MISS MAKEOVER JUDICIAL CANING. ENDORPHIN EXTREMISM

By on December 5, 2010

Realistic prison floggings. Savage lashes from a long, thick rod. Just when you think human beings haven’t plumbed the depths of idiocy they find something even more dumb to spend their time and money on. I like caning people as much as anyone else on earth. I’d do it even if I didn’t get paid for it. But why risk scarring for life, not to forget extreme pain, without having first committed some enjoyable crime? Maybe it’s an extreme endorphin high, something like bungee jumping. Reading about these grim ceremonies in places like Singapore I imagined the recipient shrieking in agony. Oddly enough the Thai government has put some real judicial caning on You Tube. Men in manky underclothes are called into a jail yard then strapped into some grisly apparatus leaving their buttocks bare. Despite the extreme impact, the tearing of flash to reveal the muscles beneath, prisoner after prisoner makes no sound. Likeliest is that they have all taken opium or heroin before the beating. Maybe, like English Public School boys once did, they train themselves to cope. Whatever, I think I’ll be giving Thailand a miss this year. Don’t want to end up trussed to a trestle. Waiting for some bull dyke to lash the skin clean off my bum.
Today’s client is an unpleasant, over confident, over-fit, builder. Yes, a builder. Those swindling, leering, simian oafs. They’re not even any good at building. Even if the client is happy (rare) the neighbours are in agony for months on end. If he didn’t actually crave this I’d love to give him a good, hard thrashing, just to put him in his place. I’d love to make him wait between each stroke, hold out as long as possible until he has tasted every single reverberation of pain, and until he dreads with entire being the next full armed lash. But that’s not going to work because he’s gagging for it.
I strap a ball gag on, get him over the bench and put some tribal drumming drumming on the sound system. It will ease his pain, intensify the trance. I intone some laughable nonsense about his crimes in a very serious voice. He can’t wait for me to start. Inspiration descends. He doesn’t want to be devalued. He wants to be superhard. So I’ll go the other way. I glove up, walk over and contemptuously slap his firm, shaven bottom. I lean down next to his ear.
“Think you’re tough, soldier? You’re going to be crying like a little baby soon. And there won’t be any mummy to help you. Just me. And the cane. Till you’re crying your eyes out.”
I slap him softly on his sweet spot, low down, in the middle, where it will trigger anal pleasure. I keep on even though he’s tapping the floor with his right foot, a clear signal to stop. If I keep on long enough maybe it will make him a little bum boy eventually. Instead of this swaggering geezer I so detest. I put the tip of my gloved finger right on the middle of his cleft. It’s practically mainstream this stuff. But maybe he’s a little conflicted. I gently prise his cheeks apart, then let them fall together. He’s squirming, shaking his head. This isn’t the fantasy he’s paying me for me. I am being a very bad Dominatrix. But I don’t want him to get quite the thrill he’s seeking.
My fingertip’s inside him again.
“This is what faggots get. Butt-fucking, cock-sucking faggots.” He’s hurting his toes he’s giving me signal red so hard. He’s shaking his head wildly. He can’t get off the flogging bench, as we had agreed he would need to be firmly secured.  He’s trying to talk through his gag. Seeing how much good two rubber gloved fingers have done and insert another, nearly up to the knuckle now.
I’m whispering in his ear again. Matching the words to the beat of the drums. “You hate it. You love it. You hate it. You Love It.”
He’s never loved anything less. But maybe that’ll change when  he’s using this session to come tonight.
Perhaps I’ll be in danger afterwards. I’ve got my mace handy but even so I’d better cane some sense into him. I walk back gat the thickest two metre long Dragon cane and tap him to take aim. One full armed blow and his head snaps back. His eyes close. I can hear a strangled gasp and his breath quicken and deepen. The initial white line goes deep red, the first crimson welt. There’s fear now, perhaps he realises this isn’t just a gig for me. I’m getting off on taming him.
Real judicial would have been silent, in a cold room in clear hard light. Or dragged out to be flogged in the tropical sun.  Still, I’m a lot better looking than a nasty little man in a peaked cap and pressed shorts. I hope that will that console him. Sixty strokes. It’s going to be a long twenty minutes…

2 Comments

mark ramsden

December 15, 2010 @ 01:40

WOOF! I say…
I imagine the queue to help you with a spot of therapeutic impact play would stretch from Club Rub to Torture Garden Brighton.

Laura O'Connor

December 12, 2010 @ 17:21

Reading this has made me realise my absinence of the scene has been very daft……my bottom needs a good flogging!!!

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