Red Stripes

By Friday night, I'd about convinced myself that He wasn't going to whip me.

I knew that He'd read what I wrote about how I'd been thinking about it, and He'd mentioned it once earlier in the week, but that was it. No move to actually get to it. My sane, rational, reasonable self understood that the schedule we keep during the week makes that sort of session really impractical. There are just so many demands on our time... But the pouty, not rational part of me sat here Friday night and figured that I had battled and fought and struggled all this time to try and get "IT" back, and now I was here -- only to have there be nothing HERE afterall. Luckily, I had enough good sense not to spew that crazy garbage all over the place.

The fact is that Friday nights are not our best. We are all tired and exhausted and worn out. The work week takes its toll and we tend to come home and just collapse in heaps around this place. The fact that I was all wired up didn't change that reality, and my wanting wasn't going to drive the agenda.

Saturday. Saturday was a whole other thing.

I woke up some before He did, and snuggled next to His warm sleeping body, listening to the softly falling rain, and remembering... I remembered what it was like in the almost two years that we spent separated by 1200 miles early in our relationship. I went back in my mind over all the hours that we spent writing back and forth, mostly on IM, talking about nothing much, just reveling in getting to know one another. I remembered how, in those early days, I focused on the minor details of His days: where He went and who He saw and what sort of work He was engaged in. Often our conversations were about the movement of the weather as it traversed the continent from Denver to Cincinnati. We wove the fabric of our knowing from the sturdy thread of daily mundane details shared across seemingly uncrossable miles, until there was love that we could not deny...

Gradually, He awakened from His slumber, to pull me in and smile into my face and rejoice in our being together. It very soon became clear that THIS morning I would be paddled and spanked. No mention of the whipping. I was resigned to whatever He had in mind... After all, I still haven't completed the cycle of punishment strappings that have been prescribed, and so...

He began spanking me with His hand and me held up tight against His chest. Every impact sent shock waves into the hip that was down on the mattress (and has developed a touch of "old lady" arthritis). It didn't take me long to start complaining about how much my hip was hurting. If there is one thing that makes Him crazy, it is for me to be more focused on pain in some body part completely unrelated to my butt than I am in the pain He is inflicting... "Roll over!" came the command. I asked for some pillows to try and avoid the creases that always make for pinching, and He agreed.

Soon, I was upended satisfactorily. We'd had the discussion about "being good for my spanking," and He was happily spanking away. After awhile, He switched to a light weight leather strap that is deceptively gentle in the beginning, but builds to an odd burn in short order. No matter. It was a warmup, and I was grateful. Following the buildup is a skill that I've thought I'd lost, and so when I'm able to do that, I am both amazed and thrilled.

Next came the paddle. This is the new, birch plywood paddle from Hanson. It replaces the broken one and stings like the very devil. I am finding that it is somewhat lighter than its predecessor which was maple. The maple fell very solidly and unforgivingly. I still writhe and sweat my way through this one, but I don't seem to bleed or break...

I'm not sure how many paddle strokes there were. Or how many sets. I don't count if I don't have to. I breathe. And, if He'll let me, I get myself to the place where I can put a hand on the carpet and rub it. Don't ask me why. It helps. Something about that texture under my palm keeps me here.

When the sound of the paddle ended, and I could breathe normally again, He told me it was time for my whipping. YIKES! I'd given that up. I'd assumed it wasn't going to happen. I'd quit thinking about it. Now, here it was. Right in front of me. I felt my stomach drop, and suddenly, I needed to try and get to the place where I could do this.

I bought this whip. I gave it to Him. It was my gift to Him for His birthday, years ago. I chose it carefully. It is a lovely piece. With all of that, I've never fully embraced it -- never been open to it. I've gone under the whip with huge reluctance and endured it by huge effort of will. It has not been something that I have ever managed to do with joy, or ever celebrated.

Now, I am somehow in a different place, and I wanted to do this. Still, the whip is a frightening adversary. I was frightened. He gave me the option of either on the bed, or in the stocks... I asked to be allowed to stay on the bed for this first time (since the stocks are a challenge in and of themselves). He reminded me that if I did not take my whipping well, He would put me in the stocks, and I told Him that I did understand that. Then He told me to get up off of the pillows and onto my knees. That scared me. I felt frightened that I wouldn't have anything to hold onto. Psychologically, the sense of being unsupported, was a level of difficulty added to the "event" that I hadn't anticipated. I expressed that, and He almost let me go back down on the pillows, but I really wanted to do this in a way that pleased Him. So, I took a deep breath and stayed on my knees. I did ask for "the fluffy" -- a small down quilt that I sometimes hold onto during sessions. He let me have that and I gripped it to my face during the whipping.

It started and the first set was, for me, a blur. I know it was a hurt that I shrieked through some, but it didn't send me over the edge. When He came and got me, I was, sort of surprised. I was surprised I'd gotten through to the other side -- already. And I was just relieved and happy. He held me close while my heartbeat slowed down and my breathing calmed.

Then He told me I had one more set to go and that I could choose either the paddle or the whip. I remember asking Him if I didn't still need to finish the last set of strapping strokes. He told me that He'd rather do that another time, and directed me back to the choice... paddle or whip. My mind felt sluggish, but I was still a bit fascinated with the whip, so I told Him that I thought that I wanted to try the whip again. I asked Him if He was alright with that... and He assured me that He was.

Back I went into position. Not as difficult this time, or as scary. I didn't count. I remember reaching the point where I wondered how many it had been -- how many more there might be -- how many more I could take... But I held. Stayed. Went all the way through every stroke.

And then it was done. And He was there. Holding me. And I was absolutely giddy! Whip marks burn. Bright red stripes that remain for a long time -- all over my butt and up and down my thighs. But no blood and no bruises and no anger and no urge to kill anyone. I feel simply joyful and triumphant. And when I asked Him if it was OK, He told me I was "fabulous."

I haven't been fabulous at the end of a session for just ages. Somebody better tie a string to my ankle so I don't float away.

swan