In the shower I wondered how Raylene was doing, out there in just a t-shirt, with two lengths of bamboo to select and cut. I expected her to come back as red-faced as I intended to make her arse.
Nah, I thought, Raylene’s arse was going to be a lot redder than her face by the time she and I had finished.
Dorabella, Raylene’s sister, had told me that Raylene expected to be caned hard.
I thought it was quite likely that Raylene had told her something like that, but that would just be bravado. I shouldn’t take it at face value. Raylene had no idea what a hard caning would feel like. She’d find out one day, if we stayed together, but not on her very first time.
Still, I had to make her feel those two canes and believe the strokes were hard, and I had to mark her. Enough for her to see the stripes showing up bright in the mirror afterwards, and for the hardest stripes to take a couple of days to fade.
The fact that she had no idea what a hard caning would feel like made that easier. I was confident that a medium-strength caning would hurt satisfyingly, and that I could throw in a bit of rhetoric about how merciless I was being.
There’s nearly always an element of farce about these things.
I’d said I was punishing Raylene for being rude to Lynette at dinner last night. But I didn’t really care about that fairly mild piece of teasing. That was farce too. I’d just wanted to up the ante between Raylene and me.
We’d both find her caning hot, and it’d make her closer to me: more mine.
So I decided I’d give her a dozen with each cane. Two dozen in all. With enough force that she believed in the strokes, and every fourth stroke a little harder than the others. So on the second day, if she coloured well and held colour, she should have six stripes still showing up across her ass. She’d like to see those. So would I.
These thoughts had given me a raging erection, not interested in delays or subtleties. Also, it would be pretty conspicuous, even when I was dressed.
I thought about the ear structure of the African elephant, my stand-by when I need to discourage erections, but for once it made no difference.
I got out of the shower, and used Raylene’s still damp towel. I tried to think about anything other than Raylene’s ass. Unless thinking about Dorabella’s and briefly speculating about Lynette’s counted, I failed.
Damn thing would not go down.
Oh well. I put my clothes back on. My shirt smelled of cunt (how did that happen? I couldn’t remember), also sweat, and male arousal. Raylene hadn’t got back yet.