A single moment in a caning. October 05, 2016 A Fantasy by SirPeterB The hand holds me in the comfortable and assured manner it always holds me, from the moment the hand picked me up I knew I was in a comfortable place and what was about to happen.This hand has selected me on several occasions always returning me satisfied, sated and sometimes a portion of my far end, that end furthest from the hand is covered in her blood. The hand flexes and I travel through short arcs almost invisible to the world around me but it’s my cue that the hand will lift and place me against the naked flesh again, just below the raised mark of the 16th strike. I'm rested against her flesh as the hand waits for her breathing to come back to its smooth even rhythm and the composure return to her posture as she prepares herself for my return. The hand draws me back and forth along her flesh, parallel to each of my previous visits to this warm willing flesh. The hands moves and I feel myself lifted along the familiar arc to that place reserved only for me, far above everything in the room, I see the parallel marks of my previous strikes and prepare myself for the flexibility needed for what is to come, I hear the room silent of every sound except her breathing and the thunder of anticipation only I can hear. It begins; the hand moves down along its prepared arc and I feel myself flexing as the displaced air in my path begins to whistle, the speed building; faster and faster; the faster I move the more I flex. Knowingly I wait for it; There it is, the hand flicks, I've felt the acceleration it creates so many times before and now we are there; Smack; we have contact, glorious hard and sharp contact. Her flesh turns to white along my impact line and shock waves ripple across her flesh a moment before I feel the silent scream of her shock. My moment of impact is over, drawn away to watch the mayhem left behind I see her clenching buttock and arched back and hear the moan that fills the room intoxicating all who hear it. Limbs pull against restraints as the white line of contact turns red and the pain courses through her body releasing endorphins to rush to her brain to subdue the climatic orgasm of pain. The hand moves gently to her flesh, I hear the soft firm voice testing her, measuring everything known about her, reaching into her soul to determine if that last glorious strike will be her last cane strike today. Enjoy this story? Give us your rating. Join now and vote for the story!