He was a somewhat famous and remarkably talented artist and educator. Ten years older than me, or so. He was taller and broader than me, with a large thick beard. We had met and spoken a few times, but he saw me walking around at an event with my pant legs folded up with purple socks and sock garters and he complimented me on my calves. He later approached me and said he would love to cane my calves. I accepted, nervously.
There was something very different about the way he grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and pushed me against a wall. He asked if I would be a good boy for him. I nodded, “yessir,” my head going into a very different space than I was used to.
Then he started hitting me, reasonably hard, on the calves with various thickness of canes. Most of the time he held me by the back of my neck with his large hand to steady me. It’s something I started doing in scenes after, maintaining a physical connection and a reminder of control.
As usual, I became pretty stoic, just my hands on the wall, my jaw tight, taking every strike silently. He wasn’t having that though, he roughed me up, pull me out of my trance.
The scene went on and finally he asked if I could take “five of his best.”
I eagerly agree. My head and body had transitioned to a place where I could take a lot of pain and transform it into something else. Pleasure? Power? Something. I was greedy for more and getting cocky.
He pulled back with a thick rattan cane and thwack. Then again. Then he leaned in and asked “aren’t you going to count for me?”
“Oh, did you start?” I bratted.
His smile became huge. “Oh, thank you for saying that,” he said, going to his back and getting a much meaner resin cane.
Cocky bratty Jack lasted one or two hits. Then my knees buckled and I could stand up.
