“Yes, Zeke.”
I noticed Zeke was taking this very seriously. He wasn’t smiling or laughing and he wasn’t taunting Case the way he normally did. I found that interesting.
He moved around Case as he secured his wrists and ankles to the metal frame. Zeke checked the restraints a couple of times before he went over to the table, where his toy bag was sitting.
When he picked up the long, thin cane, my breath halted in my lungs. I’d heard that thing left bruises when done correctly. I had yet to get to that frame of mind when I wanted to wear the stripes of my master. I enjoyed some pain, but I couldn’t handle even remotely close to what Case craved.
And now, I was forced to kneel here on the floor and watch as the man I desired beat on the man I loved.
TWENTY-FOUR
ZEKE
THERE WAS A TECHNIQUE TO caning. While most submissives, even masochists, would enjoy the thud of the rattan cane against their backside, it was one of the more impactful tools. It would leave bruises under the skin and welts on the top provided it was used correctly. But it wasn’t about the visible marks it would leave as much as it was the pain it would cause. A Dom had to be mindful of how hard and how often they were striking the submissive in order to have the desired effect.
When it came to caning, it wasn’t about constant hitting. If struck too quickly, the submissive wouldn’t experience the full impact. The point was to allow the submissive to feel the thud of the cane and the reverberation that came from it. Striking too quickly defeated the purpose. The same went for how the cane landed and where.
I’d done numerous canings in my BDSM lifetime. I’d even been caned myself more than once. I found it important to understand how the tools felt in order to deliver what was needed for a particular submissive. Hence the reason I’d endured having every tool in my arsenal used on me and by more than one Dom. It was about understanding the various techniques and the outcome.
I took my cane—I preferred a three-eighths-inch rattan cane—and held it firmly in my hand as I walked around the pretty boy. I admired the lines of his body, the way he looked restrained to the bench. His ass and the backs of his thighs were on display and very soon everyone standing near would be able to see the wicked stripes delivered by my hand.
Due to the height of the bench, the pretty boy was exactly where he needed to be for my swing to land perfectly on the fleshy part of his body. It would allow me to hit him accurately and as easy or hard as I chose.
I wouldn’t be going easy on him.
Because I knew my submissive well, I didn’t feel the need to confirm his safe word for club protocol. Although he technically didn’t have one, he would know I would heed it should he need to use it, so I trusted him to do so. My only objective was sending him into subspace.
It was easy to block out everyone and everything around us. Out of respect for me, no one was speaking. The only sounds were the music pulsing through the speakers and the noises from the other scenes taking place a short distance away.
After one more pass around the bench, I placed my hand firmly on the pretty boy’s back, silently signaling I was ready to start. After a light squeeze of my fingers, I removed my hand and placed the cane against his ass, exactly where I intended to land the first blow.
I pulled back and delivered perfectly, allowing the cane to bounce lightly and remain on the mark I’d made. As for whether the pretty boy experienced the white-hot heat that bloomed on the line I’d made or if he’d focused on the searing sensation or the vibration through his body, I didn’t know. I turned and landed another blow on the opposite side in the same place. After allowing it to sink in for a moment, giving the pretty boy an idea of what he could expect from me, I decided it was time to proceed.
I focused on pacing and rhythm, delivering each blow in a different spot along his ass and the backs of his legs. The marks were appearing beautifully, red welts marring his skin. Every so often, the pretty boy would grunt or groan, a definite sign he was enjoying himself.
I allowed myself to drift into that mindset some called Domspace. It was a high unlike any other, the ability to deliver pain to someone who craved it. These were the moments I looked forward to. The way I felt, the invincible feeling. My cock swelled behind the zipper of my jeans, pure pleasure pulsing through my veins. Like the pretty boy, I, too, craved the endorphin high more so than the release.
