Four years ago we purchased our first, and so far only, cane. We purchased it on our first trip to the BDSM store in the Big City. They had a huge assortment, and He told me to pick the one we wanted. So kind of Him to let me select the instrument of my doom. I stood in front of the display, outwardly calm, inwardly frantic. So many to choose from....I didn't want one that was too thin, because that would feel too whippy. I didn't want one that was really thick, because that would be too ouchie. I didn't want one that was too long or too short...finally, I picked one that was in-between, not too thick, not too thin and just the right length. The friendly store clerk offered to let Him test it out on me to make sure it was "the one." Ever the gentleman in public, and aware of the mortified look on my face, He declined her offer.
With the cane, a pair of clover clamps and a Whitehead gag purchased, we returned home. The Whitehead gag saw first use. Mr. Cane, as I have not-so-affectionately come to call him, had to wait; the Whitehead gag had to be tested out first.
The next morning we lazed about it bed. We fooled around a bit, chatted, prepared to get up and have coffee. He got up first, I remained in the covers. He came around to my side of the bed, Mr. Cane in hand. He told me to roll onto my stomach, and He tried out a few test-whacks with the cane. Nothing terrible--a little stingy--but He wasn't using much force.
Lulled into a false sense of security, I was totally unprepared for what happened next. The test whacks stopped. And suddenly, He swung the cane HARD. VERY, VERY HARD. It hit my ass with a loud crack, and it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Immediately I rolled over onto my back, positive He'd split my ass cheek open.
I looked up at Him and said, "What the fuck?!?!?" He looked down at me, and was clearly as surprised as I was. "Oh My God, that HURT!!!" I told Him, now grabbing at my ass to make sure it wasn't going to fall off.
"Well," He said, looking down at me with a smile, "I wanted to hear it go 'swish' through the air."
"You what?" I said.
"I wanted to hear it go 'swish', "He replied again.
Eventually I recovered from the shock of the moment, and the shock of "I wanted to hear it go 'swish'." He had me roll over so He could inspect His handywork. My ass was not cracked or broken or bleeding or about to fall off, but I did carry around a very large and lovely welt for several days after that incident.
As I said at the beginning, we still have Mr. Cane, and he has seen a lot of use. No instument of pain brings me to tears the way Mr. Cane does. He no longer goes 'swish', however. That, thank goodness, was a one-time event.