500 Hits

We had over 500 visitor hits here last Sunday.  That is a

 HUGE

day for The Heron Clan.  We tend to believe that any day that this blog attracts 200 or more readers is a very good day.  There have been very few -- VERY FEW -- days in the time we've been keeping track of these things, when we've seen numbers in the 500 range. 

So...  500 makes us sit up and take notice.  Not surprisingly, the "500 hit day" followed directly on the heels of our last big session, and Master quipped that it really was a matter of "500 hits for 500 hits."  It was a clever throwaway line that has, nevertheless, stayed with me -- because what makes it cute and clever is the fact that it is true.  Or at least, effectively/approximately true. 

I do not count strokes during sessions.  I am usually too intent on "doing my part" (staying put, being quiet, being respectful, following the rules), to count.  Too, counting tends to lead me to the point of panic.  I know that He will usually spank in sets of 50, and sometimes in sets of 100.  Knowing, as I do, that those are the kinds of numbers that I am in for, it is particularly difficult when the count reaches 10 or 15 or 20, and the pain is already "unbearable."  I don't need to put myself in the position of believing that "I can't do it" at the earliest stages of a spanking. 

Besides.  I know that He counts.  Obsessively.  I can, sometimes, when I can shift my focus sufficiently, hear Him back there behind me, ticking off the numbers under His breath.  Since that is the reality, and since only He knows what the "target" number might be in any given set, there's no need for me to pay any attention to the count. 

So, to be absolutely clear, I do not know the actual stroke count from our big session last Friday.  I do have some sense of what likely occured because I have the photos of the toys that He used...

By my count, there are a dozen implements that He used on me.  Two of them are suede floggers that he used for a bit of 2-handed flogging.  They are a matched set, and He almost never uses them singly.  Two-handed flogging happens very fast -- a series of rapid fire strokes that cover my ass with flying leather falls.  Suede isn't a very intense leather.  As floggers go, suede is pretty mild, although it tends to have a very rough surface, and so it creates a sort of abraded sensation on the skin over time.   However, because they are relatively less severe, He often ups the stroke count.   Two other toys in this set, (the strap in the far back of the photo and the black leather paddle in the front and left) are also relatively mild and so He generally goes up on the number of hits.  Conversely, the viper-style whip in the front and the rubber tailed flogger right beyond it are much more severe as is the switch rod toward the back of the group.  I think He took pity on me and did not use these for as long as He might do with other implements.  With all of that, there are still an even dozen implements, and if the average "count" was 50 strokes with each, then our Friday session was well over 500 hits. 

So, yup:  500 hits for 500 hits seems just about right.

swan

Taking Care of "The Jones"

I indicated, in the Please? post that I had developed a sudden jones for a real session -- a "real" spanking that would carry me AND Him beyond the sort of routine and mundane sadomasochistic play that we've fallen into over the last couple of years. 

That slang term, "jonesing" means "to crave, or to desire strongly."  When "jones" first appeared in African-American slang in the early 1960s, it was as a noun meaning "a drug addiction, especially to heroin.   No one seems to know why "jones" took on the slang connotation of "a drug habit," but by about 1970, "jones" had percolated into more widespread slang use in its modern "gotta have it" sense.  That, surely, makes it work for where I was yesterday morning when I woke up, and when I wrote about it here. 

Of course, like just about everything else in our world, this did not go down simply or smoothly.  I told Master about it almost as soon as I'd posted it, and He went immediately to read what I'd written.  He was thrilled (surprise, surprise), and told me that He'd been fantasizing about that kind of session for awhile.  We were on the same page!  Hooray!

Unfortunately, He had a doctor appointment at mid-day yesterday, and so suggested that we could play when that was done.  OK.  Seemed reasonable to me.  So, we got busy and got cleaned up and headed off to see the doctor.  When we arrived for the scheduled appointment, we found that the doctor was running seriously behind.  We sat in the office and waited for well over an hour, and by the time we got in and finished the appointment -- and then drove home, it was well after 3PM .  Neither of us had eaten, and so there went the afternoon.

He began discussing the alternative of playing today.  And, I began to fuss.  I was not at all sure that my "jones" would stick around that long, and without that craving to shore me up and fire my masochistic fervor, I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to actually go through with what I'd imagined, and what, as a consequence, He was planning.

I woke up in the very early morning hours today, around 2:45, and was just devastated.  There was no sign that my jones was still working.  Jones seemed to have moved on down the road, perhaps heading for some lucky masochist living in Topeka...  I was afraid and sad.  It just didn't seem fair!  I rolled over in the darkness and began to work to reach some sort of place of acceptance with it all... back to my trusty mantra:  "I love You, Sir.  I love You, Sir.  I love You, Sir..."  Over and over and over.  Those words were droning away in my brain when I finally fell back to sleep, and still rolling around when I opened my eyes again. 

