Raylene dropped, as I’d told her, squatting on her toes. She looked up at me, still in slight disbelief, and I nodded. She let her weight fall forward onto her hands, fingers and thumbs on the carpet, and kicked her legs back.

She paused in plank position, her weight resting on her toes and her straining arms. Her arse, still freshly, redly, caned and – she’d complained – burning hot, squirmed appealingly with the effort. Then she came back to squat position. She paused. 

I touched her side with the cane. The heavier cane that was going to deliver the next twelve strokes. “Keep going and don’t stop for a second. And count them. Out loud. Say, ‘one!'”

“One! Master.” There was a slightly whiny tone to the second word, as if a kind master wouldn’t do this to her.

I was unsympathetic. “Just do as you’re told.”

She dropped and performed again. “Two, Master.”

“And anyway, it’s for your own good. It’ll keep you from being too stiff tomorrow.”

She nodded as she came upright again. “Three, Master.” She sounded better.

I had no idea whether the exercise would reduce muscular stiffness from her caning. No one in their right mind should take health advice from an obvious pervert.

But I did know, or strongly guess, that Raylene was enjoying the display she was making. And I knew she could feel Lynette’s cool, appraising interest, watching her move as she worked her ass and thighs. As well as my more overt pleasure in her.

“Four, Master.” She sounded a little winded. I brought the cane down on her upper hip, very gently, and she sped up.

“Five, Sir. I mean Master!”

“You’ve already got an extra punishment stroke coming, Raylene. There can be more.”

“Yes, Master! I’m sorry. Six, Master.”

Squat thrusts involve five steps. First, the person squats down on their toes. Second, they put their hands on the floor. Third, they shoot their legs back, so so they’re supported by their hands and toes, in the “plank” position you’d get in to do press-ups. Fourth, they bring their feet back under them, back into the squat position. Fifth, they straighten up. Then repeat.

Until the man holding the cane tells them to stop.

For most people this is a good cardio exercise that also gives the glute and quadricep muscles a bit of work. For me, it was the only exercise movement I could think of and name. For Raylene it meant a room full of people watching her breasts bounce while she awkwardly worked and showed off the muscles of her caned ass.

She looked at me. Her eyebrows arched appealingly. I pulled her shoulder before she had time to form a request. I had her half turned, and I smacked her ass, a hard fleshy impact on sore skin. So instead of begging me not to humiliate her she yelped: “Owww! Thank you, master!”

“Raylene, I didn’t ask you to thank me. But when I say ‘go’, you’re going to drop to the floor – quickly – and get started.” 

Raylene looked at her bedroom floor. She’d been seeing a lot of it lately. She sounded resigned. “Yes, master.” 

“Lynette. That cane under your arm. Could you pass it please?”

“Oh!” It was as if Lynette had forgotten she held the thicker length of bamboo. She grasped it like an officer with a swagger stick, and handed it to me. “One cane. Use it wisely.”

Our eyes met while the cane passed between us. “And hard, you think?”

“Oh yes. Yes, please.”  

“I think so too.” I looked at Raylene, who had nothing left of her usual self-possession.

She put her hands on her head. She wanted to show she was good.

She was thoroughly disconcerted, red-faced, a muscle in her torso fluttering under the skin. I touched her belly with the bamboo. She fought to keep still, sucking her stomach in.

“Raylene, it’s the heavier cane for you, from now on, if you put a foot wrong. So mind yourself. Now: Go!”

Aware of my gaze, and Lynette’s, Raylene dropped. In every sense of the word.

The first movement after a caning is the hardest

Even with my hand comforting her hips, Raylene seemed likely to continue being vocal unless stopped. So I said, “Get up, girl.”

“Oooh. Ooof. Oh Jesus, Master, that really hurt.” Raylene pushed her upper body up from the desk, and straightened up.

There was a box of tissues on her dresser. I passed them. “Clean your face up, love. And you can stop crying.”

“Thank you.” She meant for the tissues. She honked noisily. It took her four fluffy handfuls before she was ready. She stepped towards me and I held my arms out. I held her round her waist, no lower, while she snuggled in. Her belly bumped against my erection.

“Unh.” I said that. The contact had made me leak, a tiny trickle of pre-come.

Raylene pressed herself closer, and wriggled. “Oh,” she said. “You weren’t even slightly sorry for me, were you?”

Why do caned submissive want to rub their arses? I’ll never know. It looks … painful, and you know I’m against that

“Unh. Girl… Well, a bit. Maybe. But hotness sort of overrode that.” I grinned lopsidedly so that she’d know I didn’t mean what I was about to say. “Sorry.”

“Hah.” Raylene stepped back and put her hands on her hips. She pushed down, straightening her back. “God, my arse feels like it weighs a ton. And it’s doubled in size.”

Dorabella had picked up the thin cane, holding it as I’d told her.

She was inspecting the business end for damage, “Raylene, your bum looks like an angry tomato. Actually.”

Lynette said, “In a good way. You look… well. Hot.”

Gymnastics, and thrusting, but the is NOT a squat thrust. They’re doing it wrong.

Raylene touched her fingertips very lightly on the corrugations across her ass. “Hot is right. It buuuuuuurns. I’ll be so stiff tomorrow.”

A joke about ‘stiff’ crossed my mind. But I thought of something better. “Well, we can fix that. Do you know how to do squat thrusts?”

“Squat thrusts?” She tried to sound amazed that such words even existed, especially in combination.

But she knew what they were.

This is what mascara is for. Though real-Raylene wasn’t a mascara-wearer

Raylene’s sobs enchanted me. The room was still, except for the writhing of her bottom and thighs and the bobbing and turning of her head as she cried. Tear tracks shone in the morning light.

