I lay the side of my cheek against Becky's bare high knee as she played curly cues through my curls and continued to list her reasons for just caning me.

"...and not only is it not an adequate size for me, for any woman in fact, but you insist on simply grabbing your dick and going at yourself the second you see me. I mean really, Matt, don't you have any dignity or control?"

I let the tear roll down my cheek and tried my best not to bounce my suffering ass against the hardwood floor where I was sitting under my mistress/friend. As always, Becky had not only delivered a blistering ass-slicing across my tight hairy buns, but she was following up with the well-worn patter that she knew I needed as much as the whipping. I loved being taken to task for my shortcomings, in this case the size of my cock (which I knew was average, Becky's teasing was just that...teasing) and the fact that yes, the second I saw her enter my condo in her oh-so-short loose pleated skirt, three-inch black patent leather heels and a starched white high-neck blouse, I indeed had opened my fly and pulled my cock out.

Becky expected nothing less of me.

"I fear these whippings aren't enough, that you need something more, something truly humiliating; something to really break you."

I began whimpering; when the tears flowed like this I was in heaven, and Becky knew it. Crying was a catharsis I found almost every time the long-limbed black girl and I managed a session, a release that as much unnerved me as it centered my entire being. I had caught her on many an occasion rolling her hips forward or grabbing a breast (all when she thought I was too overcome by my tears to see) as she stood over me after a heavy walloping, or when I faced her, chin down, gulping and bawling, Becky laughing at my "pitiful" erection after a back-of-my-thighs quick thin stick-flipping.

It took a lot to get me so engaged with a regular date, though technically Becky and I were not dating, and God knows I had never been as stilled in this way with any other woman. My late twenties were relatively sedate with a good job, good friends, a big extended Italian family, and a solid stream of dates, lots of which led to rather good sex, but never anything kinky. There had been many occasions where I wished a woman I was seeing might get the nerve to swat my ass―even just jokingly―and I often ached to spill my secret to someone who seemed like she might indeed be able to handle the truth about my deepest fantasies. But so far no one but Becky had stepped into this particular world with me. She was a friend of my best friend's sister, a woman I had occasion to meet a few times in large groups but wasn't particularly taken with, save her adorable little nose and obviously perfect long legs. It was after a very brief public encounter when we both happened to whisper something about Fetlife that we then connected on the site and began meeting for these encounters.

Still, even Becky seemed to have her limits, or maybe was she being cautious of those she sensed I had? Even though what she was saying then was making me bounce and undulate under her, cry openly on her knee, the reality of the situation was that Becky had pretty much given me something more every step of the way until we had arrived at these canings and cock-size scoldings. It had taken the better part of two years to build to this, and there had been fits-and-starts to be sure; whole months when I didn't see Becky because our schedules clashed, times she was dating someone seriously enough she figured our play poked at propriety (though I never felt that way, viewing what Becky and I got into here as something distinct from any other intimacies I managed), times one of us didn't seem to need kink in their life (though the few times we gave our dom/sub encounters a rest had always been prompted by Becky). I just figured, as I sensed she did, that where we had got to now, her using various thin wooden branches against my ass that I ceremoniously picked every couple of weeks and had in my home at the ready, was where we'd pretty much stay in our kink play.

Caning seemed to be the nadir of what Becky and I both needed. She'd run her fingers across my welts as she had just done, trilling deeply in her throat, her eyelids half-closed as I assumed Becky fixed this memory of her latest ass- whipping deep in her mind to be masturbated over later (hell, I masturbated crazily to the thoughts of what Becky did to me). She'd slice me as I flapped and cried across my couch arm, or on all fours on my wooden floor, hoping for the high-breasted woman to as much stop as continue. My mistress would allow me those few seconds of pleasure rubbing her hand up, between and against my suffering tight balls as she assured me the whipping was not as yet over. The soft tease of Becky wanting to add something new to the proceedings was something I had heard her warn a few times, and though I was fevered then imagining what it might be, I knew here Becky and I would remain, exactly where we had been now a good six months, and both this round-faced girl and I would stay happy right where we were.