After an intense, hard and fast beginning to our cane session last night, M paused briefly to admire his work. Running his warm, brazen palms over the stingy red welts, he leaned back to then trace each with the tip of the cane.
“Do you notice anything,” he asked after he’d done so.
“Was that an M?,” I asked in reply.
“Yep…,” he answered, striking those welts again in the same M pattern, clearly pleased with himself, making the marks darker, more raised.
Pausing again to stroke and squeeze his marks with his hands, he explained that at the start of every session, he whacks an M on both of my cheeks. An M for his initial. His mark, on me. Branded as his. My insides are still smiling.
This morning, as I was sipping my coffee and sitting on a sore bum, daydreaming and replaying last night, all I…
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