A Caning for a Wanton Painslut

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I raise the cane and bring it down like the first drop of rain in a summer shower lightly upon the twin peaches of her cheeks. She says nothing and hardly stirs...

Ryde Harbour. Ryde Harbour at night:

I talk of Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Ayn Rand. She talks of the artists.

Her auburn hair blows gently across her elegant features in the chill November breeze – she is beautiful. And she is wanton.

I want to be kind to her, protect her…

The yachts rock gently against their moorings, the water rippling.

Beyond lies the old pavilion now a bowling alley and beyond that the town rising gradually up on the easy slopes.

She kisses me catching me unawares. And I in turn catch her hand.

I see the yachts tugging gently against their moorings. I see the dark water rippling in the sodium lights. I see it all, the town and everything as on canvas, but not as an artist would have it, frozen in time but rather as alive and dynamic painted in moving colours upon the canvas of oblivion.

I look at her. Tall and willowy. Her blue eyes are plaintive.

I press my mouth softly against hers.

I want to be kind to her, protect her…

  •  

"Strip."

She says nothing, merely obeys.

I want to be kind to her, protect her…

I grasp her fine breasts and maul her roughly.

I pinch her nipples.

"Come with me."

I want to be kind to her, protect her…

  •  

She is naked face down on the bed.

She had told me - defied me - that she would not cry.

She did not say that she would not surrender.

I wanted to be kind to her, protect her, protect her from myself but that was never to be. The cane is in my hand, power. Absolute power.

Her pale legs are long and her back is liberally spotted with moles – a myriad of beguiling islands upon an exquisite ivory sea.

I raise the cane and bring it down like the first drop of rain in a summer shower lightly upon the twin peaches of her cheeks. She says nothing and hardly stirs.

Again I guide it down, harder.

The drops become a shower.

She begins to twist and gasp. And the shower becomes a storm.

She writhes and squeals but does not sob and her beautiful white buttocks are now a palette of crimson.

I cane her hard, very hard and with cruel intent once more.

She pulls her long legs up to her quivering body and pushes herself up onto her elbows – the pain is over.

She throws herself at my body in her moment of surrender.

I can be kind now.

I take her fine head in my arms and stroke her long hair. She is mine now.

I comfort her and then lower her to the mattress.

Her blue eyes are sad.

On her back now I make her grip the supports of the frame such that her sexy arms are stretched out.

I pull her legs apart and force my head betwixt her thighs. She is shaved.

I thrust my fingers into her cunt and suck and lick her clit. I squeeze her tits roughly.

I pump her slowly at first then gradually faster – I keep my tongue in time.

Steadily I increase the pace.

I feel the sudden contractions of her cunt grip my fingers. I merely thrust more strongly.

She cries out as though in pain - cries out my name.

I do not stop. I cannot stop.

Time after time she comes. Time after time she screams.

She is a wanton woman and I am addicted to her. Utterly and absolutely…


Submitted: May 30, 2022

© Copyright 2022 Matt Triewly. All rights reserved.

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