She has a wide range of expression while she’s being caned. For the first strokes she’s loud. Loud exhales. Pleading yelps. Brief, shuddery screams sometimes, right after taking a particularly hard one. But she stays still. For the first eight or ten or twelve strokes, she always manages to stay still.
After that: some movement. She bucks. Contorts. Reaches back to shield herself, but stays her hand before she gets in trouble for it. Shakes her hand like she’s trying to shake off pain. Shake off the impulse to protect her arse. Howls as she’s hit again. Buries her face in the pillow.
As it goes on marks accumulate on her skin. Pink at first. Then red raised welts. Then dark red, like grazes, overlapping, the spots where the tip of the cane fell outlined in red. Sometimes there’s blood.
After twenty or so strokes, she shakes. Her leg shakes. She presses her face into the pillow. Looks like she’s sobbing. Sometimes, at this stage, she’ll swear under her breath.Fuck. Oh fuck.
If you pull her up from the pillow, if you make her look at you, her eyes are wild. Looking everywhere, unsure where to settle. Like she’s looking for an escape route. Sometimes she looks at you. Beggingly. Sometimes, after a stroke, her gaze unfocusses, her mouth gapes. She scrabbles at empty air, looking like she cannot quite process the peak of the pain.
Eventually, she softens. The shuddering gives way to stillness. The yelps to grunts. She becomes slow, soft against the bed. Her eyes are heavy. She takes the strokes with quiet whimpers. Doesn’t struggle. Seems almost drugged. The noise of her frantic breath and her sounds of distress fades. For a moment or two there’s just the hard rhythmicsnapof the cane against her arse.
Once she’s soft like this, it’s almost over. You carry on until she’s marked to your satisfaction, until the promised number of strokes has been delivered, until it feels right that the beating should end. Then you put the cane away. Look at the marks you’ve made. Touch her gently in the small of the back, and feel her breath: slow and steady and, somehow, content.
