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This is yet another essay on what the canes do to me, where they take me...my own personal wonderland. Please read "With One Stroke" and "Whirl of Words" first to get a deeper understanding on the events and emotions shared here.

Waiting Games

It's been over two weeks, and the lines are still there. I shiver whenever I run my fingers across them, tracing the little round tipped tracks that start out vivid and red and trail off into nothing. They crisscross in an absurd pattern across my bottom and thighs and breasts, silent mockings that I will likely wait another six months before I feel the cane again. Some are longer than others, more vivid and angry...and some are just barely there, fading reminders of a pain so intense and so breathtaking that I dare say I'm addicted.

* * *

OldTom greeted me with a smile and a hug, and I instantly relaxed. Last time, I had been too caught up in the confusion of the experiences to ask for the hug when I needed it. He hadn't realized what a virgin I was to the cane, and I was too naive to realize this was something he needed to know if we were to build and maintain a relationship in which he could push me to the levels I so badly craved. We had talked afterwards and laid a safer, more solid foundation. Now all he had to do was push me off of it. Or nearly so.

The first session of the weekend came rather unexpectedly. There were not many people in the room, and the canes were out along with a collection of new straps. They were beautifully crafted, the type of leather you just want to run your hands across over and over and feel the misleading softness, smell the rich scent. Just laying my eyes on those straps, the canes, and the man that owned them made me tremble in anticipation. The scene was a blur of familiarity, the same warm-up with the straps, the same nearly nonverbal communication as we moved from one to the other, and finally on to the canes. He knew I wanted to push myself further than last time, but now was not a time for that. This was a reintroduction to the canes, a way for us both to establish if I was really in a mindset that was safe to push. A familiar taste to remind me that we were not playing with chopsticks here, that this was pure pain play.

I settled on a position...knees on the chair seat, bent over the table with my head buried in my arms on the pillowed tabletop. He worked his magic slowly, taking his time, showing me the canes as he switched them, a hand on my back to reassure that I was all right, and wanted to continue. The same familiar routine that had so fascinated me last time. This time was no exception. My backside was warm and tingly, welts forming haphazardly under my slacks from the strap and the canes. My warm-up.

He asked me if I wanted more. I hesitated, my whole body screaming at me for more.

No, I answered. Not just yet.

He nodded.

* * *

All the sudden, after that first little session, I wanted to be pushed, and pushed. I wanted to be pushed off the edge just so I could find out what was waiting on the bottom. I had spent the last 6 months in nearly total bottom mode....brat spankings, punishment spankings, even exploring daddy/daughter play, something I used to completely shy away from. The heavier, more intensely submissive contexts? Not hide nor hair of them since. I shied away from my own submissive nature because I was so scared that I would somehow ruin it, somehow fail myself. OldTom just waltzed in with those blasted lovely canes and woke that nature right back up.

For some, the dominant sets the context. With me the canes set the context. I didn't get caned by just anybody, and the context is the submissive headspace. The two aspects go together, so intimately associated they were nearly indistinguishable. As OldTom would later explain to me, just like a particular scent bringing back a memory, so will the caning scene. Merely being in the presence of him and the canes brought back the headspace. It's a context.

I had this nagging feeling of anticipation, but I didn't know quite what it was I was waiting for. I watched him drag out the canes over the next few days, taking others to that space they craved as much as I did, each in their own unique way. Each time, I watched intently, biting my lip to keep from asking for it for myself. After one particular session, he looked up and caught me watching him, and smiled slowly, indicating to the canes, asking if I would like a turn.

I shook my head no. "Not yet. I'll tell you when I'm ready."

He nodded.

Later that night we were sitting on the bed, a giggly group of brats bouncing around. One pointed out that I hadn't been spanked nearly all day. My hand wandered to my bottom, which was already black and blue and welted from days of playing. I caught OldTom's eye again, a smile lighting up my face as I calmly noted, "I intend to get caned again this weekend, and when I want it, I want it hard."

He smiled and nodded again. I'm sure he knew. In context anyhow.

* * *

The next day was a restless one for me. I wanted that session so badly, I was itching for it, frustrated at why I was making myself wait so long. Why not just ask for it now, if I wanted it so badly, if I was so ready? I was worried I had insulted him by turning down the previous offers.

