I want you to imagine we are leaving our room. You are wearing a short skirt, no panties. As is our ritual, you bend over for six strokes of the cane before we cross the threshold. I raise your skirt and lay down six hard strokes, harder than usual, hard enough to make you cry out, and loud. When I let you stand, you rub your bottom and your eyes quiz me, but my only response is to hold out my hand and show you a small egg. I make you bend over again and put it inside you, being rough with my fingers, flicking your clit carelessly.
We are at a dance club, and I send you out onto the dance floor. You have one instruction: find a man, tell him you have just been caned, and make him run his hands across your caned bottom, feeling the raised lines.
You are nervous, but excited, and as soon as you hit the dance floor I turn on the egg. You stop in your tracks, compose yourself and move out into the sway of people. Soon guys are sliding towards you and you are making yourself the center of attention. A young man, maybe 25, gets too close, his hands too eager and you rebuff him. An older man, 30 at least hovers and you move towards him, put your hands on his hips and draw him in. I turn off the egg. He seems surprised and even more so when you stretch up on tiptoes and shout into his ear. I can’t hear your words, but I know what you are saying and I watch his face with interest. His eyes change and he hesitates only a moment. His hands move down your sides to your hips, then dip lower and I can see him reach around and put his hands under your skirt, onto your bare bottom. I watch, my stomach tight, as his hands caress back and forth for ten seconds, and it may be my imagination but I think I see you pushing into his grip.
Suddenly, and to his dismay, you pull away, thanking him with your eyes before spinning around and heading straight for me. As your target stands motionless under the spinning lights, he watches as you throw your arms around me and kiss me deep, hard, and long.