Other Elements (labels)

Beth's Caning

Fiction by Matt, March 2007

"I don't know," Beth said warily. "I'd be too embarrassed. How 'bout if I keep my panties on?"

"No," Matt told her patiently, "you don't get to do that, not this time. You could wear a thong, if you have one."

"Well I don't."

"We can get you one, let's go. Put a skirt on."

Beth shot him a dirty look, then looked down at her baggy pants. "Why? Am I supposed to... " Her voice trailed off, not really knowing what reason he could have.

"You're not supposed to anything besides putting a skirt on like I just asked," Matt said, which was no explanation at all.

"Forget it, I'll just... It'll be okay," Beth decided before blushing to the roots of her hair. She thought she should be embarrassed but Matt's indifference made her wonder. "This doesn't seem too... "

"Safe?" Matt prompted. "Like, you could get hurt doing this?"

"Yeah." Beth laughed lightly, nervously. "I guess I'm supposed to, huh?"

"That's the idea, yeah."

Rather than discuss the embarrassing situation further, Beth reached for the snap at her waist. Embarrassing or not, she was soon ready to proceed and approached the table. Matt got there first, picking up the whippy rattan cane, the one he said was "soft," and his favorite. She supposed it was, but it still hurt like the devil. Standing in front of a small step-stool, she hesitated.

"Go ahead," he prompted.

Beth reached forward and grabbed the edge of the table, fingers underneath, thumbs on top. Bending at the waist she lowered her shoulders to her hands, looking up like he always told her to which arched her back the way he liked. So far, so good.

"Now step up," Matt encouraged gently.

Beth put a foot on the first step tentatively, drawing her knee in under her. Then the other foot, causing her bottom to rise before she bent her knees to force it back flat. Taking a deep breath, she slowly repeated the process with the higher step. She'd been right, she should have accepted Matt's offer of a quick trip to the mall.

"That's good," Matt assured her, though she remained unconvinced. With her bottom so severely bent and thrust back, and him standing there holding a three-foot cane, it felt anything but "good." Dangerous, humiliating, crazy all came to mind but "good" did not.

"Okay?" she asked, trying to keep some dialogue going, but he didn't reply, at least not verbally. A few light taps made her jump.

"Settle down, sweetie," Matt commanded in a nice but firm voice. "Head up."

Knowing what he wanted, Beth dropped her stomach to her thighs and leveled her back. The normally small target of her bottom shrunk even further as her lower curve tucked under her but she felt ridiculously exposed.

Ridiculous, however, was not what she felt a moment later. The stroke was high, by caning standards anyway, though it probably just hit the first thing it came to. Whoa, Beth thought. In her mind she could hear Matt saying "This really works" to which her reaction was always "Holy #@!$%." The second stroke was lower, scarier, harder, and, if possible, even more painful, by a lot. Beth's mind went blank for a moment even trying to think about what she should think. When she did think, what she thought was not very pretty. Except that she was interrupted in this meditation on the nature of pain by stroke number three. With little room to work, Matt was placing them very closely together which, Beth supposed, was the point of this elaborate position. The point, at least, besides that it made it hurt like you-know-what. Stroke four found the last remaining spot that might have been between the first three. When she straightened her legs she felt like she was going to fall over but she managed to quickly get herself back where she was supposed to be.

"Let's try the lower step," Matt said dispassionately, as if conducting an experiment, and Beth gingerly stepped back and downward, allowed to unbend her knees a bit. This step was actually a lot easier to stand on, though she was shaking from the first strokes. She raised her head and rolled her neck, stretching a bit before getting into position, but Matt didn't wait long, delivering the next stroke almost as soon as she was still. A little lower, the sting built up fast but still it lacked the brutality of the first four, which had arrived with a feeling of near-injury. The second stroke interrupted the first, which had still been climbing.

"Step down," Matt said almost immediately, apparently not entirely impressed with that position. Uncomplaining, Beth expected the more conventional position she was quickly adopting to be easier to take.

