She walks down the stairs, powerful, severe, commanding. Half of me turned on by the raw dominant sexuality of her, the other half already fearful that I’ve knowingly put myself in the way of something more than I can handle.

We’ve spoken in the past about exploring beyond the boundaries which normally constrain the fairly energetic cp games which turn us both on so much. Me curious to find what it’s like when the pain goes beyond what I can handle, she wanting to let loose fully and know that she’s hurting me for real.  And doesn’t have to stop.

We agreed, for reasons from both our early psychologies, that the role of Teacher would be a vehicle most suited to propelling us into these uncharted waters.  And now here she stands, radiating a cold intensity that I already sense I will crumble before.

Picking up the cane, she locks gaze with me, sheer threat in her eyes as she silently flexes it between her hands and then brings it crashing down on the arm of a chair.  It’s not just the loud crack that makes me jump out of my skin.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you?”

I search for a clever response but wit evades me and I mumble a timid, “Yes, mistress.”

“Your behaviour has gone from bad to worse of late.  And I’m going to teach you a lesson that will change that.  You’re going to feel what’s coming for days to come. And you’ll think twice before you behave in a way that risks it happening again.

“Stand in the corner, hands on your head, face to the wall and wait until I’m ready to deal with you.”

Time passes slowly as my nervousness increases.  She’s dealt with me before, but never like this. Never with the shared intent that she take me to my limits and then push me far beyond.  If she (we?) succeed then, by definition, I’m to be reduced to a blubbering wreck and suffer pain beyond the comfortable pain/pleasure of our usual horny kink.

I realise I’m scared.  And she’s leaving me here in the corner to marinate in it.

“Over the table, now!  Stretch further over.  And be warned: if you move out of position, the stroke will be repeated.”

Almost without warning the first stroke lands.  Even through my jeans, it ignites a searing line of fire across my arse.  Christ!  That hurt.  And it’s only the first.

If anything, the second is worse, the third even more so.  I already knew she could cane hard, but there’s a new power behind this.  A sense that she’s letting herself off the leash for the first time and drawing energy from the exhilaration of it.

As each stroke lands, I struggle to remain in position, desperate not to attract any more than she’s already intending.  Fighting to hold back the scream that wants to escape my throat.

The sixth lands across the sit-spot between arse and thighs.  Now fighting back tears, I gasp, “Fuck!”

Instantly another two wild strokes rat-tat on my arse.  “How dare you swear in my classroom.  For that, you can drop your trousers and take the remaining four on your bare backside.”

Horrified, I unfold and gingerly roll my jeans and pants across my blazing arse and down to my knees.  Quaking, I bend again, the tears barely held back.

The final four strokes are agony.  I don’t know how I manage to stay in position – the fear of more somehow overriding the instinct to bolt and run.  Tears flowing freely now, I know she’s close to breaking me.

“Now stand in the middle of the room and bend over.  Grip your ankles.”

I see her picking up the gym shoe, weighing it.  Memories of genuine schooldays.  The gym teacher who settled scores in the changing rooms at the end of lessons as we bent for one or too mighty whacks across our shorts.  But this is to be across a naked and already cane-thrashed backside.  And I know it isn’t going to stop at two.

The first stroke lands and I fly upwards clutching at my arse to somehow try to squeeze away the agony.  My reward is to be told that as I’ve moved out of position the stroke is to be repeated.

In floods of tears now, howling at every stroke, I lose count of how many she lands.  On top of the caning, the pain is excruciating beyond words.  How I force myself to bend and stay there accepting it I have no idea.

Eventually, it stops and, for a moment, I believe it’s come to an end.  Then, through the mists of tears: “Put a straight chair in the middle of the room and fetch me the strap.  Now get yourself across my lap!”

A dim memory surfaces: of lying across her lap before, cock hard against her powerful thighs, relishing the spanking to come.  The memory is crushed as I hear:

“We agreed this wouldn’t really start until we’d reduced you to a point beyond your pleasure..."