Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 127: Last strokes of the thinner cane

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

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.

(The least he could have done is take his watch off)

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. 

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