I worked for a US contractor for thirty-two years, with the last twelve in Africa, and finally, as the continental MD. Management in the US sold our ‘non-core’ division, although it was profitable. They found a buyer, and I worked with them during the handover, when I requested to leave and received a generous payoff for my long service. 

An unusual thing happened. The managing director of the state airline took me out for supper to discuss his problems. His airline is the biggest in the region, but has slid in customer popularity ratings because of cabin service. The company wanted a manager to oversee recruiting and training to bring recruits from their country and a friendly neighbouring state up to standard. My name came up because they favoured the 'right sort' of foreigners who had previous experience in the country, and so avoided ‘tribal’ and ‘nationalist’ issues.

Privately, he told me I was his preferred candidate. I had supported the promotion of locals within my company, of which he was aware. He could not make me an offer on the spot, but asked me to attend a board-level interview, where they accepted me and the deal was done.

After leaving my old job, I started work immediately with a two-year contract with negotiable extensions. The airline agreed to let me stay in my old rented house and took over the lease from my former employer on the date that I left them. This was with the proviso that part of the large ground floor would be available when required for off-site management meetings, which arrangement suited me and my partner very well. We didn’t want to move and were out all day during the working week.

My partner is a charming local lady of mixed race, with African, Arab and Portuguese in her background, and she is a national. I was several years older than her and had to stay in shape, which reduced my alcohol consumption. Cherry (her nickname) was also a personnel manager with the national airline. There was a tremendous attraction between us, and we took weekend breaks at Safari lodges and an old colonial coastal town.

She had a perfect figure, which she maintained in the gym, C cup breasts and when not wearing her favourite perfume, a slightly smoky natural smell that I have learned to associate with African women. She had avoided the steatopygous arse, which can be a feature of the continent. To top it all, Cherry was intelligent, beautiful, funny, affectionate, and, most importantly, had an enormous sex drive. 

Her lack of inhibitions was amazing! Two or three times a week, she asked me to help her with intimate shaving, which took place on the bidet. I would gently finger her clitoris while shaving her, which gave her an enormous stimulus, but I had to take care not to cut her as she wriggled about in pleasure! 

As an air hostess before getting her ground job, she had accumulated vibrators, kegel balls and erotic underwear. There were strict customs rules about importing ‘sex aids,’ so I asked her how she brought them in. 

“It’s easy for a girl. You can imagine! They rarely strip-search us, and the dogs can’t smell it!” 

Cherry loved it when I gave oral attention to her clitoris with her long, thin vibrator running inside her. This always leads to sex ending in a back-arching, finger-nail-digging, noisy orgasm for her and a toe-curling, earth-moving climax for me. 

On a Friday evening, six months after she moved in, Cherry must have felt sufficiently comfortable to confide in me a deep desire. She wanted an occasional spanking! Cherry had secreted a few canes in her wardrobe when she moved in, and she explained her kink. 

“I realised when I was twenty that canings were a turn-on, and because I trust you, please cane me again! My mum asked me to cane my younger sister after she was sixteen to make sure, in our culture, that I got respect because I am the older sibling. The poor girl could not sit after twenty strokes of the camel stick. It did her good, and she’s a qualified surgeon and mother now. I allowed her to cane me in return once, so she didn’t feel victimised.” 

Her favourite was called the ‘camel stick’. It was about eight millimetres in diameter and ninety centimetres long. Often, we would indulge in foreplay. I would go down on her with the internal aid of the vibrator, suck on and nibble her clitoris and stop when she was at risk of shaking herself to pieces. She often asked me to give her a caning as her sections subsided.

Cherry always bent over the end of the bed with her forearms on it and with her arse stuck out. Events usually followed the same route. 

“Please, give me a caning until I ask you to stop. Do it hard enough to leave marks, but try not to cut me. Leave about thirty seconds between strokes and don’t stop until I ask you, or I collapse from an orgasm.” 

After a quick rub of her sore bum, she would place a folded and rolled towel under her tummy on the edge of the bed to lift her as she lay on it. 

“Screw me doggy fashion, you bad boy. It’s wonderful when you rub against the cane marks.” 

There were sometimes up to thirty of these. Cherry loved a good caning, and when I entered her, always with a massive boner, her vagina would still be in a cane-induced spasm. No experience I have ever had matched this! It always concluded with Cherry sitting on the bidet with the water running on her vulva. With the aid of the water flow, I played with her clitoris. Satiated with manual stimulation, she would turn off the taps, turn around on the bidet, sitting with legs apart, and make me eat her out! 

We kept weight records, and with our sexual activities, we noticed a slow but steady drop in this, which Cherry put down to all the horizontal exercise. 