Someone brought out the loopy. Three strands of thin, rounded rubber on a blue toned handle. The sting factor of the loopy was incredible, and it left the cutest little loops on flesh, even over clothes. Suddenly I spoke up, my restlessness at its wits ends. Hurt me, please?

I positioned myself out on the couch, my head flat on the cushion and my legs bent to fit my body into the rather small area. I trapped my hands behind my head, closing my eyes and biting my lip. The loopy started on my thighs, whisking around and brushing my legs over and over, leaving a wonderful trail of sting and warmth behind. I relaxed, focusing on that stinging, melting into it and ignoring everything else around me. He worked his way up across my belly, whisking the loopy across my breasts and causing me to squirm and bite my lip harder. I kept my eyes closed, embracing the darkness and the trembles I felt coming on. I could stay like this forever, melted into the couch with only me, OldTom and that loopy existing in that moment. He stopped and soothed me, his hands running slowly over my thighs in downward petting strokes, luring me even deeper into my captured space. I fluttered my eyes open to gaze at him, ready to beg him not to stop, only to find him looking at me deliberately.

"Do you want to try the canes?"

My heart skipped a beat and I felt my face flush as a flash of anxiety and awe poured through me. That same breathless, panicked feeling I had felt the first time he had drug those canes out and offered to use them on my bottom. This time, the canvas was my thighs and breasts, and I chilled at the thought. If I thought it was painful on my bottom, it was going to be intolerable on my more sensitive and intimate areas.

"I don't know...lets try them" I answered honestly. I didn't know, but damn did I want to find out.

He went to fetch the canes, and I tried to get a grip on my fear. "I trust him beyound a shadow of a doubt," I reminded myself, "I'm safe in his hands." That thought calmed me, and I took a deep breath, willing myself to relax, trying to get the hint of shaking in my body to settle. I didn't have any luck.

He selected the first cane and showed it to me. I nodded and closed my eyes. I loved the nonverbal communication I could have with him, he always seemed to know exactly what it is I'm wanting or craving or waiting for. I could so instantly and deeply grasp that space he handed me that it was still as intoxicating as it had been the first time.

He started out at my ankles. Tapping the cane oh-so-lightly against me, dancing up my legs and across my abdomen and breasts, then working his way down again. Just whisking, soothing taps that encouraged me to let out the breath I hadn't realized I had been holding, to relax the muscles I hadn't realized I had been keeping tense. He stopped the tapping when he got to my thigh, instead settling the cane into his target area firmly. I sensed the change, my mind the familiar whirl of anxiety that it always was when I was about to experience something new and unknown. The stroke came when expected, causing me to draw in a deep breath and lose control of the shakes I had been trying so hard to contain. I loved those shakes, they meant he had managed to take me where I wanted to go, where I could let go of all my inhibitions and just BE. He never failed to take me there, and it always started with a single stroke. Yes, I was addicted, but this was an addiction I could be proud of.

He worked from thigh to thigh, leaving parallel lines that whisked down sharply and settled into a deep burn, barely letting me adjust to the sensation before the next one joined it. I gasped and struggled to keep my legs apart, to keep my hands from flying down to protect my stinging inner thighs. A few strokes were planted on the soles of my bare feet, causing my toes to curl and my body to arch up sharply to keep from jerking my feet away. This hurt, a lot.

His hands soon replaced the canes, soothing my now even sorer flesh. He pet me gently for awhile as I fought with the tears that threatened at the corners of my lowered eyelids. I dared not open them for fear my emotions would take over. I wasn't teary from the pain, although the pain was most certainly intense enough to call for it. I was scared at the fact that I wanted so much more, that I didn't want this to stop. There had to be a limit, and I was scared that I wouldn't be able to recognize that limit. Addictions don't always have visible lines. That's why they call them addictions.

The petting stopped and I felt the canes against my nipples, flicking against the sensitive flesh. I squirmed a little, jutting my chin back to give him more safety room, consenting silently to this step. The first stroke was carefully aimed, and effectively intense enough to make me forget my doubts for the moment. I sank back into my trust for him, submitting to the pain again, embracing it and letting it race through my blood leaving a chilled shake in it's wake. The warmth that the canes left down my body was enough to counter the chills as stroke after careful stroke left its mark across my chest.