"Easier" is a relative term. With feet firmly behind her and her legs sloping back Beth lost the exposure and embarrassment of the first position and felt much safer as well, though she knew from experience that these strokes would wander lower and they did. Any relief from the fact that they didn't overlay the existing welts was offset by the tenderness of Matt's new target. He clearly wanted to make sitting difficult and four closely-spaced strokes were likely to accomplish that.

"Stand," he said immediately after the fourth stroke and Beth tried to comply without reaching back and rubbing the still-building fire. "Keep holding the table," he added. Putting the side of his foot against the step-stool he pushed it forward under the table. "Stand straight up."

Beth stepped up to the table, letting her hips nearly touch it. Damn, that hurt. Double damn.

"I want you to push yourself up on your toes, far as you can go - stretch. And clench, I want everything as tight as you can get it." Beth was surprised by this unorthodox directive but accommodated it easily, making every muscle its hardest. Matt shifted his position forward and struck, seemingly effortlessly, without anger or even disapproval. Clenching, they say, makes it hurt less now and more later but this hurt plenty now.

Beth felt her eyes prick. She didn't usually cry from pain so maybe it was the seeming unfairness of this unmotivated lashing. "Why?" she managed to get out before another stroke caused her to suck in her breath. That was twelve, she counted, maybe the last.

"Hold still," he insisted, "Tense. Tight."

"How many?" she asked, tightly.

"Four more, six total," he explained, having paused for the moment. "As to why, you should know why," he told her, though it was clear that she didn't. "You're going off to your mom's and you're sure to need the hairbrush when you get back - probably a lot. In fact, what we should do is have you e-mail me. Every time you earn or need a spanking, I want you to send me an e-mail. Even if it's just a short one. Then when you get back we'll could them up."

"And I'll get it," Beth surmised, still in the tense, tip-toe, ready position.

"If you're mom's to blame maybe you can just get the leather paddle," Matt reassured her, as if this were a treat. "If you're to blame or if you were bad, even if she started it, I want to know."

"And I get the hairbrush," Beth clarified. Matt did know how to make that hurt.

"Oh yes," he confirmed. "And if you feel like you need one for any other reason, just drop me a quick note – no questions asked."

"And no changing my mind, I suppose?" Beth asked, but he was already drawing back the cane.

Four strokes later he told her she could relax and she blinked as thoughts and pain circled in her mind, thoughts trying to be formed and waves of pain washing them out, leaving her to start over.

"Shall I do your thighs?" Matt offered generously.

"No, that's quite alright," Beth responded insistently. Her thighs were tender but she couldn't seem to convince Matt to cane them any more lightly. Oddly, no matter how embarrassed she was at first, she wasn't embarrassed to hug him afterward even without putting her pants back on first.

"Okay, how about a few minutes in the corner to think," Matt suggested lightly – not that it was really a question. Beth pouted and hung her head. She knew when she left the corner she'd ask him to do her thighs, and six strokes always seemed to turn into eight. And then it'd be a long wait for the rest of her spankings.

My Husband’s Lesson

fiction by Matt, 2000


Amanda looked the man over as she extended her hand. Attractive, fit, well-groomed.

“Hello,” she opened. “I’m Amanda Martin.”

The young professional looked at her with equal speculation. A little older than himself but a fine example of womanhood. A sweet, pretty face framed by blonde curls. Not real, but an excellent substitute. Knit top, short, tight skirt keeping her soft curves in place, high, high heels. Not the latest chunky style the young women wear but old fashioned sharp ones. Sheer dark hose and a tiny purse. As she turned he could see that she was wearing a bra, though from the front he’d thought maybe she hadn’t been.

“Amanda. Pleased to meet you. I’m Gary. You’re here for your lesson?” He said it with a note of uncertainty. She turned back and pointed her breasts at him again. This would be alright, he thought. It’s what some women want and this one would be definitely okay by him.

