The Disciplined Husband: chastised and caned

A dominant woman, a cane, and a man with submissive tendencies... Ouch!! Here's an extract from The Disciplined Husband. Enjoy. ********** "Oh!" I exclaim, as a hand grabs my shaft. I never heard Sylvia enter the room, her feet making no sound on the plush carpet.

"And what's this?" she asks, her fingers encircling my tumescent cock.

"Er, nothing, ma'am." (I always refer to her as ma'am at times like this.)

"Is that so?" she says, somewhat sarcastically. For a moment her fingers explore my length from root to tip, then those same fingers dip down to my balls, fondling and squeezing. I can't help but groan, wanting more, though I know full well she's only teasing and that I won't get any sexual relief until much later. "You can turn round now, Peter, and see what I have in store for you."

She releases her hold and I turn - to be confronted with the dragon cane in her right hand. I gulp, remembering the pain it delivered the last time I felt its bite. "Oh," I say, dejectedly. "That thing hurts."

"Of course it does. And you deserve it. Don't you?"

"I suppose so, ma'am."

"And you know I always give you what you deserve." Those lush lips of hers curl into a half smile and her eyes glint as she takes hold of my left ear, pinching it tightly between thumb and forefinger. "This way, you disobedient boy. Bend over the desk and stick that naughty bottom right out for me."

Now usually those words give me a thrill, but their impact is significantly reduced with the prospect of the dragon cane. I shuffle along feeling like an errant schoolboy with my trousers and pants down by my ankles, and wince as she guides me by pulling my ear. I take up the all too familiar position over the desk, my fingers reaching out to grasp the edge, my butt elevated, offering myself up to her for chastisement. Although my cock has shrunk, it nevertheless gives a little twitch as she gives three small cursory taps to my butt. I take a deep breath and hold it in an agony of expectation.

The seconds pass, and the promised strike fails to materialize. I can feel myself going red in the face from holding my breath and I exhale in a rush. And at that precise moment, the cane rushes through the air and ....

SWICK!

A line of liquid fire sears my skin. I emit a blood-curdling screech (canes and stoicism don't go well together as far as I'm concerned.) The pain makes my eyes bulge and I grip the desk so tightly my knuckles turn white.

SWICK!

A second cut bites deep, and I bellow out my agony. "Aaaaaaahh - you're killing me!"

"What nonsense. Don't be such a baby." She delivers another stroke, lower down, swiftly followed by two more, making me howl and gyrate my hips. She then pauses for a brief moment, running her finger tips along the grooves left by the cane. "What perfect symmetry," she says proudly, clearly admiring the results of her handiwork.

"Owwww!" I gasp. "It hurts! It hurts!"

"And so it should, you disobedient boy. Prepare yourself for the last stroke."

Stroke? Who coined that term? Whichever idiot referred to cane strikes as strokes needs their head examining. Canes do anything but stroke. They bite. They burn. They blister. And though I'm a relative novice to all this, I've had enough experience to know that the last 'stroke' is always the worse.

**********

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