REREAD: YVAN IN THE DARKROOM: Caned
from
Recon News
19 October 2019
Yvan, also known as member QueerYvan, is an academic historian of sexuality. In an ongoing series, he's going to share some of his favourite fetish encounters (in a whole lot of detail), as well occasionally fill us in on the history of kink. In this article he shares the details of an intense caning session. Brace yourselves:
I am waiting, just as you told me to be. I am naked, on all fours, facing the fireplace, nose down to the Persian rug. The fire is warm on my back. The smell of ash and the sound of your boots on the wooden floor are all that is left of this world with my eyes closed, waiting for you.
You approach; I can tell I am being inspected, although at first you say nothing. I am holding myself just as I imagine you want me to be, but still the hard leather of your boot pushes my knees further apart. My stomach sinks. I never want to disappoint you. "Arch your back more. You should look like you want me to touch you. Give yourself to me."
I am fully exposed. I feel the rough laces of your boots caress my balls gently before you push harder and crush them against my body. "You won't me needing these today," you say. My breath is an inaudible sigh. I can feel myself getting slightly hard at your words; you kick my cock to shock me out of it.
You sit me up on my knees and grab my cock and balls in one hand and tie them with rough brown string, pulling everything to the front and making me hold the thread in my mouth. "You don't want these to get caned accidentally. Don't let go." When you push me back to the ground, the string tightens. Slowly, it gets wet with my saliva as I wait, pushing my arse back for you.
Your cane touches my side. I am alert, and everything is concentrated. You are talking about my body, but I am only half listening. I watch my breath. Your little taps make me conscious. Sometimes they sting; sometimes they surprise me. My skin wakes up for you.
When you swing harder, the cane whistles through the air and crashes into my ribs with a thud. I recoil but instantly put myself back in position for you. Increasing your swing, you hit me over and over, sometimes intensely repeating in the one spot, sometimes harder and more dispersed. It doesn't matter where you hit me, my body is for you to use as you like. The moments between the blows expand. Every sting of your cane ends as soon as the next one lands. When you stop to look back at me, my back and sides are covered in pink welts. "This one nearly broke the skin," you say, poking it with the tip of your cane. I am overcome. The string in my mouth is wet against my lips. You told me not to let go. This is why I haven't cried out.
You stand me up, with my hands behind me. My ribs are on fire. I can see the welts forming in the mirror. You catch me looking and ask me if I like what I see. I nod, still holding my cock and balls by the jute between my teeth. You take it from me and wrap it around my junk. My cock is drooling in excitement, half hard. Looking at me in the eyes, you slap it hard. "Focus on me," you say. "This is not about you."
You run your cane down my front and tell me to be ready. As soon as you say it, you cane my stomach. This is not the frenzy that woke me up. This is a deliberate, hard beating. You hit me, leaving big red marks. I double slightly with the blows, bracing myself for the next one instantly, snatching breaths when I can between the grunts. It is almost worse being able to watch. The muscles in your arms ripple when you swing. Your gaze is intent. Everything is focused on you. Your cane lands exactly where you intend, marking my body with evenly-spaced stripes that swell and throb. Sometimes you stop and touch them delicately, making me aware of how sensitive they are. Pain pulses through me like a drug, filling me with life.
Your fingers move to my pierced nipples, and you grab them hard, twisting and pulling them. "These are next," you say. "Don't flinch. I don't want to hit you in the face."
The first swing lands on my chest, just missing my piercing. The heavy thud crashes, reverberating in my empty lungs. The next is in exactly the same spot, intensifying my pain. You place the tip of your cane right on my nipple. "This is what I want," you say. You tap it deliberately, enough to make a sound with the metal on your cane. Each tap increases. You watch my face as I suffer. "You're going to give it to me, aren't you?" I nod, looking at you. I want you to take whatever you want. There is nothing else but this. With one hard crack, you hit me precisely and I double over, calling out. My nipple is swollen, feeling like it almost split. You touch it and I wince away. You don't have to say anything. I straighten up and let you touch me how you want. Breathe in; breathe out. Focus. You pinch my other nipple, pulling on it hard, regarding my face. It is a struggle; I try to breathe into it. When it seems too much, you slightly release the pressure, reading me until you can hurt me more. When you let go, I sob in relief at the loss of sensation. You spit in my face to remind me where I am.