Amanda noticed his stare and looked down at her wardrobe. “Oh! I see what you mean. No, no, it’s for my husband. I’m just going to watch, if you don’t mind. He’ll be with us any minute. It’s his first time, you know.” Strange, that he should have been raised in such a life of privilege and yet made it this far without such an experience before.

“I hope I won’t be too distracting.” That was a blatant lie and as she said it, she wiggled a little under her purse strap, a shimmy that set off a matching tremor in the pro. She had sized him up quickly and dismissed him but she wasn’t about to let him know it. She liked the idea of making men’s mouth water. It reminded her of how much she had to offer her husband. But if she was ever to dream of another man, it would be one who took a woman by storm, satisfied himself (and her thoroughly but only incidentally) and cast her aside without a backward glance. Not the avoiding type but that careless rejection that would have another woman on his arm every time they met again. Gary here, he was too eager to please. He wanted Amanda to like him as well as bed him. Too grasping.

But even as her fantasy lover cast her aside, her real dream lover walked in the door. Here was a man who had always had every thing he’d ever wanted, yet he dedicated his every effort to seeing that everyone around him was accommodated. She was certainly accommodated, despite her strange desires. This one, perhaps, was the greatest accommodation of all and yet, he had entered it willingly.

Richard was an athletic man, with attractively graying hair and the suntan of those who play during the hours when the rest of us are working. He had been raised to command, but grown to facilitate and, in doing so, he felt that he achieved more than his father ever had. Certainly they had both achieved wealth, and power, in their own way. But there, he hoped, the similarity ended.

Richard had played tennis at least four times a week almost since he had been old enough to walk. But now, at age 45, he had not held a golf club in his hands for almost four decades. The reason for this was simple. His father was a very successful businessman and an avid golfer. Had the man had his way, Richard would have grown up to join the pro tour - the pro golf tour. And like so many sons, Richard had vowed never to touch a club. He combated this by swinging a racquet and until late college he thought he might still join the pro tour. A minor knee injury late in his junior year gave him the time to realize that the only reason he could turn pro was the fact that he could finance his own career. The real winners at that level were that much better than he could ever hope to be.

But now his father had gone to the early reward of hard-driving businessmen and it was as much for himself as for his lovely wife that he had accepted Amanda’s request that he take a lesson from a golf pro, while she watched. Maybe this would bring him more peace with his past, although Amanda’s desire had little to do with peace.

Richard observed with amusement the stricken look on Gary’s face as Amanda perched off to one side. She was really looking her best today. Richard strode over possessively and gave her a hard, insistent kiss on the mouth, the kind that makes her nipples pop. Returning to the practice mat, Richard thought of the scene in 9 ½ Weeks where the man tests a riding crop across his lady’s thighs, right in front of the clerk. He expects that Amanda is thinking about this scene as well and wonders if Gary is.

“So you’re new to golf?” Gary begins. “You’ve certainly got a strong grip. That’s good. It will help a lot.”

Yes, Amanda thinks to herself, he has a very strong grip. And yes, it helps a lot.

“It’s been said,” Gary relates with a chuckle, “that golf was invented in Scotland as an ancient form of flagellation.” Out of the corner of his eye, Amanda seems jump suddenly. Must concentrate.

“Many people find golf rewarding because it rewards good play and immediately punishes every mistake, without fail.”

“Punishes?” Richard asks blandly, “punishes how?”

“With extra strokes,” Gary informs him. “More strokes to the hole, penalty strokes and sometimes, strokes taken over. It can take its toll.” He had known Amanda would be distracting but she seems to squirm every minute. And every time she does, her skirt rides up just a little higher, as if it wasn’t short enough already.

Amanda listens to Gary’s matter-of-fact statements with interest and mounting excitement. Married to Richard, she had never been a big golf fan but she realized its potential. She finds it hard to concentrate as Gary’s voice washes over her preoccupied mind.

“Want to hit this one on the upswing…angle of attack…plenty of wrist snap…” She crosses her legs and squeezes tightly, surprised she isn’t wringing herself out like a wet washcloth. But the men gave no indication of hearing her.

