Caning

I survey my dungeon, where two pathetic slaves bend over the bench, asses presented like offerings. With a wicked grin, I grasp the cane, swinging it mercilessly across their flesh. Welts rise instantly, crimson stripes blooming under my command. One bears my branded tattoo, a mark of eternal ownership. I alternate strikes, their whimpers fueling … Cane-Olympics – Who Creates More Blows