He was already up when I woke up this morning.  Stumbling, sleepy-eyed out into the living room, I found Him sitting on the couch, surfing the web, and sounding despondent and sad.  Oh no!  Not a good sign.  I figured there was no way that we'd be playing if He was feeling "low."  It just takes too much energy from Him to pull off a good session.  If He's not feeling up to par, it isn't going to go well.  It made me sad, but there isn't any point in insisting if He's not "into" it. 

So, I fixed His breakfast and went to get cleaned up.  I have needed to go get some fasting blood work done, so I asked Him if it was alright with Him if I went and did that.  He offered to go with me and I was happy to have Him because I wasn't entirely sure how to find the place by myself.  So we were off together, and by the time we returned He seemed to be in a better place.

There were some odds and ends of things that we needed to attend to -- some residual work needing to be done to complete His father's taxes from last year, and a transaction that He wanted to make to replace a worn out sofa on T's side of the house, and some conversation with the attorney regarding His work situation...  The everyday sorts of stuff that can suck up hours if you aren't paying attention.

And then ...  Around about 2:30 this afternoon, He suggested that maybe it was time -- was I up for playing?  Up for it?  Up for it?  All the waiting, and the sense of disappointment when it seemed as if it wasn't likely to happen had completely rejuvinated my wayward and fickle JONES, and I was sooooo... ready! 

We pulled the spanking bench out into the living room and wandered about closing the blinds and locking the doors.  We rounded up the toys and found the one blindfold in the place.  I got onto the bench and He settled me with the blindfold and the usual restraints on my knees and wrists.  I felt calm mostly -- a bit apprehensive, but not at all freaked out or crazy. 

It was a session.  Lots of different implements including paddles and straps and His beloved switch rod and the dressge whip -- even a newly acquired rubber flogger that I have been completely terrified by ever since it arrived a couple of months ago.  The switch rod had me convinced that it was cutting me to shreds, and in fact, I did bleed enough to require a bandaid after He used it.  Still, I was able to accommodate and tolerate everything He used on me, and when it was over with, I was left feeling soft and grateful, if a little shakey.  He got me some milk, and tucked me into bed with ice packs.  After a bit of time to allow the ice to do its work, we made love, and that was good too. 

So, my friend Jones, got well taken care of.  It ended up feeling like He and I had done something together instead of in opposition to one another.  Tonight, both of us are feeling calmer and contented with each other.  It is a very nice feeling. 

swan

Yes. Foreplay.

Sometimes I am amazed at how two pretty bright, well-educated people can be so -- dense where it really matters.  Between us, He and I have more education than many people, and I usually think we've got a fair level of experience and common sense.  Yet, when we get into the very center and heart of our intimate relationship, we are as awkward and clumsy as any pair of 16 year olds in the back of Daddy's Buick. 

I am at least half the problem... maybe more than half.  Between my natural shyness, and my honest lack of understanding of how my own body works in the aftermath of the hysterectomy, I am clueless and frustrated and scared when it comes to things sexual.  I have fostered and nurtured a stubborn and lingering belief that there is some magical formula that could reawaken my sexual nature, but I had no plan for how that would ever happen.

As for Master, remember that He is the Man that T and I refer to, sardonically, as "Mr. Romance."  He'd be happy to do whatever it is that would make me happy, but as long as He's happy, there's no driving need on His part to figure that out.  That isn't a character flaw.  It IS a Dominant thing -- it is the nature of these types to see the world in terms of how things are working for them.  So, when I look unhappy, and dissatisfied, it distresses Him, and unless He can get some clear sense of what the problem is, His reaction is one of frustration.

That's where we've been.  For a very long time. 

Yesterday's post gave us both the key to unlocking the puzzle that has so baffled us.  Finally, I found enough words to clearly explain what I've needed and what might work.  Armed with that tiny, little bit of information, He took us both into a wonderful session and subsequent love-making that brought us together to a peak we haven't reached in a very long time...leaving me walking around in my own mind going "WOW!"  Just "WOW!"

He started out, simply enough, just stroking my skin, my face, my back -- finding, as He went, places that tickle.  I am not particularly ticklish, but when He stumbles onto a tickly spot, it just destroys me.  Tickling makes me giggly, silly, and leaves me feeling very girlish. I will always protest, "no tickling!"  It is a wildly vulnerable place for me, and I like it and resist it with almost equal fervor...  Which, of course causes Him to take particular note of those places.  Of course.