Richard follows Gary’s gaze to see that Amanda has crossed her legs, showing the underside of her thigh up past the top of her stocking where the garter strains to hold it in place, giving the illusion of exposing her right up to the curve of her luscious cheek. Neither man comments, focusing instead on the problem at hand.

Amanda finds her mind wandering back to other times when they had gone so far. On their honeymoon, when Richard presented her with a pair of jeweled nipple clamps. How he held her down and sucked each nipple so hard as he removed them, bringing the blood rushing back with it in a stab of pain like an arrow through her breast, first right, then even worse on the left, while she, on her back, thrashed under his arms. How she cried real tears when he held them out to her the next day for more of the same unbearable treatment, and how she raised her wrist behind her neck and arched her back for him when he declined to relent.

“Amanda?” Richard calls to her softly, here, in this room.

She opens her eyes to find them both staring at her, as she has unconsciously repeated the movement here in the pro shop, with her nipples standing so firm that the ring of goosebumps around each one was visible through her sheer bra and knit top. She colors to the neck and crosses her arms protectively in front of herself.

The lesson continues. Shift you weight. Lift your heel. Get your whole body into it. Amanda thinks of the cane, wrapped from top to bottom in a long red ribbon, awaiting their return. Maybe this is a little too much, like the day the spanker arrived. She will sit through dinner but not comfortably, though it will be only nerves and anticipation that will keep her from doing so. Richard is going out to eat, she reflected. She is merely going out to wait.

Power from the forearms. Coil and turn. Certainly this is more than he needs to know. Amanda’s attention is caught by Gary’s warnings - avoid a tendency to slice. Striking too low can be painful, especially in cold weather. Amanda quickly stands up, trying to avert a climax. Thank God she wasn’t made to go pantiless. She wobbles unsteadily on her heels.

A few final words of advice. Imagine a straight line leading out from your target. Amanda almost giggles. That should be easy enough, with her cheeks as plump as they are. She wondered how Richard will have her - bent forward, English style? Grasping her ankles, watching from between her legs? On the bed, hands trapped under her knees? She will have to ask him at dinner.

“Take dead aim” Gary adds. “That means, when you’re about to swing, think of nothing else but swinging. No appointments, no score, no partners. Just the target.”

And finally, “Remember, you use your full swing 36 times a round. More in the beginning. That’s spread over four hours but it gives you an idea how important it is. Are you all right, Mrs. Martin? Would you like a drink of water?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” she manages.

“You’re very pale, Amanda,” Richard informs her.

“I’ll be fine, just give me a minute.”

“Well, Gary, thanks for that insightful instruction," Richard thanks him. "Now I have a lot better idea of what I need do. I really think this was one of the best birthday presents I can think of.”

“Oh, is it your birthday, Richard?” Gary inquires politely.

“No,” Amanda answers waveringly, “It’s mine.”

A Caning In Waiting - Fiction by Matt

Fiction by Matt
Copyright Matt Anglen et. al. 1990-2006. Please do not repost without permission.


It comes to mind - my seat, thrice-lined.
Instead of done, we’ve just begun.


Divorce is hard. Not just emotional isolation - physical, too. It’s not even him I want. But want, need - something, someone. Someone right. And dating. Again. Being wanted, in a way - but not in a way I want.

Then, friends. Friends for support. Friends who play games. Us. Going back to who knows when. No secrets any more. Such comfort.

Protect yourself, they say. Respect yourself. So, a proposal. In light of our games. I give it up, we agree, and I go over for twelve with the cane. Him striping, her holding - me flailing.

Yes. Twelve. With the cane. Hard to believe, even harder to imagine, hardest still to take. I’ve had three - once - so I know. Know I can’t. Can’t take it, can’t do it. And it’s been a good idea - saved me a lot of grief. Stopped me from taking that one last drink that might’ve made this one seem like a good idea himself. Helped me shoo that one out of the house when maybe it would have been easier to just let him stay. Made me wait to say yes, until I found out another guy wasn’t the type who would stick around to wait. But even so. Hard.

