Bonnie-Jo Gets Caned
Apparently you can “play-slap” your boyfriend too many times:
We had just returned from a garage sale from which we had purchased a round, solid wood table for our apartment. College Guy put a pillow on the table, and positioned me against it. “Keep your hands right here, don’t move them, keep your body on the table. Keep your feet down.” He slipped my dress up over my hips, and I gripped the tables edge in my hands and thought that when I purchased the table at the garage sale, I had no idea what a good buy it was.
I lay there quietly, perhaps whimpering a bit. The emotion of the scene was the type I tend to really crave every once in awhile and the type College Guy does not tend to dish out that often. He traced my bottom with the cane, then began tiny test- thwacks with it, not really a teasing action, but more of a sinister one. Like a cat playing with a mouse before he eats it.
The first cane stroke or two were normal. Painful, scary, but not too bad. The truth is, for some reason, ever since we moved in together, the cane had not been hurting like it had in the past, So I wasn’t as horrified as I possibly should have been.
Then, something happened that has never happened before.
He drew back and let that cane rip. It was only one blow, but it hit higher than he has possibly ever hit me before, at the very top of my bottom. It was high, and it hurt. The skin there is somehow so much more sensitive to cane strokes, I guess.
One blow had never hurt me that much before. And I broke my hold on the table and stood up straight for a second. Somehow, though, I didn’t end up sitting on the floor telling him I wanted to be done. The next second I was positioned back on the table (I really can’t remember if I just went back or if he pushed me back down.) But I was sobbing. Sobbing from one cane stroke.
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