Nipples.  Next.  Yes.  Sucking and nuzzling.  Still nothing very intense, but my whole body felt awake and alive and eager.  Easy.  That would be me.  Really.

He began to slap, very lightly and very gently and very quickly, at my pussy -- and I was immediately entranced, captured by the rhythm and percussive sensations He was creating.  I'm not really "into" gynotorture, but my simplest fantasies almost always involve some sort of pussy spanking -- the sort of thing that verges onto painful, but is way more about control and vulnerability than pain.  This was right there for me...  more breath-taking than miserable; more intensely connective than painfully demanding.  By the time He was ready to move onto spanking, I was gasping, writhing with need and desire and wanting.

And, so we came to the SM that is foundational between us...  Still in our bed, and over the "spanking" pillow, I was not afraid, not despairing, not panicked, not feeling somehow defeated before we began.  Instead, I was eager to go where He would take me, sure that He would manage it all and keep me safe.  Already a little "out there," the endorphin cocktail was at work in my bloodstream and brain.  I am "sloppy" when I fly.  I tend to drool and slobber and jabber away incoherently.  I can hear the words in my head, but the sounds that I make sound garbled and muddy in my ears.  I know that I felt more curious than I usually do in session.  There were sensations that I just couldn't match up with any of the implements we have.  Once or twice, I think I asked Him, "What is that?  What IS that?"  With one paddle, I was totally amazed when He showed it to me -- it is a round, fairly thick piece, made of pine.  It has the BDSM logo on its surface.  We rarely use it, and I would have sworn that it was some sort of smallish, rectangularly shaped, long, thin bit.  How very odd -- that discrepancy between the reality and the physical impression. 
He spent some time, making rapid fire strokes with our old, wonderful rattan cane.  I got that it was some sort of "stick" thing, but again, couldn't identify it exactly.  He went easy with the cane.  There were very few full on cane strokes, and only the cumulative fire of those many, many whippy little tattoo beats. 
In between, He'd rub me and stroke me and spank me with His hands.  I felt Him reaching out to me and grounding me with His touch, and it both calmed and reassured me.  I knew, in the midst of each of those intervals, that He'd be back with something more intense, but it was all OK.  I was able to rest under His hands and just be there with Him.  No analyzing the earlier bits, and no worrying about the things yet to come...
I kept repeating my "good" session mantra:  "I love You, Sir," over and over and over, but by the time He got to His newest, current favorite paddles, I think I was reduced to only "Sir! Sir!  Sir!"  It seemed that was all my brain could manage at the end. Can you say, "lalalalalalalala?"  Even that ritualized protocol that requires that I kiss the paddle and thank Him for my spanking seemed a little muzzy.  I'm not sure I got it quite right.  I knew the words, but couldn't seem to form them up.  Whatever I did get out, He seemed satisfied enough. 
He told me I could roll over, and I remember wrestling with the silly pillow, unable to get up off it, and not really able to get it out from under me.  I just couldn't make my limbs work very well.  I think He came and pulled it away and took it to its spot in the corner.  He pulled me in, held me close, and did a bit more pussy whacking...  When we did, finally, make love I was so ready, so eager for Him inside of me.  We rode together to the first shared orgasm we've enjoyed for months and months and months.  When it was all over, I'd have stayed right there, forever, in the magical place He made for us.  I was afraid to move or breathe too much -- not wanting to break the spell...  It was wonderful, and I am anxious to try it all again. 
Thank You, Sir!

swan

We played yesterday afternoon. 

I had a hard time settling into it.  Even as He started off slowly with lots of light and low-intensity implements, and lots of stroking, I was crunched down in some dark corner of my mind trying to prepare myself for a repeat of Tuesday night.  It took me awhile to catch on to the reality that we weren't just going to paddle and paddle and paddle and paddle.  Then, I had to somehow navigate a sense of guilt that I "made Him do it this way instead of that way..."  and round and round and round, until I finally quieted all the ornery voices and just came into the moment with Him.

That's when I noticed His hand; planted gently in the center of my back.  He wasn't really holding me down or in position so much as He was just maintaining a steady contact with me and my skin.  I became completely entranced by the weight of it, lying there so steadily -- and then I began to circle around the warmth that was emanating from His hand into my body and into my being. 

It's an old and well-known massage technique -- maintain contact with your subject; never lift your hand off until you've made contact with your other hand; stay in touch. I learned it long ago when I practiced massage with my infant children.  I'm not sure that He's ever heard of that practice, or been taught it by anyone, and yet when I asked Him why He kept His hand on me, He told me it was because I'd said I needed Him to do that. 

Really?  I don't remember telling Him that, although it feels true inside of me.  That warm, steady pressure kept me focused, and as He ratcheted up the intensity of what He was doing, I was able to stay in touch with Him and be there and not be afraid. 