Lynette and Dorabella seemed not to be breathing. So I wasn’t the only person in that room to be ensorcelled.

But if I stopped for too long Raylene would recover and the tension would dissipate. I had to get on with it. I said, “Two strokes to go.”

The cane sped down, making that sharp, loud CRACK of bamboo meeting flesh. I’d aimed for the rounded, muscled crown of her ass. Raylene managed to hold her upper body down, but her sobs got louder. The cane had marked a new track, already red, and rising into a weal.

I watched, open-mouthed, to make sure I’d remember the sight and sound of her forever. Her tears aroused me; her sobbing made me pitiless and hard. My face felt cold and my stomach felt empty.

A helpful porn actor demonstrates what I did not do. The least he could have done is take his watch off)

I wanted to feel my cock buried in her, wet and warm and needy, and to savour the heat of her ass held tight against me.

If I did fuck Raylene right now I’d probably last only seconds before I came in her. I suspected Raylene wouldn’t be able to hold off much longer.

But fucking Raylene in front of Dorabella and Lynette wasn’t quite what they’d signed up for as witnesses. And it’d feel wrong to throw them out after going to all the trouble of getting them into this room. So I drew back the cane again. It would the last stroke I gave her with the thinner bamboo cane. It was written: this stroke had to hurt her.

“There’ll be a short break before we switch to the thicker cane. But the last one has to be hard. So be ready, Dorabella. One.”  

I made it a hard stroke, but still on the most well-muscled part of her bottom. So Raylene could keep her nerve, and her position, though she shouted incoherently before returning to full sobbing, like a wretched, abandoned baby. 

I put the cane down beside her on the desk, and ran my hand along the upper slopes of her hips to comfort her. Raylene let go her grip of the desk legs and reached back a hand to cover mine.

Lynette and Dorabella both breathed out. 

Dorabella’s robe falling open again was an MGM moment: that vista of creamy smooth stomach and the inner slopes of her breasts, revealed again. Dorabella knew she’d caught my attention. She didn’t close it, this time. 

I glanced at Lynette. She’d switched to filming Dorabella’s open robe and its revelations. She started a little guiltily when she saw me looking at her, and quickly moved the camera frame back to Raylene’s ass.

I said, “Bad girl.” But I might have meant all three of them, for one reason or another.

I swung the cane again, letting the bamboo land medium-hard, the stroke making that wonderful sharp sound of bamboo meeting flesh. It crossed other strokes on the fleshiest part of Raylene’s bottom. Raylene cried out, the impact and heat setting her ass bobbing in furious motion. But there were no sobs.

Beside me I heard Lynette sigh. A release of tension, or a response to the primordially sexual sight Raylene presented: I couldn’t tell.

“Last three with this cane now, Raylene. If you behave.”

She didn’t answer, except to move her grip on the desk legs. There was tension in her arms: she didn’t want to let go.

But the next stroke was the fourth of this series, and I’d decided that those had to be hard. I aimed it ruthlessly low.

Raylene jolted violently when the cane bit her, just above her thighs, and despite her determination her hands lost their grip of her desk. She gasped with the shock of pain, and struggled with Dorabella, trying to get up.

Dorabella’s face was a mask of concentration. She held on to Raylene’s shoulders and pressed down with all her weight and strength.

After a second or two Raylene gave up her struggle, relaxed and resumed her grip on the desk legs. She yowled once from pain and frustration, and her head turned anguishedly from side to side. She resumed her sobbing.

But this time I knew I had the audience on my side.

Raylene’s sobs quietened while I watched her, holding the cane by my side. A sun-caught diamond tear fell from her cheek to the floor. Dorabella still held Raylene down but the look she gave me was accusing. 

At this time in my career, making a girl cry was still a new and unusual experience.

I’d thought, the first time it had happened, that it meant she was having a horrible time and she hated me. So I’d put down the paddle I’d been using and – I’d thought – comforted her. Only to find her annoyed: “Wha’d you stop for?”

So this time I listened. Raylene only had to say, “Stop!” and that’d make it clear. But she wouldn’t say “go on“. If she wanted me to continue I’d have to figure it out for myself. So I listened. The sobs were quiet, introspective, to herself. And, I decided, they seemed to be more a kind of release, a catharsis, rather than misery. So I should go on. 

But I had two other women watching, and they weren’t about to let me cane Raylene while she wept. If I were alone I’d take the risk of being wrong, but they wanted certainty.

Dorabella took her hands off Raylene’s shoulders and began to stroke her hair. Lynette was still filming but she was frowning.

I was losing my audience. 

I said, as though I was cross with her, “Raylene.” 

Sniffles. Eventually she said, “Yes, master?”

“Where should Dorabella’s hands be?”

“Uh.” She looked up at her sister. “Bellie, you’re supposed to be holding me down. So I don’t get out of position.” 

“You sure?” Still stroking Raylene’s hair.

“Oh, yes. I really don’t want to get out of place. That really wouldn’t go well.” She looked back at me, as best she could, her upper lip shiny, then turned back to Dorabella. “Please?”

Dorabella frowned, uncertain. But I’d felt Lynette, beside me, relax. I could afford to push a little. I raised the cane. “Dorabella,” It was the command voice. Dorabella put her hands back on Raylene’s shoulders.  She looked at me, half defiantly. “Press down hard, Dorabella. If I give Raylene extra strokes because you let her up, I’ll hold you responsible.” 

Dorabella looked at me, uncertain. Was I still claiming a right to cane her? She frowned and then looked down at her sister’s bare back. She leaned forward, pressing her weight down.

The robe fell open again.