I asked her, “How does your bottom feel the next day?” 

“There is sensation rather than pain. The caning pain lasts about fifteen minutes, but the sensation remains for five or six days, steadily fading. During the two days after the caning, if I sit on a hard surface and squeeze my bottom cheeks together, I can give myself an orgasm. I can’t do it at work where they might notice. That’s why I like a caning on a Friday night, or a Thursday if I can take Friday off, so I can enjoy myself at will, which avoids the frustration of work-imposed denial.” 

A variation could be for Cherry to insert a thin vibrator in her vagina, and wearing a thong to stop her vaginal muscles from expelling it, receive her caning. This would never make it past twelve to fifteen strokes before she collapsed in an earth-shaking orgasm, pulling the thong clear and removing the vibrator, because it was more than she could stand! 

The caning activity had been one-way, and I felt guilty about it, and one evening, I admitted this. 

“Take a shower, and tonight, I will give you a caning first.” 

I came out of the shower with a gratifying boner ready for a session, and she was standing there, naked, with the longer and thicker cane in her hand. 

“Get over the end of the bed. I’m going to give you your overdue punishment. In the past, I have had a twelve-stroke caning with a cane like this. Take it like a man.” 

“What have I done to deserve a punishment?!” 

“How many times have you caned me with the camel stick?” 

“Plenty, but you asked me to do it!” 

“Enough. Brace yourself for a thrashing.” 

Whistle CRAAACK. The first stroke almost knocked the wind out of me. Cherry was a well-built, muscular lady, and I’m sure, wanted to see how I stood up to it. The African in her admired a powerful man, and possibly, she saw me in that light. I needed to endure it to cement our relationship and steeled myself for the ordeal. The pain was awful, but I stuck it out. Maybe her telling me she had received twelve strokes was to warn me to expect the same. 

Whistle CRAAACK. My hair stood on end. How was I going to survive twelve of these? It was the thought of the toe-curling orgasms I enjoyed with her that helped me stay with it. 

Whistle CRAAACK. If this represented what Cherry went through, my admiration increased. I was having difficulty getting my breath, and the pain in my bum drove all other thoughts out of my mind, apart from giving her the beast of a screwing afterwards. 

Whistle CRAAACK. I was drifting into a place where a floating delirium replaced the pain. Was this the endorphin release that some report after ‘impact play’? Looking around at the beautiful, naked Cherry brandishing the cane reinforced this feeling. 

“Brave boy! You are taking it well!” 

Cherry continued with my caning, and I lost count of the strokes. When it stopped, the floating feeling slowly evaporated, and the pain rushed back. 

I had survived the twelve agonising lines of white-hot fire and stood up slowly, feeling my tortured rump. The swollen welts were damp, and there was blood on my fingers. Cherry must have considered this as an outcome, because she had plasters ready. I had focused on the sight of her brandishing the cane, which stopped my erection from wilting! 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know my strength. A plaster or two will fix it. This cane is a regulation women’s prison punishment cane, and I got it from a policewoman, part of whose job it is to cane female miscreants at the jail. Imagine, the prisoners can get up to twenty-four strokes with it. I’m sure they behave after that.” 

The pain was a sexual stimulus, and I was close to orgasm. Cherry was looking at my boner in admiration and bent over the end of the bed, standing on a towel.

“The sight of your penis throbbing each time the cane landed made me feel so horny, and I was close to orgasm.  I thought we were going to explode!  Next time, I will use the camel stick on you, and I can give more strokes, and maybe we will both come!  Today, I stopped at twelve strokes, because I could imagine the awful pain you were enduring, and I saw the damage to your bum. Wipe the cane down and give me a quick six of the best with it, but please, not full force. Then screw me doggy fashion, as usual. It feels wonderful when you rub against my cane marks.” 

I gave Cherry six medium-force strokes on the lower curves of her bottom, aiming at one cheek at a time! These made three dark lines, which hardened into lumps on each side of her lower buttocks. These would remind her of events every time she sat down for the next week, and would hopefully make her feel horny! 

“Stay in position and I will give you a screwing you will never forget.” 

“Please, hurry!” 

I entered her doggy fashion and could feel her vagina still in motion. The spontaneous event showed how an erotic caning could turn on a suitably disposed girl. Each time I thrust forward and rubbed against her cane marks, she yelped, “Oh, wow, screw me harder, please.” 

 On the surface, butter wouldn’t melt, but in the raw, it was another matter! Her lack of inhibitions showed only in private. 

Within a minute, we had an enormous mutual orgasm. Cherry collapsed on the bed and rolled onto her back. 

