CHAPTER 24
Zeke
There was a technique to caning. While most submissives, even masochists, would enjoy the thud of the rattan cane against their backside, it was one of the more impactful tools.
It would leave bruises under the skin and welts on the top, provided it was used correctly.
But it wasn’t about the visible marks it would leave as much as it was the pain it would cause.
A Dom had to be mindful of how hard and how often they were striking the submissive in order to have the desired effect.
When it came to caning, it wasn’t about constant hitting.
If struck too quickly, the submissive wouldn’t experience the full impact.
The point was to allow the submissive to feel the thud of the cane and the reverberation that came from it.
Striking too quickly defeated the purpose.
The same went for how the cane landed and where.
I’d done numerous canings in my BDSM lifetime.
I’d even been caned myself more than once.
I found it important to understand how the tools felt in order to deliver what was needed for a particular submissive.
Hence, I’d endured having every tool in my arsenal used on me and by more than one Dom.
It was about understanding the various techniques and the outcome.
I took my cane—I preferred a three-eighths-inch rattan cane—and held it firmly in my hand as I walked around the pretty boy.
I admired the lines of his body, the way he looked restrained on the bench.
His ass and the backs of his thighs were on display, and very soon, everyone standing near would be able to see the wicked stripes delivered by my hand.
Due to the height of the bench, the pretty boy was exactly where he needed to be for my swing to land perfectly on the fleshy part of his body. It would allow me to hit him accurately and as easy or as hard as I chose.
I wouldn’t be going easy on him.
Because I knew my submissive well, I didn’t feel the need to confirm his safe word for club protocol. Although he technically didn’t have one, he would know I would heed it should he need to use it, so I trusted him to do so. My only objective was sending him into subspace.
It was easy to block out everyone and everything around us. Out of respect for me, no one was speaking. The only sounds were the music pulsing through the speakers and the noises from the other scenes taking place a short distance away.
After one more pass around the bench, I placed my hand firmly on the pretty boy’s back, silently signaling I was ready to start. After a light squeeze of my fingers, I removed my hand and placed the cane against his ass, exactly where I intended to land the first blow.
I pulled back and delivered perfectly, allowing the cane to bounce lightly and remain on the mark I’d made.
As for whether the pretty boy experienced the white-hot heat that bloomed on the line I’d made or if he’d focused on the searing sensation or the vibration through his body, I didn’t know.
I turned and landed another blow on the opposite side in the same place.
After allowing it to sink in for a moment, giving the pretty boy an idea of what he could expect from me, I decided it was time to proceed.
I focused on pacing and rhythm, delivering each blow in a different spot along his ass and the backs of his legs. The marks were appearing beautifully, red welts marring his skin. Every so often, the pretty boy would grunt or groan, a definite sign he was enjoying himself.
I allowed myself to drift into that mindset some called Domspace.
It was a high unlike any other, the ability to deliver pain to someone who craved it.
These were the moments I looked forward to.
The way I felt, the invincible feeling. My cock swelled behind the zipper of my jeans, pure pleasure pulsing through my veins.
Like the pretty boy, I, too, craved the endorphin high more so than the release.
As I moved along, I began dragging the cane over the mark I’d just made, drawing an agonizing groan from the pretty boy.
My eyes never strayed from what I was doing, paying attention to the marks, ensuring I hadn’t split the skin.
My cock twitched and jerked with every mark that appeared, proof that I was taking my pleasure from his pain.
I’d been taking my time, purposely keeping him from soaring too high, but I knew he was ready for the encore.
Pure, raw satisfaction radiated from my insides as I released the last of the vicious blows that would send him into subspace, his mind detaching from his body as endorphins flooded his system, that natural high he worked so hard to receive taking over.
When I was finished, I set the cane down and returned to the pretty boy. I ran my hand over the marks, admiring my work, enjoying the way he hissed and flinched. I couldn’t wait to see the bruises that would appear later on.
I caught Mistress Jane’s attention and motioned her over.