And then now. This is different. We have waited. He has stuck around. A different us. And tonight, tonight things will be different. Nothing’s been said, or needed to be. We know. His slight smile of anticipation.

But tomorrow, oh, tomorrow. An admission, to the two of them. Friends. Acceptance. Lowered gaze, lips pressed. A short robe. A straight-backed chair, pillow over the edge. No discomfort - how ironic. Bottom rising like a pale harvest moon. The momentary modesty of panties. And then, down. Off, removed, bare, bared. Nothing else. That explosion, that disbelief of pain - only a cane. A cane in firm, enthusiastic, talented hands. Twelve. No regrets. None?

I need to be held. Tonight, by his arms, tomorrow, by my wrists. Words whispered in my ear - his words of seduction; hers of consolation. My face hidden under a cascade of hair. My knees before my eyes, tears pressing before we even begin.

I can not push the thought from my mind, my stomach tightening at his lightest touch. His kisses, our kisses - so deep. His arms make a place for me. We know, we know, and yet still we approach it slowly, still it is gingerly that he eases my buttons undone, smoothes the flat of his palm against my bare side. In our minds, each fastening surrenders with a pistol crack - one, two, three, no more. An upward movement inside and I crush myself to him, rushing, trying to hold back, to linger just a little, finding myself unable to do so. His hand moves up my back for my bra clasp. I do not dissuade him. My back, my neck arching; each place I pull away creates another place I offer him.

Upward, cupping, under my unfastened bra. I pant and squirm, my breath comes in gulps, my legs press together, uselessly, helpless in resistance. I need it, must, will have it - all of it. His shirt glides off his shoulders for me and I bury my face in his neck. My hand dips in behind his belt buckle to find him as excited as I am. Nearly.

I could lay him down and mount him, ride him to one wave of satisfaction and then another and another still. Waves of sensation, sensation on top of sensation, sensation between sensations. Too much. Unbearable. My jaw stretches as I try to take in so much in so short a time.

But I allow myself to be seduced. Trails of kisses. Thumbs across my nipples. His hand daggers into the back of my skirt, in the middle where it is loosest. Straight down, under my panties, inside. But not too far. His wrist doesn’t find enough room.

I open my blouse for him, for his eyes, for his kisses. He makes me feel deserving of his admiration. No judgment - acceptance. My bra passes my wrists and all I can imagine is fetters. It gets closer.

The mundane details. No way to do these things subtly. I kneel before him, worshipful, removing his shoes, one by one. I could save myself, use my mouth. Put it off. Do I want to? I release him, inches from my face. He wants me, long and stiff. I need him, need it. Long and oh so flexible. The man you love always tastes so good. Now he pants for me. Breath drawn sharply through clenched teeth.

I rise, recline, unbutton my skirt. As he eases the zipper down, the cane draws nearer. I wriggle. Wriggle my seat. For him. Does he find that attractive? Does it excite him? Oh, how I’ll wriggle. With three, I screamed. Without effect. I can not bear it. The rushing in my ears - the pounding of my heart? The whoosh of the cane, made huge by the silence?

No hose in this heat. A thin, cool, satiny shield is all that separates me from thirty-six inches of rattan. Without it, I am quivering, defenseless. My best. For him. His best, for me. Because we know. When than shield lowers, there will be no turning back. No waiting, no excuses, bargaining, or pleading. Once we begin, it must go on without stopping to its conclusion. This for that. That for this. Twelve.

His touch. Fingertips inside, underneath, at the edge, just at the edge of my thigh, the edge of my wanting. I could climax at this very touch - but I must wait another moment, not now, not yet, it is too soon, it is too much. Still I must wait. The lightest touch, telling me where. My grip will tighten, my knuckles will whiten but it shall not stop.

The lightest touch. He waits for a sign, permission, a request. From me. I raise my hips. For him. It begins.