it. I wanted to know how he would take to it. Would he beat me hard? Gently? What words would he use? I wanted to be his first. I wanted him to trust me enough. I wanted to be special to him. And I wanted to transcend the stinging, rage-filled, flyswatter beatings of my childhood at the hand of my mother that left me feeling humiliated and worthless. And ironically, to have reparations for the beatings I didn't get from my father. For he would send my siblings down to the irrigation ditch to pick a switch of birch. He would command them to pick a long one, a strong one, a green one, and then to strip the bark off of it. Then he would holler biblical passages while he whooped their asses red hot for some small childish offense. Of course this terrified me, and the humiliation quotient was exacerbated immeasurably by the fact that here all was witnessed by a brood of snot-nosed, snickering siblings, but I knew that the fact that he never lifted his hand to me forever separated me from my siblings, and from my father himself. Even in my own family I was an outsider. The way I saw it, now was my chance to come out the other side of a beating strong, proud and loved.

Papi applied himself to finding out everything he could about caning. He wanted to make sure he wouldn't injure me. I reassured him that I was willingly offering myself up to be his guinea pig. I would harbor no animosity if we tried it and I didn't like it, or worse, it was more painful than I could appreciate or went awry in some way.

As our trust in each other solidified we eventually chose a date. What can I tell you? I was excited. And anxious. And the anxiety made me more excited. I wanted my questions answered. But more importantly, more deeply, I wanted the experience to be something we both would cherish. That would leave us each transformed. Afterall, it isn't every day you get to be a virgin again. Or to take a virgin for that matter.

Prior to his arrival (you may recall he lives a plane ride away from me) I went to the various sex toy shops in town and sussed out their equipment. The first place had acrylic canes that looked too ouchy and impersonal. I needed something that once breathed.

The second place had canes too posh and attitudinous. I needed humble. Simple. Something with a Quakerly aesthetic.

The third store was just right. They had a jug of canes whittled from dowels like some home enterprise collaboration with Home Depot and Martha Stewart. They were smooth. And light. And cheap. Perfect!

When the weekend finally came the waiting was tortuous. And delicious. Like Christmas. And when the night finally came and we stopped by store number three on the way home it was nothing short of perfect. I darted over to the bucket and pointed out the switches. As I saw it it was his job to pick one. I busied myself looking at a certain pair of leather cuffs I've been coveting, but inside I was all anticipation, waiting to see his selection. There was a woman standing on the other side of the bucket and she eyed us curiously. When Papi started picking up canes she was like "Oh no! I don't think so" and we all laughed. Me, somewhat sheepishly... since I did indeed think so. Comedy Central was on the tube and the normally sleazy downtown store known for peep booths and porn was magically transformed into a cozy den of friends.

Papi selected two possibilities, one from the thin camp and one from the thick, and asked me to inspect them. I leaned toward the thick one for its thunkiness, but the thin was straighter, more pleasing to the eye, and made my choice difficult. Torn between two ideals. I eventually chose the thicker because I intuited the thump would be more satisfying. And perhaps more comfortable in his hand.

Once we got home the cane hung out on the dresser in my bedroom for what seemed like forever. Papi had the whole weekend with me and what was only a matter of a day or two was beginning to seem like eons. The suspense, the fear, the longing, kept me in a constant state of arousal. We spent the entirety of his last day here in bed, groping and kissing and sleeping. It was so delicious. And still, I was on edge the entire time as I knew, eventually, he would reach for the cane.

Finally the time came. He asked me which I wanted first, a caning or a fucking? Usually I can't make on the spot decisions about anything, but this time I answered without hesitation: first cane me, then fuck me, then cane me again. I brought him the cane. And some peeled ginger root. And I waited patiently for his instruction.

He told me to lay face down on the mattress. "Yes sir," I said as I laid down with my cheeks pressed into the flannel sheets and my ass bared in the air. The flannel was soft. And comforting. I felt him stroke my ass, lightly, with the side of the cane. It felt smooth. And cool. And I savored the sensations, knowing it wouldn't feel that way for long. He brushed my cheeks and dragged the tip of the cane between my legs, up my spine, tracing the lips of my cosita. The feeling was delicate and sharp. Like a tickle and a pinch.

Tap. Tap. He swatted at my ass. Tap. Tap. Tap. Again, a little harder. I moaned and my ass involuntarily rose, just slightly, to meet him.

THWACK! He came down hard on the fleshy part of my ass. The warmth spread instantly from the wood to my flesh. I was surprised that I immediately wanted more. I needed to feel the heat on my flesh with the same desire that makes you run your hand through the red hot flame of a candle. Papi eased back. And made me wait. He gently worked the ginger plug into my ass as he softly traced my thighs with the switch. At first there was only the sensation of hard and cold, but gradually that turned to warmth and then to a fire that burned inside me from my core out. I writhed and moaned as the heat began to burn throughout my body.

It started in my loans and worked its way to my gut. I felt panicky and ill, queasy and sick to my stomach, until SMACK! the cane came down on my ass and grounded me in reality. Papi instructed me firmly to hold still and take it, to stop resisting the sensations. To go with it, not against it. It stung. And it hurt. And I felt alive. And I wanted more. I wanted to be brought to the edge and held over by strong, capable hands. I wanted to be dangled, fearful, yet trusting I would be pulled up and saved. And this I was granted.

He pulled the ginger from inside of me which made me thrash about and scream I don't know what. I've always responded more intensely to withdrawal than to insertion, and this time was no exception. I suspect it's some sort of sexual separation anxiety that taps into deeper stuff I have around abandonment.

Then Papi took the cane and let loose a torrent of crackings like rain beating down on my cheeks, and my thighs, and my hips. He played my skin like djembes, like bongos, like bata and ashiko, and kenkeni. Like goumbe, like danunba, like kpanlogo and like congos. I was his talking drum, his big band, his string section. My ass felt like music as I moaned and shrieked; like rhythm and voice woven together. And sweetest of all I could feel his eyes upon me, tracing his caresses, his passes, his presence. His appreciation. His fascination. His powerful desire.

As I scaled higher and higher, reaching a crescendo, he then quietly tapered off until his smacking turned to tapping turned to stroking turned to teasing. And I felt his stick between my legs, coaxing me, tickling me, threatening me. Menacing and loving. That's what he felt like. A divine combination. Then, he leaned over and I felt his cool lips kiss my ass. He laid down beside me and wrapped his arms around me and held me tight.

A short while later he fucked me so hard with his thick cock I begged him to stop. And then we fell asleep in each other's arms, both of us too exhausted to finish the final act of my request.

And in the morning I took him to the airport. And he went back home. It will be just over two months when I see him next. But it feels like years. The bruises are gone, but my body remembers his touch deep down in my core.