"Put your hands here," you say, indicating the mantelpiece with your stick. "You have done well today. I think you have earned 100." You adjust my body just how you want it, my arse pushed back, my arms stretched out, my back long and bruised. Your hands remind me of every red line you have made in me. Every hot, swollen line. I am the mess you made me into. My dick is throbbing. You grab my cock and balls and squeeze them. I start to become excited. "Not today," you say to my reaction. "If you want pleasure, enjoy the pain."
You stand behind me, and line up your cane on my right cheek, white contrasting the red of my back. "Count in your head. But don't lose count."
The first ten are fast, the cane singing through the air until it crashes onto my skin. I hold my breath and clench tight as you thrash me. You let me recover between each set, always watching. Each time it is like an orgasm. You build me to a point and let me break, breathing out, overwhelmed, a tiny death. It starts to become sexual. I start to want you to hurt me. I stop caring for myself because I want you to take it all. The pain is not the same as before – now I am floating and each time you fill my body with sensation I am overcome. I writhe in a dance just for you. I am panting and wanting you. Forty-nine… fifty… I count in my head, relieved.
"Good," you say, when I tell you the right number. You come close to me, right in my space. "I like the other side better, so I can see your face while I hit you. Already you smell differently. Your sweat changes when I hurt you."
Your cane sizes up my left cheek. I am in a suspended reverie, waiting for your cruelty. I feel like a hole waiting to be filled. I can tell the end is near. I can tell that soon it will all stop, and I will start to come back down, but I am not ready yet. I push back against your cane. "Look at you, slut. You love it, don't you?" This is the first thing you have asked me about myself. The look on your face tells me that you like making me conscious of the creature I become for you. It is only with you that I share this part of myself.
This time, you do not start with ten but twenty rapid blows. Everything I had counted on falls apart. You beat me and beat me until I can barely stand, not knowing when you will stop. I move, and you follow, incessant. Every stroke hits the last and I can feel the tears well in my eyes. I breathe out too soon and am left with nothing to hold me. I can feel myself sob. You put your hand on my face. "Seventy," you say firmly. "Only thirty left." My lip quivers. My eyes are red.
The first of these are tiny. A parody of a beating. "Seventy-one; seventy-two…" you count each tap in a little voice. The difference is annoying. "Harder," I say to myself under my breath, but you do not hear. I move, and I count. Sometimes you hit me more brutally. "What number?" you ask. "seventy-eight". The next two are much more intense.
"Twenty left", you say, watching me start to break. "I think these should really count. Bend over for me, arse out." You lean back to watch me.
I feel your cane over both cheeks. The first swing whistles through the air and lands hard. You are not in a rush now. This is all controlled. "Eighty-one," I say. You continue like this. The time between each swing seems to expand. Sometimes I whimper at the anticipation of the next blow. "Eighty-four… Eighty-five." My arse is red hot. I am biting my lip and twisting. Every swing makes me scared, but still I stand, giving you my arse. The pain is so intense now that every time you raise your arm I flinch. "Ninety-nine."
The last blow. You take your time to swing, I do not know how long I stand there, my arse pushed back, waiting to take you. The last blow. You hit into me deeply. The pain radiates through me – I hear myself gasp in an animal sound. I cannot stand still. My hands reach around and hold my damaged body – big, thick welts beneath my fingers, my skin both sore and numb. Already I am turning purple. These are the marks I build my identity around. "Thank you," I say quietly, looking down. You touch my face and tell me to meet you outside in the sun when I am ready.
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