“Ah Rudi, thank you for staying behind. I think we need to have a chat about your contributions to the Creative Writing workshop.”
“What do you mean, Alicia?” I had hoped for a reaction to “The Yellow Dress”. She had provided my inspiration when she wore a short yellow summer dress to our summer school class a few weeks ago. It seemed this might be the moment.
“Well I hope you realise I’m no prude, but I don’t feel we can do a proper group critique when you write about caning a naked bottom and the …” she struggled for the right words, “The aftermath. What will the ladies think!?”
“Well they might quite like it.” I was a little flippant. “Better than their trite love stories at least. They probably all have 50 Shades of Grey in their library.”
“Not the point and you know it!” she snapped. “You know there is more art in showing rather than telling. What’s left to the imagination is at the heart of erotica. Graphic displays belong with pornography, and that debases us all.”
Clearly I’d touched a nerve. “Okay, I’ll bite. Tell me what you mean.”
“Okay, let’s take this section;” Alice read the passage, her crisp English accent adding a certain frisson to the words.
He slipped his fingers into her waistband, and slid the knickers off her cheeks and down to her feet. He could sense the bounce of her cheeks as he palmed them, and the sight of her tight hole revealed deep in the cleft. He imagined it was he who then applied twelve hard, slow stripes to her cheeks. Afterwards, with her still bent, he would step behind her to paint the red stripes with the juice seeping from his hard cock. With his orgasm mounting he imagined sliding his cock deep into her tight, young cunt, gasping as his release came.
Hearing my words read aloud by this beautiful woman sent shivers through my body, exiting through my penis and jolting him into a full, steaming erection. As she finished reading the atmosphere almost crackled. She looked up from the page.
Her voice caught a little as she critiqued my work. “Obviously the imagery is very strong, Rudi. But I wonder if it might be stronger still if you were to paint a picture and show the reader the situation, rather than telling them your fantasy. Allow the reader to see themselves in this young woman’s place perhaps?”
I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. I croaked out a reply. ”Well, you see this is all imaginary,” I began. “I’ve never actually been in this situation. I don’t think I quite know what you mean.”
“So you’re breaking a second cardinal rule, which we will address shortly. But in the meantime, perhaps I can help. Have you ever written from life?”
“You mean, like sitting at the beach and using words to paint the scene? Yes, I’ve tried that.”
“Okay, so let’s try that route. I want you to paint the picture you see.” And with that, Alicia bent from the waist in front of me. She slid her hands over her buttocks and down her thighs to catch the hem, and then slowly lifted the fabric up her legs and over her cheeks. I know I gasped out loud as she revealed her bottom. Her cheeks were full, lightly tanned and essentially naked. A black strip of lace plunged from the waistband down into her cleft, where is disappeared between the full twin moons. She spread her feet slightly and the cup of fabric encasing her mound came into view.
“Now,” she said, “I want you to use all your senses to embrace what you see. Your writing will be so much stronger as a result. Feel my bottom, use your eyes, be aware of scent.”
I stepped closer and gingerly cupped her cheeks, sliding my hands up and around her smooth flesh. My fingertip lingered on the slight scratch of the lace, hooking beneath the dividing strip to ease it up and out of her cleft. I could smell a perfume mingling with the scent of her arousal as I slid my finger down the lacy divide to the dampness where her mound was cupped.
I was lost in the sensations of this beautiful bottom. Alicia broke the spell. “I think you need to know what it feels like to cane a woman, if you are to write good erotica,” she said. “Under my desk there’s a package.”
I retrieved the slender bundle and withdrew a length of rattan, maybe two feet long with a bound handle and 3/8 inch in diameter. The wood was burnished brown and seemed old.
“Take your aim carefully. You want to strike my cheeks, and not whip around the side. Stand to my left and extend your arm so that the tip rests midway across my right cheek.” I did as instructed, still in awe that I would actually cane this delightful bottom. Alicia reached back to check my placement of the cane.
“Good, now pull back and let me have it!” I moved my arm back to a 45 degree angle and snapped it back down. The effect was very underwhelming, and lacked the crack I had imagined. Alicia was ready with a critique. “You’re too stiff. You need to use your wrist for a flick. Try again.”
I positioned myself again, pulled back and snapped the cane into her cheeks. It felt better but didn’t have the satisfying thwack I had imagined. And Alicia had barely moved at all under the impact.
“I think you need to give it more oomph. Here, let me show you.” And with that she stood and my vision was gone. “Get yourself in position and I will show you what a proper stroke feels like.”
I hesitated, naturally. “Oh come along, Rudi. We’re both adults here. Get your pants down and bend over. You can’t write what you don’t know.” As I continued to prevaricate she reached forward, flicked the button open on my shorts and whipped them down, dragging my underpants down too. My erect cock bobbed a little as he was suddenly exposed. “Oooh, now that’s a nice surprise for a lady,” she smiled, as she squeezed my shaft gently. Then, using my cock as a handle she guided me into position. And so now I was bent over, hands on knees and feet spread, waiting to feel my first ever cane stroke.
Alicia talked me through her preparations in real time. “Arm out straight, cane tip in the middle of the far buttock cheek. Tap a couple of times for luck,” – her ‘taps’ were rather more solid than I had envisioned! – “And then back and down with a flick of the wrist.” As she spoke I heard the brief whistle as the cane descended and then the momentary sensation of the impact as my nerve endings shot messages of surprise and pain to my brain. The reply was swift and unequivocal.
I shot upright. “Jeezus that hurt! Did you have to do it so hard?” I was rubbing my rump in indignation, forgetting for a moment that I had already delivered two strokes to Alicia’s tender cheeks.
“Don’t be such a baby. That was a gentle stroke. Your heroine gets 12 from you! Get back over. You need to know what you’re writing about.” She was teasing my deflated cock with the cane tip as she spoke, and quickly got the reaction she had intended. “When we’re done, you can try again on my behind, se if you’ve improved enough to finish the story. Driven once again by my groin and the unstated promise of more action to come, I assumed the position once more.
“Now, to give this caning some purpose, let’s apply some rules. You must count and say ‘thank you Miss’, and if you move, you get extra. So, you gave your young lady 12, so you get the same. Count!” The cane whipped down, far harder than last time. “ONE!” I yelped. “Thank you Miss.”
I don’t know how, but I stayed down for all twelve strokes. I was sweating, panting and quivering as she dropped the cane and gently ran her fingers over the criss-cross of welts that decorated my cheeks. I knew now that a caning was not some lighthearted erotica, but a serious, painful experience. And yet, now the immediacy of the pain was over the heat and tingling suffused into a depth of sensation I had never felt before. I felt alive, so alive and invigorated, cleansed almost. I felt Alicia’s hand as she cupped my balls from behind, gently teasing life back into my cock.
“Now, that’s a caning,” she whispered as she stroked my shaft. “And if I recall your narration, you took this and fucked your heroine. We can swap over for that part, or if you prefer, I have a dildo in my bag …”