Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!Copyright 1985-2016 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
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Settling the Argument
(***, M/F, Intense, caning machine)
A wife teases her husband that he can't build a spanking machine, and he proves her wrong. (Approximately 1,322 words. Originally published 2003-12.)
I stared at it with a mixture of fascination and horror. It didn't look like much: a squat metal structure that reminded me a little of a water buoy. From this extended a wire arm that looked oddly fragile. The padded bench looked misplaced, lying at a wrong angle to the arm.
"Does it work?" I asked, holding my breath.
Gary nodded. "Let me show you."
He plumped the pillow that lay across the middle of the bench. Then he retrieved a fiberglass rod from a corner bin. I watched, my heart pounding, as he fastened the cane into the grip of the device's arm. The rod was thin and whippy, vibrating slightly as it was held in the air.
He released a catch and carefully brought the arm down, demonstrating to me the flight-path of the cane. The final dozen inches of the cane connected perfectly across the pillow, so Gary seemed satisfied. He made some more adjustments to the device, then nodded to me.
He pressed a button on the remote control. Instantly, the arm flashed downward. There was a whoosh followed by a dull thud as the cane snapped across the pillow. My belly did flipflops as I looked the deep indentation left in the pillow.
"See? Told you it works."
Gary had found the machine at an industrial auction a couple weeks earlier. He'd gone to pick up some used office equipment when he'd noticed the golf club tester for sale. Bidding started at $500, and no one else even bid. It was a steal.
The second he'd seen the machine he'd realized how easy it would be to adapt it to swing a cane instead of a golf club. The angle of the swing was the biggest problem, but Gary had modifed the machine to swing on flatter angle and positioned a padded bench to hold a person in the perfect position for punishment.
"Now it's time for human testing," he said pointedly.
I gulped. "Uh, er, I'm sure it works fine, honey. You don't have to show me."
"Oh no. We must test it. You were the one who said it wouldn't work."
"I was just kidding, trying to motivate you."
"Well, it worked. Now it must work on you."
"Honey, please, that thing looks vicious."
"Oh it is." Gary's eyes glowed brightly and I felt my knees quiver. "Even at its mildest setting this thing strikes a blow that would make a headmaster proud."
"Oh God." My knees were jelly. "Gary, please..."
* * * * *
I was naked, lying on the padded bench. A heavy leather sash wrapped around my waist and held me in position. Wrist cuffs were attached to the top of the bench. Ankle cuffs held my feet wide apart and unable to move. I'd never felt so vulnerable in my life. It was exhilirating. It was terrifying.
Behind me, Gary was calibrating the arm, making sure the angle of descent would connect with my buttocks. I prayed it would be accurate: I'd hate to have a stroke hit me too high.
"Gary, we don't have to do this! You win. I believe you that it works."
"Of course, dear," he said absent-mindedly, still busy with his settings.
Shit! Why had I argued with him? I'd told him he'd wasted $500 and the thing would never work. Now I was about to find out how wrong I was.
As he worked, Gary explained to me various things about the machine.
"Note the fiberglass rod instead of a real rattan cane? That's because we need something with movement. You see, a golf club tester is designed to repeat the exact same stroke over and over, with no variation. But that would tear up your ass with the strokes landing in the same spot. So we've got a whippy rod that will move about, landing strokes in different places. Cool, eh?"
Oh yeah, way cool.
"The bench is on ball bearings as well. It will gradually move up during the session. That way we can make sure we get all over -- get your ass properly covered."
Session? Did he say _session_? "You're just going to try a stroke or two, right love?" I asked quickly. "I mean, that's all we need to know it works."
"Oh no, honey. We must be diligent scientists here. We must thoroughly exercise the machine. I've got it set up for a full session."
"Oh God, Gary, please!"
"Relax, dear. It won't be so bad. It'll be over in five minutes."
"Five minutes? How many strokes in five minutes?"
"Six per minute," he said calmly, not the least bit troubled. The news made me scream and try to kick my way free of the bench. Nothing happened. I couldn't budge.
"Here we go, dear. I'm just going to try one stroke as a test. Brace yourself."
There was nothing to brace -- I was helpless.
I heard a slight machine noise from beside me, and suddenly there was a whipping sound followed by a "thwack!" and my ass was on fire. It felt like a strand of molten steel had been laid across my butt.
"Eeeiiieie!" I screamed.
"Excellent!" cried Gary, ignoring me completely. He was standing at my side, admiring my ass and taking snapshots with the digital camera.
"Oh God! I swear that cut me in two," I moaned. "And you're bloody awful, just standing there and taking pictures!"
"We must have good documentation. Of course we do have the video camera over there--"
"What? You're recording this? Gary, enough! Let me out of here now!"
"Well, I can see someone is anxious for us to begin. That tone of voice can mean nothing other than 'thrash me good.'"
"Nooo," I cried, but my protests were drowned out by horrible screaming, which it took me a few minutes to realize, was me.
The rod was indeed vicious. Every stroke felt like it lashed right through the skin. I could feel weals blossoming up all over my buttocks. The lines weren't straight -- the rod was too whippy for that. They curved and overlapped cruelly, and I screamed and screamed.
Every few strokes the bench would grind upward a tiny bit and the new strokes would land lower down across my backside. It was maddening. There was nothing I could do to make it stop. My tears and screams meant nothing. I was positive my ass was thrashed beyond recognition, yet the lashes kept coming. How long had it been? Surely five minutes had passed. It felt like an hour!
Finally the rod cut into the base of my buttocks, right into the overhang, and then into the crease where thigh meets bum. That's when I knew it was nearly over. Obviously Gary wouldn't stop it before my bottom was completely and thoroughly beaten, and that meant the overhang. Not that that knowledge made the strokes any easier to bear: every stroke had me screaming and kicking wildly (not that it did any good). I just couldn't help myself. It hurt very badly.
Suddenly, it was over. The machine was silent. There was strange, random clicking sound, very slight, and it took me several minutes to realize it was Gary, taking closeups of my ass.
It was about this time that the warmth kicked in. The agony had subsided and now there was just raw pain and heat. The heat felt good. Even the weals felt good, throbbing relentlessly. There were so many of them, overlapping, spread out, it was hideous. It was wonderful.
Then Gary was unlatching me.
"That's some machine," I said weakly. I felt his strong body against mine, supporting me, and suddenly I wanted him. I was insatiable, ravenous.
"Told you I could do it."
"Of course, dear. I had faith in you all along."
Finally, I had my dream machine. All that complaining and pestering had paid off!