For me, CP is not just a service I offer but a way of life. It’s something I’ve enjoyed dishing out since I was a sassy teenager keen on showing boys that girls could be powerful. I have a variety of CP instruments ranging from soft leather paddles to riding crops, horse whips and of course, my favourite, thin, swishy bamboo canes. I also have a passion for birch twigs, rubber hose and rattan – anything that can inflict pain on a slave’s body. Each stroke of an instrument of CP gives me a buzz of pleasure especially if I hear a victim’s sob, cry or (best of all) pleas for mercy.
To get back to this slave: having tied his arms, then feet into stand-up bondage, I began the slow process of choosing my weapon. He was of course shut off from all sights and sounds and thus didn’t know what was going to hit him – literally.
I began not with a soft option, but one of the hardest. My cat-o-nine-tails – I delivered three hefty blows into his buttocks – all on the same reddening cheek. He squirmed and cried out – shocked at the severity of the punishment. I then paused – he must have wondered what was coming next, when and how. The answer was unexpected for him – that’s how I like it – a trio of hard slaps from mistress’ precious hand. This time, I turned the other cheek – I turned the other cheek red!
Nicely equal in colour, I then set about the main business of the dungeon day. I chose a wooden paddle and began to tease his cock and balls with it. He must have felt the outlines of the instrument and I heard a groan of anticipation. He knew that soon the hard surface of the paddle would be making contact with a part of his body. But which?
I decided to focus my attention on his vulnerable cock and balls. Ten strokes of the paddle well aimed made the slave wriggle and chafe against his constraints. Of course it would do no good.
After a suitably tense pause for him, I went on to a riding crop – but first let him feel its smooth and flexible leather. He moaned and pleaded but this was answered with a laugh from his cruel mistress. I noticed a bead of sweat running out of the face mask – good, he was nervous.
After an agonising few seconds (for him), I unleashed my full mistress force with the crop on his back. I lost count. Maybe 20 or 30 strokes each carefully placed to give his skin a lovely criss-cross pattern of read stripes. I made sure that each stroke was delivered in slightly different time. He would never quite know when the pain would be felt. Or where.
My next weapon was the cane. I never fail to get a thrill just by holding the crooked end of this beautiful instrument of torment. I practised a few harsh strokes in the air just hear that delightful sound – the rushing of air; a sound that usually precedes another one – the scream of agony.
It was time now to deliver my cane on to his arse. This is did in 75 delicious strokes – some hard, some light, some well aimed at well-scored marks, others on to white virgin flesh.
As I got the near the end of my caning session, I took off the slaves head set so that now he could hear that swooshing sound and my own voice. As the blows fell on his darkening skin, I told him that this is what naughty boys can expect from a strict and powerful mistress. This was the way of Paris. It was a lesson that he soon learned – one that would emerge every time he tried to sit down over the next few days