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G'day, folks  ;
When it comes to caning, nothing in Australia compares to using the fine quality canes produced here in Perth.
Your interests may be in Domination and Submission, or Master/slave relationships, or you may have a school fetish, enjoy corporal punishment, or simply desire to feel the napalm burn of a cane striking bare buttocks.
My canes are just as effective in other countries. So far, I have sent them to England, Canada, New Zealand, and Brasil.
Workshops are held on making a cane, care of your cane, and using your cane on a submissive bottom. Abiding SSC - safe sane and consensual - of course.
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The Four Doors of Caning
The first door opens onto the Workshop, where everything is material and measurement, diameters and densities. It's a room of searching and of supply, of seeking and processing something which grows in only a few places in the world. It's a room filled with handtools, of benches and G-cramps, fine-toothed saws and glasspaper. It's a very masculine room, where the acrid smell of rasped rattan and the cloying odour of varnish hang in the air.
When you've spent some time in the Workshop, you notice the second door. Clutching your shiny new toys you ease open this door and discover that this room contains a Martial Arts class. 'Cane' is a noun, the name we give an inanimate object. 'Caning' is a verb, a 'doing' word, the name of an action. You want to know how to make your cane move, move like a serpent over a bare leg in the blackness of the night, move with the flashing violence of an interceptor. Or not move at all. To just lay there, alongside the shining cutlery, sharing a white tablecloth with the chinaware and the crystal.
You work hard at your studies, and if you're diligent you're invited to pass through the third door into a large room where the Graduation Ceremony is being held. This is the room of the Play Party, where you learn that, despite all appearances to the contrary since your birth, that you are not the Centre of the Universe. This is the room where you learn that when you play you play to everybody who is watching and listening. This is the room where you learn to deal with the interferer in a way which avoids any shirt-fronting, saves-face all round, and leaves you supremely in command. This is where you learn that human beings not only do not live by bread alone, they do not live alone.
You may never see the fourth door, unless you're curious about a long curved staircase that leads off the Play Room and up to a small landing. You have never seen the fourth door open, and it appears that nobody ever uses the staircase. You have heard rumours that when all is quiet the door at the top of the staircase slowly opens, and shadowy figures glide amongst the deserted play-furniture, and pause to delicately select a biscuit, a piece of cheese, and a slice of salami. For these are the people who decline even to be seen at a munch, but whose needs are as intense as their loneliness. These are the people who will one day employ Personal Coaches, and Reconcilers, and for whom Domestic Discipline is far more than a kinky lifestyle.
You may have forgotten all about the fourth door, until a caller on the telephone asks if you would be available that night, and that if you are a taxi will call for you shortly. You are whisked through quiet suburbs, along leafy tree-lined avenues, where the orange streetlights are stark against a violet void. You are surprised at finding yourself deposited back at the empty Play Room, and ushered up the long curving staircase. For the first time you see the fourth door opened to admit you, and reflections from the indoor pool ripple turquoise on a creamy wall.
Later that night you will pause at the top of the staircase, as the door closes silently behind you. You will look back, but the doorway will have vanished. You will remember only the straw-coloured cane laying on the crisp white linen, alongside the shining cutlery, and sharing table with the chinaware and the crystal. You will smile in quiet satisfaction at the job you were called to do, and faint in the warm summer night you'll fancy you detect the long-forgotten aroma of rasped rattan, and the cloying odour of varnish.
Eric Carwardine, in Perth, Western Australia
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