Power transfer

It’s the ‘tops’ that are the real slaves.

“I’ll do whatever you say, anything at all; you’re the boss” Those were almost her exact words. Yet, even as I began to spank her upturned bottom I knew it to be a complete lie.

This particular scene took place in a very respectable three-storey house – well four if you count the basement – in one of those side streets off Ladbroke Grove. It was a lovely private setting with no time pressure and everything going it should. e were in the first floor sitting room and after that initial warming she knelt at my feet just and repeated her offer. Her words were accompanied by a stroking of my somewhat enlarged trouser area in a very provocative manner.

I’d say she ia about thirty-eight, and very well proportioned with unusually broad shoulders, narrow waist and looking, well if not gym fit, then at least Pilates proud. Her words rather put me off my stride and I had to make a serious mental effort to put it out of my mind promising myself to examine it later. I pulled away from her ministrations showing, I thought, admirable self-control.

I know it’s all been examined before and you’ll say ‘why bother doing it again?’ but there’s a particularly interesting twist when the lady in question has been compelled by her husband to invite me in to punish her for her sexual transgressions with their (male) au pair. When she then offered me sexual favours it, in theory put me totally in the driving seat. After all if I was to tell her husband that she was willing to give ‘extras’ to the man called in to punish his transient wife she would be in yet more trouble and, possibly heading for the divorce courts. The three-pointed star sitting at the front of the metallic silver Chelsea Tractor outside the house would soon go, along with all the furs, the Panache Bra’s, the Gucci handbags and the endless bottles of Bollinger. Where would her sexual favours have got her then?

So, now firmly in the driving seat and with her neatly draped across the arm of a very well padded sofa, my cane in my hand I was fully in control; right? Sadly no. Even though I could coercively throw in the ‘I’ll tell husband’ element, to do so might actually make her an unwilling participant in the events that were to follow and what of my part in those circumstances then? Wouldn’t I be no better than a street mugger committing assault and battery and, very possible grievous bodily harm. So now, though empowered in one way I was totally constrained in another. It was as though I were wearing the shackles and she wielding the cane.

I’ll explain a little further; by offering me sexual favours she had made it clear that she hoped it would lessen her punishment ergo; her punishment was something she was entering into against her free will and, therefore to wield a cruel cane would be to commit all of the above. There was, effectively no consent.

To increase the bind still further her husband had made it abundantly clear to me that he wished to see and feel at least six raised tram-lines across her bottom when he got back from New York three or four days hence. To make them last that long it would have to be a very severe caning indeed. I know it varies enormously but cane marks usually lose their raised, touchable appearance within a couple of days and certainly there can be no guarantees.

Normally the power balance is clear: If the person receiving the punishment loses trust in the one giving then the deal is broken and re-establishing that trust and the permissions that go with it is the only way to continue – anything else is no better than rape. In this way the punishee is in the driving seat at all times and may well be pushed up to and even slightly beyond their limits but only with their express or expressly implied consent. I, the one with the energetic right arm, the steady hand, the beady eye, with the ‘control’ and the wicked swing am, merely facilitating their wish to receive.

They, on the other hand have the power of expression with every spank, each slap of crop or tawse and each swish of bendy rattan. They can make their feelings abundantly clear, a subtle move away from or towards that spanking hand, a slight wriggle after the crop has left its marvelous imprint or the raising of the bottom towards the cane are all the signals an experienced punisher will recognize and obey instinctively.

So now I had some choices: I could leave and take no further part. But then the husband would have to find someone else on this or another site and what if they weren’t cursed with my moral sense – besides I had a sneaky desire to see her naked and my journey into London had been a pain in the neck. Another possibility was to say nothing and beat her till there was a good chance that her husband would get what he wanted and leave feeling sick with myself or I could follow her signals and back off when it was getting too much.

I concluded that the best thing I could do would be to seek her further consent for what was about to happen and hope that she wouldn’t make her reluctance in taking part any clearer. Had she done so I would have been in a very awkward situation. Happily she did not and, in fact left me feeling rather cheated as even when naked and thoroughly caned, with more tramlines than her husband had demanded she still seemed happy to take further strokes and then went on to offer me further sexual favours.

There is no moral to this story just a desire to share my thoughts and to wonder aloud at the very complex nature of the thing we are all in one way or another involved in, fascinated by, compelled to explore and blessed with knowledge of. For my part I’m just hoping she does something naughty pretty soon and her unfortunate husband -left with little use in his right arm after a teenage motorcycle accident- will call on me again – she’s one of those; better naked than dressed.