She brought along two male submissives who went to work unhooking the belts holding the pretty boy down.
When they got him upright, I looked into his eyes.
They glittered with heat, his cock rock hard from the experience.
For the first time, I was tempted to lead him into an aftercare room and finish what we started.
I could take care of him while he took care of me.
My gaze strayed to the cowboy, still kneeling at Ransom’s feet, and I decided against it. Aftercare was for someone else to handle. Once he was feeling more like himself, I would take them home and lose myself in the pretty boy for a little while.
Mistress Jane nodded toward me, her signal that she was taking my charge into her care. I didn’t nod back, choosing to go back to my toy bag and load up my gear, forcing my mind to detach from the scene.
The pretty boy was in good hands. I had to dispel the absurd discomfort I suddenly felt knowing someone else would be touching what belonged to me, caring for him. There was a reason I’d selected a Domme. My fuck toy would find her care clinical at best, nothing arousing.
For some reason, although I knew that deep down, it did little to assuage that strange possessiveness that erupted in my gut.
“Master Zeke? May I clean up for you now?”
Without looking at the submissive, I growled a confirmation, my eyes remaining on my bag. I inhaled deeply, let it out slowly. This wasn’t the time or place for me to get caught up in some misplaced feelings. In fact, as far as I was concerned, there was never going to be a time or place.
I simply had to figure out how to remind myself before I went and did something stupid.
Case (the pretty boy)
My ass was on fire. Even three hours later, when we were back at Zeke’s, I could still feel the singe as that cane struck my ass. My jeans were causing friction, which made me grit my teeth. And yet my insides were glowing like hot coals. I wasn’t sure the last time I’d felt this damn good.
Zeke had been silent ever since he’d come to get me from the aftercare room, his body present but his mind somewhere off in the distance.
Once I had floated back to earth and Mistress Jane had coated my welts in some ointment, we had returned to the Doms’ lounge, listening as everyone wanted to discuss the scene.
I had kept my mouth shut while my ass blazed from the pain that lingered.
The marks were there, the bruises already appearing, and I felt an odd sense of attachment to Zeke because he’d given them to me.
Yet I had noticed he hadn’t acknowledged me since we left the club.
It was evident he wasn’t angry, but he was rather morose, despondent.
Brooding, maybe. Or perhaps he was simply reflecting back on the scene, and this was how he did it.
I wasn’t sure what it felt like for him to go through something like that because I’d never been in his shoes.
I only knew how fucking incredible it was for me.
And that had been, by far, the best caning I’d ever received.
Zeke was a master when it came to delivering the painful blows.
He hadn’t rushed, allowing the cane to sit on my skin, the delicious sensations coursing through me, vibrating in my balls, then working their way over my entire body.
Every hit had been exquisite torture, and I’d wanted it to go on forever.
Granted, I had seen my ass and my legs. I knew the damage that had been done. I knew Zeke had stopped because any more would’ve risked breaking the skin.
“Let’s shower,” Zeke said to me as we were heading up the stairs. “Cowboy, you can come upstairs and watch.”
Sweat prickled my skin at the thought of warm water on my hypersensitive ass, but I wasn’t about to deny him whatever he needed.
I thought for sure he would send me to bed despite the fact that my dick was still rock hard from that scene.
Zeke knew I preferred subspace to an orgasm, so he hadn’t demanded I come, and he hadn’t yet taken his pleasure from me, either.
The thought of wearing that chastity device to sleep in while my dick was so fucking hard it hurt made my head swim.
Without waiting for Brax to crawl up the stairs, I went into the bathroom and started the shower while Zeke disappeared into his closet. I stripped off my clothes, the denim scraping over the tortured nerve endings, causing the marks to burn hotter than before.
When Zeke returned, he motioned for me to get in the shower as he followed.
I did like this bathroom. It was designed with a man of his size in mind. The lack of walls left the space open. The numerous shower heads allowed him to move about freely while getting clean.
“Put your hands on the tile. Ass facing me,” he stated roughly. “I want to admire my work.”