We sat there a long time afterwards, me trembling, still enclosed in the darkness behind my closed eyelids, and him soothingly running his hands over me. He didn't stop until my shakes did. I had been pushed, but not quite to the edge yet.

* * *

It was Sunday night, and getting a bit late. My chance to ask for what I wanted was running thin. I was sitting on the couch with Stephen, whom I had just met a few days ago. I was comfortable in his presence, my hand entwined in his and my fingers making lazy patterns across his knuckles. I kept glancing at OldTom, trying to get the nerve to ask him to hurt me one last time that weekend, and I wanted Stephen there with me. I fidgeted nervously, my stomach doing flip-flops. Finally, I gritted my teeth in determination and went to find OldTom. I really wanted this, badly, and I wasn't going to let my shyness steal my chance to push myself to where I knew I was ready to go.

I found OldTom in the bedroom. "I'm ready...will you cane me now?"

He affirmed, asking if it was all right with Stephen. I smiled at the courtesy and nodded. "I want him to watch."

We agreed on the bed for the session, even though I realized it had it's limitations in where he could take me in that position. Without the worry about my knees giving in and me breaking position, it was that much easier for me to embrace the space I wanted to. I stepped out of the room and motioned for Stephen to join us with a smile on my face. I wanted him watching, I wanted the thrill of knowing that someone was as focused on watching me as OldTom was focused on hurting me.

OldTom spread the canes out on the bed as I stripped down to my tank top and red satin thongs. I had warned him I was pretty marked up, and we agreed the caning needed to be on the bare so he could work around these marks, many of which were from his straps. I had never been caned on a bare bottom before, and I felt goosebumps prick at my near naked skin, making me feel all that much more exposed. He ran his hands across my bottom, digging his fingers sadistically into the bruises. I squirmed, trying not to bite into the pillow I had wrapped my arms around as I let out a strangled yelp. "Oh shit" I thought suddenly, "he really is going to hurt me."

My next thought was simply: "Good."

OldTom selected a cane and slid it into my palm so I could see which one it was. I nodded, barely aware of his choice...the familiarity of his routine was a security blanket that dampered my fears and enhanced my excitement and arousal. He started out with the same tapping method he had used earlier in the weekend to lure me into relaxation. The cane danced down my backside to some unseen rhythm. I could sense the whisk it made as it arced in the air, thumping lightly down on my back and bottom and legs, and relaxed almost instantly. My stance changed and as I eased enough for his satisfaction, the energy between us charged up a notch and for a moment, all was still. Then came the determined tap of the cane that brought me into focus and warned me of where the first stroke would land, followed by the harsh sting of the stroke itself, and finally the deep breath as the sting took claim and settled.

I lay still, relaxed as I have ever been if not in stance, at least in mind. It's hard to comprehend how one can be so relaxed when white hot welts are being painted across your bottom, but I was floating, my arms hugging the pillow and my face buried in the comfort of it. I was acutely aware of OldTom's presence, even though he spoke no words to me. It was a raw exchange of energy, I could feel him there, sense every move. His hand on my back as he switched canes, the sounds of him moving from side to side, selecting new ones and testing them in the air. I trembled, waiting for something I had not yet defined. A sharp giggling next to me suddenly jerked me out of my zone and I felt a flash of annoyance not only at the gigglers, but at myself. Usually I was so focused that the noises around me had no effect.

I took out my hearing aids and set them on the table next to the bed, trying to control the sudden rush of disorientation and not really realizing what I had decided to do. All the sudden I was totally alone in silence, and it scared the hell out of me. I almost panicked, between the annoyance of being jolted out of my space by the giggling to the sudden emptiness of quiet, it was an overwhelming jerk back into reality that was hard to grip. He must have sensed my upset, as he laid a hand on my back bringing my focus back to him. I relaxed again after a moments hesitation, adjusting to the complete silence and closed my eyes, my confusion still lingering on the back of my mind. It was almost like I had needed something to react at to counter the almost frightening fact that I wasn't reacting to the pain like I felt I should have been. I needed that quick grip on reality to remind myself that I wouldn't be lost, that I was safe in his hands, so to speak. He was in control, I was just along for the ride.

