It didn’t strike me, until I looked at the photos I took, what an odd mix it was: caring so much about her comfort, and then taking the cane and making her as uncomfortable as I possibly could.
I’d told Arethusa to wait for me naked at her front door on her knees, with her forehead on the carpet.
It was melodramatic and a little cliched, but it was going to be the first time we met. I’d thought we should start with things she’d read about and wanked to. To show that I was going to bring them to life.
So within two minutes of our having met for the first time she’d demonstrated the formidable fellatio skills she’d mentioned in one of her emails. And, though duly pleased, I’d managed to find or manufacture some fault, and put her over my knee, sitting on her couch.
Then she had corner time, for the first but not last time in her adult life. She waited, wondering what I was going to do with her, or to her, next. To be honest, I was a little moonstruck myself, by the speed with which we’d found our places. So I was also wondering what next.
I thought of something.
Sydney’s West, that is.
The beginning of what was to become a long session, and a long relationship. She assures me her arse is still utterly splendid, though someone else is keeping it warm these days.
I’ve had to do some cropping (you should excuse the expression), but she was and is lovely, body and soul.
Poetry is what happens is when you’ve had an emotional, moving experience, and then you are able to return to that state in memory, while you’ve not moved by the experience because it isn’t happening any more. That’s what Wordsworth said, anyway: “Poetry is emotion reflected in tranquillity.”
This is that blissful state. The peace that comes after the storm, and a lovely, calm poet.
But – stop me if you already know this – it’s actually pretty tricky, delivering a spanking with one hand while taking action shots with the other. This sort of thing is the result.
Oh, the good photo of the same scene, same spanking? It looks more like this:
The end of the caning. I’m quite proud of those closely spaced marks, and the story they tell.
But I like the combination of those hot stripes and the warmer blush surrounding them, and the warmth of the light. Which was more luck, for me as photographer, than good management. But warmth, in every sense, is right.
In this photo the punishment has finally begun. There are many strokes to go, but the commencement of a promised caning, especially when it’s deserved, is a relief.
Of course there is pain, and more to come. But pain also wipes the slate clean. The fault is paid for, and she can forgive herself, and know that she is forgiven.
Life begins afresh.
PS: I love those cane marks. They look like kisses in her flesh, which in a sense is what they were.
In last week’s Sinful Sunday, Arethusa stood in disgrace, waiting, holding the cane between her buttocks, not allowed to move.
She’d missed two doctor’s appointments. That broke Master’s first and second rules for her: obedience, and taking proper care of herself. Master said he was going to help her, but first he had to punish her. The wait had helped her to accept both of those facts.
Her Master took the cane from her at last, and led her to the kitchen table. He attached her wrists and ankles to spreader bars, and tied those bars, and therefore her, to the table.
Then he took up the cane again. She heard him give it several practice swishes through the air, and she knew that he needed no practice. He just wanted her to hear that ominous sound. Her caning was going to be severe.
The skin of her buttocks and back was alive, glowing with a kind of anticipation. Some of it was fear, but not all of it. At least, and at last, things were about to start being made right.