Willing Chaff – Story Fodder Read Online J.A. Huss

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I turn back toward Scarletta.

Her eyes widen when she sees what I'm holding.

"Do you know what this is?" I ask, the same question I asked about the nipple clamps.

"A cane, Master." Her voice is smaller now. Less certain.

"Have you written about it?"

She nods.

"How many times?"

"I don't... I don't know exactly. Several."

"Eleven." I close the distance between us slowly, letting her watch me approach, letting her anticipation build with each step. "Eleven stories where your protagonists experience caning. In seven of them, the cane is applied to their ass while they're bent over furniture. In three, it's applied to their thighs while they're restrained standing. In one, it's applied to the soles of their feet."

I stop directly in front of her.

"You've researched it extensively. You've described the sound it makes. The way it leaves raised welts. The way the pain peaks several seconds after impact rather than immediately."

I drag the tip of the cane down her sternum, between her clamped breasts, over her stomach, lower.

"But you've never felt it."

"No, Master."

"You're going to feel it now."

I trace the cane along her hip, around to her thigh, down to her knee. Her skin pebbles with goosebumps in its wake.

"The flogger was a question," I tell her. "This is an answer."

I step to her side, positioning myself for optimal swing mechanics. The restraints hold her perfectly in place, her body stretched taut against the cross, every inch of her exposed and vulnerable.

I take a deep breath.

I adjust my grip on the handle, finding the perfect balance point.

I draw the cane back, measuring the distance, calculating the force.

And I wait.

I wait until her breathing quickens with anticipation.

I wait until her muscles tense involuntarily, bracing for impact.

I wait until she starts to relax again, thinking maybe I've changed my mind.

Then I swing.

The cane connects with both thighs simultaneously.

I feel the impact travel up the rattan, through my wrist, into my arm. The sound is exactly what I expected—that sharp whistle followed by a crack that echoes through the jungle clearing. I've practiced this stroke thousands of times on pillows, on hanging meat, on my own forearm once when I needed to understand what I was delivering.

Scarletta doesn't react immediately.

That's the nature of caning. The skin registers contact, but the nerve signals need time to travel, to be processed, to translate into conscious experience. I count in my head. One. Two.

Three.

She screams.

Not a cry. Not a gasp. A genuine scream that rips out of her throat and scatters birds from the nearby trees. Her entire body convulses against the restraints, pulling at the leather cuffs around her wrists, straining against the strap across her waist, her ankles jerking uselessly in their bonds.

Her head drops forward, chin hitting her chest.

I watch her carefully.

I watch the way her shoulders heave with each ragged breath. I watch the trembling that runs through her muscles like an electrical current. I watch the twin red lines already rising across her thighs, parallel welts that will darken over the next few minutes into perfect stripes.

Her hair has fallen forward, obscuring her face.

She's staring at the ground beneath the platform, her breathing loud and harsh in the sudden silence. The jungle seems to hold its breath around us, even the insects going quiet, as if the entire island is waiting to see what happens next.

I don't move.

I don't speak.

I let her process.

This is the critical moment. This is where I read every signal her body is transmitting and make the correct decision. If I see panic, genuine distress, the kind of fear that signals I've pushed too far, I'll stop everything. I'll release her from the cross, wrap her in my arms, carry her to the recovery station and spend the next hour in aftercare.

But that's not what I see.

Her breathing is slowing. Still ragged, still catching on each inhale, but slowing. Her shoulders are dropping from where they'd climbed toward her ears. Her hands, which had been clenched into fists inside the cuffs, are relaxing, her fingers uncurling.

And her thighs.

Her thighs are pressing together as much as the ankle restraints will allow, which isn't much. She's squeezing them, trying to create friction, trying to chase something.

I walk around the cross to face her.

My footsteps are deliberate, loud enough for her to track my movement. I don't want to startle her. I want her to know exactly where I am, exactly what I'm doing.

I stop directly in front of her.

She's still looking down, her hair a curtain between us.

I reach out and cup her chin, lifting her face.

Her eyes are wet. Tears track down her cheeks, leaving shiny trails on her flushed skin. Her lips are parted, swollen from where she's been biting them. Her pupils are still dilated, dark pools that seem to swallow the light.

She looks wrecked.

She looks beautiful.

I hold her gaze and slide my other hand between her legs.


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