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He murmurs in a low voice into my ear as he fucks me. Did you write anything while I was away?

Pinned beneath him, my face mashed into the pillow, I turn my head towards him to speak. No, I say. I’m halfway through one thing, but I can’t finish it. I’ve run out of ways to describe being caned. The pain. There are only so many words.

He thinks for a second. Okay, then. Well, write about how it feels when I’m caning you. What you’re thinking about.

He shifts onto his knees, pulls my hips up towards him, pushes deeper inside me. I moan and lift my head off the pillow, dropping a wet, open- mouthed kiss onto his freckled forearm.

What are you thinking about when I tell you to bend over?

His hips are moving in a slow roll, and I have to fight for space in my brain, which, as tends to be the case when he is fucking me, can only generate variations on the same few foundational thoughts: Thank you, Sir. That feels so good. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Thank you.

I usually am a bit scared, I gasp eventually. I’m worried how much it will hurt. But I want to please you. I want to obey you. And I always enjoy it in the end.

Enjoy it? He asks.

I pause. Love it.

There you go, he says. Write about that. I nod assent. He rolls me onto my back and fucks me missionary style, ordering me to slap myself in the face as I rub my clit. I feel myself slipping into a dumb, slack- jawed subspace as I alternate hitting one cheek and the next. The mix of sensations is overwhelming: stinging cheeks, his cock inside me, my finger slipping and sliding over and around. I say I don’t want to touch myself, it’s too much, and he responds with an emphasis that is cousin to anger: well, it’s not about you, isn’t it? He slaps me hard round the face half a dozen times in rapid succession and I yowl with pleasure, looking up at him through besotted, rolling eyes.


We have eaten lunch and done chores and now we are on his land. I have been rollering engine oil onto the bottom of wooden fence posts, working slowly, half because I want to do an excellent job and half because I am distracted by the gloriousness of my surroundings. It’s mid- June, and for the first time this year it feels exactly as June should- the simple familiar comradeship of a blue sky and a warm sun, fecund grasses and jubilant swooping birdsong. I stand and listen, swaying slightly with contentment, before turning back to my task.

When we are done he beckons me twenty feet down the track which runs the length of his land, to the shelter where he keeps his hay bales. The hay is mildly overgrown with bindweed and nettles and the heaped bales form a wall on three sides, protecting us from view from most angles. He has me stand facing the bale, stands behind me and tells me to pull down my jeans and knickers. I assume he is going to spank me, or fuck me, and I feel giggly with anticipation.

I am surprised not to feel the sting of his palm, but instead a feathery sensation on my arse cheeks, followed immediately by a searing rush of pain. He pulls up my knickers with a laugh and I whine with comprehension: nettles. Oh God, nettles. The very worst thing, the very best worst thing.

He pushes me onto the track and I stumble. I am breathing hard from the stinging between my legs, letting go tiny noises from my throat as my brain struggles to process the scalding points of agony across my buttocks. He takes me by the arm and walks me to the rope swing that hangs from the bough of one of the ash trees which line the track. He pulls the swing towards him and tells me to get on. I stand opposite him, bewildered by pain, but as I reach for the rope I begin to feel a swell of something else- adrenaline, mixed with hilarity. This is ridiculous. This is so ridiculous.

I grip the rope, more keenly aware than I might usually be of its roughness, of the tiny hairs sticking into my palms, and pull myself onto the roughly hewn seat. He grabs the seat and pulls me high into the air, before letting go. As I arc through the air my legs flail and I shriek, the brown blur of the tree’s trunk blurrily close and present in the corner of my eye. I’m laughing so hard, from the wooden seat pressing the nettles against my labia and cheeks, spreading me open so the toxins burn against my clit. My cunt is throbbing, aflame with pain. As I swing towards him he reaches for the rope, grabs it in his fist and yanks the swing towards him, pulls me in for a long lazy kiss. I laugh into his mouth until he takes my lower lip between his teeth and bites me silent.

We break apart and he pulls the swing towards him. As he lets me fly he shouts wheeeeeeee! and I scream with laughter as I swoop into the air, gripping the rope in chafed palms and between my burning thighs. The sun is warm on my outstretched arms, and the birds are singing in the branches.


He slows the swing again and helps me off, unsteady on my feet, eyes wet with hilarity. He takes my hand and walks me to the barn, watching with amusement as I trip over my feet on the rough road. When we get to the barn he hefts the door shut behind him and walks to the middle of the concrete floor. I hear him unbuckling his belt, and by the time he has pulled out his cock I am already kneeling. The fingers of one fist curl into my hair and pull my head closer as I kiss the knuckles of the other, wrapped around his half- hard cock. I suck gently for a couple of minutes, happy to have something new to focus on, feeling my heartrate begin to slow.

He hums, and then tells me to put my hand between my legs. I reach for my zip and he tells me no, over my jeans. I run my fingers over the thick cotton seams that crisscross over my cunt, my fingertips moving at the same pace as my tongue.

Press, he says. I stop, look up at him, shake my head.

Go on. His voice drops a tone. Be a good girl for me. I close my eyes and press my fingertips hard against my cunt, press cotton onto cotton onto poison onto skin. I press so hard that for a moment it’s almost as if I can feel the pinpricks of pain in my fingertips, through the layers of fabric, bursting like the blooms of light behind my eyelids. I sob around his cock and when I open my eyes they well with tears.

He sees I am crying and pulls me up by my armpits, wraps me in a hug. Awww, poor little nettle knickers. Too much?

He kisses the top of my head and I sniffle. Enough, I answer, eventually. I pull down my jeans and knickers and brush the torn fragments of nettle onto the floor. I wipe my eyes, laugh and swear. He pulls me close to him and whispers into my ear: I just thought you could do with another kind of pain. He holds my hands beneath my back and kisses me, and my still my cunt burns, long and hot and slow.

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