Cold caning

He closes the door behind them. She walks to the middle of the room and turns with an expectant look.

‘It’s going to be different this time,’ he says.

‘Different? How?’

‘Do you know what is meant by cold caning?’

She thinks. ‘Is it when you get caned without any warm-up?’

‘Correct.’

‘That sounds cruel,’ she says. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

‘Because I can,’ he says. ‘Because that’s how I feel right now. No frills, no concessions. We just get straight to it.’

She looks apprehensive. ‘Do I have a choice?’

‘You know the answer to that,’ he says.

She’s not quite sure that she does. There’s always a way out, it’s true, but she hates to take the easy option. That’s not how she got to where she is, and she likes where she is. On the whole; on the other hand, just right now…

From a bag lying on the bed he takes a cane. It’s about eighteen inches long, made of thin, whippy bamboo. He swishes it from side to side while she watches warily.

‘Take down your jeans,’ he says.

She hesitates for a moment, but she knows that prevarication won’t change anything. She unzips, pushes her jeans down over her hips.

‘I’m going to have to restrain you for this,’ he says.

She fears that means it’s going to be really bad. Reaching into the bag again, he pulls out a little pair of steel thumb-cuffs. He clicks them on, securing her thumbs in front of her, neatly, efficiently.

‘Bend over the armchair,’ he says.

He pulls her knickers down to her knees.

‘It’s going to be twelve,’ he says. ‘Hard.’

‘Must I count?’ she asks.

‘Only to yourself. So you know how many are left.’

She braces herself, takes a deep breath. She feels the cane tap lightly against her bare bottom. As she waits for the first stroke to detonate on her bare behind, the butterflies in her stomach are going crazy.