"Do you know what this is?" I ask, the same question I asked about the nipple clamps.
"A cane, Master." Her voice is smaller now. Less certain.
"Have you written about it?"
She nods.
"How many times?"
"I don't... I don't know exactly. Several."
"Eleven." I close the distance between us slowly, letting her watch me approach, letting her anticipation build with each step. "Eleven stories where your protagonists experience caning. In seven of them, the cane is applied to their ass while they're bent over furniture. In three, it's applied to their thighs while they're restrained standing. In one, it's applied to the soles of their feet."
I stop directly in front of her.
"You've researched it extensively. You've described the sound it makes. The way it leaves raised welts. The way the pain peaks several seconds after impact rather than immediately."
I drag the tip of the cane down her sternum, between her clamped breasts, over her stomach, lower.
"But you've never felt it."
"No, Master."
"You're going to feel it now."
I trace the cane along her hip, around to her thigh, down to her knee. Her skin pebbles with goosebumps in its wake.
"The flogger was a question," I tell her. "This is an answer."
I step to her side, positioning myself for optimal swing mechanics. The restraints hold her perfectly in place, her body stretched taut against the cross, every inch of her exposed and vulnerable.
I take a deep breath.
I adjust my grip on the handle, finding the perfect balance point.
I draw the cane back, measuring the distance, calculating the force.
And I wait.
I wait until her breathing quickens with anticipation.
I wait until her muscles tense involuntarily, bracing for impact.
I wait until she starts to relax again, thinking maybe I've changed my mind.
Then I swing.
The cane connects with both thighs simultaneously.
I feel the impact travel up the rattan, through my wrist, into my arm. The sound is exactly what I expected—that sharp whistle followed by a crack that echoes through the jungle clearing. I've practiced this stroke thousands of times on pillows, on hanging meat, on my own forearm once when I needed to understand what I was delivering.
Scarletta doesn't react immediately.
That's the nature of caning. The skin registers contact, but the nerve signals need time to travel, to be processed, to translate into conscious experience. I count in my head. One. Two.
Three.
She screams.
