I may have reached that time of
life when I should be pottering around the garden or doing crosswords, I do
both actually, but I still occasionally yearn for adventure. Not unusual, lots
of older folk regularly seek an adrenalin flow by flying to far off places or
booking a world cruise. Some even take up a risky and strenuous hobby that
saner and younger folks decry. Bungee jumping at your age, they say. I admire
them but I do not envy them. I prefer a quieter and gentler life. But wired
into my complex system is that constant yearning for infinite varieties of CP
pleasure and, over the years, I have gained many an adrenalin kick by trying a
different aspect of it. The end result is always the same, a cane or strap
across my backside, but along the journey I have travelled many an interesting
road.
A few years ago I saw a feature
in a dubious magazine, I forget which, detailing the unusual and intriguing
services of a caning therapist. The article made it absolutely clear that the
lady in question offered no other services, or so it said, but purely
administered a serious caning to the backsides of her clients. For a fee, of
course. I cannot remember the details but they were specific enough to have me
hankering for this special service. The article emphasised the therapeutic
aspects and the beneficial effect it had on the wellbeing of those who
undertook it. It was all very interesting but what really stimulated, and had
me searching for a contact number, was the little disguised fact that to be
effective the caning was administered to the recipient’s bare bottom. My heart
was thumping and my head reeling when I finished reading the article. There was
no contact number but there was a box number if, as the article disingenuously
phrased it, any reader wished to make further enquiries. I did. I compiled a
short letter and nervously awaited the two weeks it took me to get a reply.
These days it would be no more than an internet click. How times have changed.
When the reply came it contained a contact number and, a couple of days later,
I made my first and only appointment to visit a caning therapist. I was both
excited and scared but, equally, determined to go through with it. On the
selected date and time I would make a journey of heady and stimulating
anticipation.
Suffice to say it was one of the
weirdest but strangely civilised experiences of my secretive life. The address
was a very ordinary but attractive semi detached house in a leafy part of one
of London’s many suburbs. The comforting anonymity appealed. I was met by a
smartly dressed young lady, it transpired that she was the therapist’s student
daughter, and ushered into a small study. I sat and waited and after a few
minutes an older lady appeared. She was wearing a smart, official looking,
white hospital uniform and my heart lurched. I studied her as I answered a few
preliminary questions. She was tall and pale skinned with short reddish hair
and a pleasing smile. I reckoned she was nearer fifty than forty and that
suited my passive nature. She completed the form in front of her and handed it
to me to sign. Read the final paragraph, she said, before you sign. I do not
wish there to be any misunderstanding. I cannot remember precisely what it said
but it was the usual disclaimer with a few special details. I was to be
stripped naked and tied over her special equipment and receive, in sets of ten,
fifty stokes of a suitable cane across my naked bottom. I signed in a shaky
hand and, as I did so, she told me not to worry. It will hurt but it will not
be savage. It will take about fifteen minutes and it will help if you cry. Most
of my clients thank me afterwards. With that she stood up, I did the same, and
she led me to the room where I was going to take off all my clothes and have my
bare bottom caned. And I was paying for it. I had never felt so scared, or so
it seemed.
The therapy room, the sign on the
door said it was thus, was small and clinical. But for an impressive angled
black leather bench at its centre and sundry canes on its walls it could have
been a dental surgery. The bench had a raised step that I could kneel on, I realised
that when taking my place over it, and leather ties at the front and centre. When
ordered, or requested, I slowly took off all my clothes. You have a nice bottom
she said, and I am sure I blushed. Dressed only in my birthday suit I knelt on
the front of the bench and stretched myself over it. As the therapist tied my wrists
to the front legs of the bench and passed a thick leather strap across my back
I realised this was it. There would be no going back. I felt very vulnerable,
even more so when she gently brushed her hands across my bottom, naked and
raised and ready, and said that a medium cane would be most suitable for such a
backside. I closed my eyes and heard her pick up the selected implement. First
ten, she said. And then, after a second the sting hit me. A fiery pain across
the centre of my bottom. I winced, but it was not unpleasant. Neither were the
next nine as, with increasing intensity, this expert in her field built a
burning glow behind me. Over the next ten minutes or so she repeated the
process four more times, each set being a little harder, a little more intense,
than the previous ten. By the end my bottom was burning and stinging and my
eyes shed tiny tears. It would be good to cry she had said, and I did. Albeit quietly.
And then it was over. The cane was returned to the wall and the straps untied.
Before she released me I felt her gentle and soft hands smooth themselves
across my very hot behind. I may have imagined it but I am sure the fingers
brushed my genitals. It was all very pleasant and civilised and she issued a soft
laugh when I rose and, vigorously rubbing my backside, apologised for my
obvious pleasure at her ministrations. An occupational hazard was all she said
and then left the room to allow me to dress and compose myself. I cannot remember
what happened when I arrived home but, living alone at the time, I reckon I must
have had my best solo wank ever.
All this came back to me because
recently I have seen, via the internet, a lady offering similar services.
Caning therapy, pure and simple. I am tempted to try it again. And this time
dropping my trousers and baring my behind in a clinical situation is merely an
internet click away. The times may change but our desires, thankfully, remain
the same. Alfred Roy