“Peter, please, go down on me gently. You are so good at it! I fantasised that a wild boar was screwing me and I was orgasming in the grunt-filled forest!"

What a fantasy! This was a change from the visit to the bidet immediately after receiving a caning.. A few minutes of oral attention and fingering of her G spot was enough for her, and she closed her legs on my head! 

“I will shake to pieces if we don’t stop! Are you OK? I never caned my sister anything like as hard as that.” 

“Yes, I’m fine, but sore. It will pass and a blowjob would make me feel even better, once I have re-charged, please.”

 “OK, take your time, get cleaned up, and I will do it for you. 

Cherry gave me one of the best blowjobs I have ever had! She would fondle my balls and lock eyes with me as she went at it, and I found it so erotic! 

On a Sunday morning, the phone rang. It was her sister, and Cherry looked amused during the conversation, which took place in a mixture of Swahili and English. I left her to talk, and when the call was over, I sensed there was a serious side to it. 

Cherry said, “My naughty niece, Angie, has a big problem. Last night, she was at an illegal party at a big house downtown with the parents away. The police raided it and found underage children, drugs, and alcohol. They arrested her with the rest, and the police carried out drug tests. Fortunately, Angie was negative.” 

“When they found out who she was, they took her home and spoke to my sister. The police will charge most of those at the party, and they are likely to be found guilty of attending it. The punishment will be a caning for all, girls and boys. But they won’t charge Angie, who wasn’t underage, if she returns to the police station with at least a six-stroke hard caning visible on her bottom and within three days. If she does so, she will avoid a crime record.” 

“Angie has agreed with her mother for me to cane her. They will be here within the hour, and I will give her a dose of the medium camel stick, which won’t be as painful as the rattan punishment cane, but will leave good welts on her bum. Her mother will wait in the car, because Angie doesn’t want her at the caning, or to hear her if she screams. She will wear a thong, and I will inspect her bum afterwards. I warned her that if I need a second opinion regarding the appearance and number of visible strokes, I will ask you, and she has agreed. Are you OK with it, please?” 

To say that it surprised me would be an understatement, but I didn’t have a problem with it, so I agreed. 

Angie arrived looking embarrassed and hardly glanced at me. Cherry took her to our bedroom, closing the door after them. Within five minutes, I heard the sounds of the cane landing on flesh and a scream. I counted six of these, and there was a pause with audible sobs. A couple of minutes later, I heard two more strokes accompanied by even louder screams. Fifteen minutes later, I heard the door open, and they came downstairs. Angie was sniffing back tears and rubbing her bottom. The ‘second opinion’ was unnecessary, to my dismay! At our front door, she smiled at me, hugged Cherry, said ‘thank you,’ and walked to the car. I hoped it would go well for her at the police station and waited for an update. 

Cherry laughed. “Here’s what happened. When her caning was over after the second set of two strokes, she was in a lot of pain and complained that I’d done it too hard. So I bent over, lifted my skirt and showed her the cane marks on my bum from the session with you two days earlier.” 

“I said, ‘I know what it feels like. The marks on my bottom are those of a caning with a thicker cane. Think yourself lucky I didn’t use it on you, silly girl. Ask your mother how I caned her when she was eighteen and older, and now I get to cane you! Angie’s eyes widened, but I’m sure it gave her too much of a surprise to say a word!'"

This was too much, and I doubled up in laughter. Cherry said, “I don’t think I have heard the last of this, but wait and see.” 

The following Thursday, Cherry was at a personnel managers’ event in a downtown hotel close to Angie’s college and had a story to tell me when she returned home. She went shopping after the event and bumped into Angie by chance. They went for a coffee and in a quiet corner, Angie told her what had happened when her mother took her straight to the police station. A WPC and a senior WPC officer interviewed her behind a locked door in a side room, told her to bend over a table, and inspected her well-caned bottom. The senior one said, “I count at least seven strokes, and they were hard. You are out of trouble. Did it hurt a lot? I can see you have been crying.” 

Angie replied, “Yes, it did, but I deserved it.” 

“OK, don’t do it again, and I hope you have learned your lesson. You may go.” 

“I said, ‘You are lucky and got away with it, just for the price of a sore bum.’” 

“I’ve got something else to tell you,” said Angie. “Mother took me home and said, ‘Your caning from Cherry has done you no harm. You appear to have taken it well, and it does you credit. Please discuss it with me, or anything to do with it, if you feel the need. She didn’t demand to see my bottom, and in fact, she treated me like an adult.'"

“I wondered what she meant, but after an hour at home in my bedroom, I experienced the horniest feelings I have ever had, and...