The cane settled low down just above the bend of my knee and I let out a muffled moan into the pillow. He had never caned me on the back of my thighs, this was new territory. "This is it, this is the stroke that is going to push me over that edge." My heart skipped and my breath caught in my throat as the stroke landed, an exploding sensation that pushed me no where but towards that damned craving for more.

The next one joined it, a little higher, then opposite sides. Each one was rewarded with a deep intake of breath, a muffled gasp, a jolt of blissful pain. Each stroke had me wanting more, reaching for that illusioned edge of something I still had no definition for. I could have laid there forever taking stroke after stroke, chasing the last one down with the next until I was too drunk to care if I got anymore, as long as this haze didn't fade and no one pulled me back out of that rabbit hole. I kept building and building myself, waiting for it, soaking in every stroke and wanting that ONE, the one that would make me gasp out loud and push me oh, so close to....well, I'm not sure what to.

OldTom was suddenly up by my ear, and I turned to look at him groggily, blinking. Had I had enough?

I bit my my lip and half laughed, shaking my head no. "I don't know...not just yet..." My trembles were starting hinder my ability to stay still and I didn't want to admit that I didn't trust myself to know when to stop, didn't trust myself to know where that edge was. I left it up to him.

A hand on my back, his lips in my site. "Three more strokes, then we are done."

I mumbled in agreement, torn between disappointment and anticipation of the last three. The first stroke angled across my bottom right at that sensitive curve of my cheeks, a fast glancing blow that left my heart hammering at the thought of two more. The next stroke settled straight down my leg, across all the other stripes already there, completing some absurd pattern. First one thigh, then the other. I had to suck my breath in and clench my eyes shut to take them, they were fast and serious. Nearly perfect.

I felt like Alice down the rabbit hole, falling deeper and deeper into utter confusion only to land at the bottom to find a perfect calm. Those last two strokes were incredible, as pure pain as I had ever been exposed to, and I lay there recovering, trembling, letting out a sigh of relief when I felt OldTom's soothing hands on my back, letting me know he was still with me. I lay there shaking, almost scared to come down. OldTom motioned to Stephen that it was all right to come over, the scene had ended. I wasn't ready for it to end, but I knew as long as I had them both there I would descend from my wonderland just fine.

Stephen has wonderful hands, very strong and comforting, and I reveled in the attention of both of them there with me. OldTom brought me a bottle of water, and I took a sip and set it aside, rolling on my side and smiling at them both, my gaze falling on Stephen. I was grateful he was there, I couldn't have been alone just then. I was still floating, still caught up in the adrenaline rush. I shakily rose off the bed, pulling my slacks back on and turned to OldTom with a goofy smile. We embraced, the hug that I always needed at the close of a scene to convince myself that it really was over. When the hug broke, I whispered softly "Thank you."

Stephen stayed with me, sitting beside me as I shivered by the window with a stolen smoke then letting me cling to him for awhile, just wanting to be with someone who had shared the experience with me even from a bystanders point of view. I felt this incredible bond with both of them, OldTom for taking me there and Stephen for simply being there. Last time OldTom caned me, I discovered subspace, this time I claimed it and discovered something else in the process...I just didn't know what, or understand what. I was Alice in a subspace wonderland, chasing a nameless white rabbit. Difference was, I had all the time in the world to find it.

* * *

The hardest thing about discoveries is the waiting. Waiting for the next time you have the chance to go further, to dig deeper and discover more. It's a game with no scores, no rules, no real solid goals. Just a rabbit hole with no limits. There is more, I have been assured, and I am only starting to explore my boundaries. Next time I see OldTom I hope he catches my gaze, a loopy or strop in one hand and a cane in the other, and tells me...that I am ready, and that he wants to hurt me. Next time, I hope he uses those canes to set a deeper context. Until then, I'll settle with being a willing player in this taunting waiting game.

I run my fingers over the little marks again and shiver, smiling to myself at the memories. The canes set the context alright...but I set the limits as to how much I enjoy them, and where they can take me.

I've decided there are no limits. Each experience is worthy and unique in and of itself.