There is so much to personal power that we don't completely understand.  That ability to settle my wayward mind and prickly heart with just a touch, is just one more piece of the picture.

swan

Hello? Housekeeping...

Sometimes, life is just strange, and perhaps a bit amusing...

This morning, as we awakened here in our little beach hideaway, we got ready to play.  T woke up before we did, around 7 AM, and was off to reconnoiter and shop for some skim milk.  The place was quiet, and the ocean breezes were blowing softly through our window.  We were alone, and expected that we would be alone for a bit...  our little apartment is not supposed to have any housekeeping, although we can go exchange our soiled towels and linen for fresh anytime during the day. 

He started off with the kangaroo hide cat, and I found myself intrigued and fascinated by its falls across my skin.  The cat is a sharp implement, but not at all heavy, and beginning with that seemed to give me a "way into" the play that didn't send me into a full on panic in the first minutes.  He'd moved on to stroking with a knife when we heard some quiet knocking at the front door.  At first, we wondered if it really was OUR door, and then I think we both assumed it must be T returned from shopping. 

He grabbed His pants and was just pulling them on when the door opened, and a youngish woman of some sort of Latin background walked through our front door.  She was surprised, to put it mildly -- as were we.  She made a quick exit, and by the time He got out to the front porch, she had vanished.  He locked the front door, through the deadbolt, and put the chain on.  We milled around a bit, settling ourselves from the jarring interruption, and then we went back to it, beginning again. 

It turned out to be a very good session.  He has two new paddles, and both were brought out to play -- one is acryllic and the other is hickory.  He used a quirt, leaving some hot, red welts.  I flew off into that dreamy, distant, floaty place.  He wailed away, happily, and I think was glad to have me gone. 

I think vacationing is good for us.

swan

Sometimes it is Just Good

I've been pulling in lately.  Guarding my heart.  Growing quieter and quieter.  Serving, loving, caring -- but increasingly wary and increasingly prone to put distance between myself and Him. 

He's been pulling back, spacing out the spankings, trying to guage what would be "good" for me.  He's been uncertain, undecided ... wary about how best to proceed.

Life has brought us so many changes, so quickly, that sometimes it seems almost impossible to get our bearings.  There have been long stretches here where the best we've been able to muster is to hold onto one another, and speak, over and over and over, of our love.  That determined and tenacious love for one another has anchored us in one another, even as the various storms have crashed over our heads. 

Last night, we sat on the couch; He at His end and me at mine.  He talked about spanking -- and then suggested that I didn't really want to be spanked.  That sort of thing hurts, but I've learned that there's no point in arguing.  Master is always right.  Right. 

A bit of time passed, and then He was back to the idea of spanking me with the hairbrush paddle.  But then not.  And then again.  And then not.  Back and forth, He wrestled with His own questions -- and His questions engender questioning in me:  maybe He's right?  maybe He really doesn't want to spank me anymore?  maybe there's no way to ever be good enough?  maybe I should just stop thinking about it, wanting it, needing it?  maybe?  maybe?  maybe? 

And then He made up His mind.  He told me that He wanted to spank me over His knee, and He headed off to gather up the toys He wanted.  I could feel myself relax and breathe a bit easier.  It really was going to happen. 

And -- OH!  What a wonderful, delightful, amazing session we had.  He spanked with His hand.  For a really long time.  I've turned into such a lightweight that even a hand spanking hurts in the beginning.  Certainly, last night, the hand spanking hurt, but it was also -- interesting.  I could feel my mind engaging with Him as He spanked and talked and stroked and talked and spanked.  That really is a huge part of what I need anymore -- time to find a mental pathway into the whole business.  When my mind is chattering away about whatever has me wound up at the moment, it is nearly impossible for me to focus and find the place where spanking captures me.  I end up fighting and raging my way through the whole business in that event -- but not last night.  From the very beginning, I was there WITH Him, and loving being there again. 

He did get to paddle with His beloved hairbrush paddle, and then He went and brought out the lexan paddle which is lighter and stingier.  The lexan paddle seemed easier than the hairbrush paddle, but as He went back and forth between the two, I was again interested and intrigued.  It has been a long while since I could sink into the rhythms of a spanking enough to find myself communing with the sensations I experience.  It is an odd sort of mind-body disconnect that I just love.  It lets me stay IN the session without Him having to "pull His punches." 

In the midst of all the spanking and paddling and stroking with His knives, He reached between my legs and found His way into my sex.  And it didn't hurt!  It felt good.  I began to wander along the path of pleasure that He was leading me down.  And then He'd spank and pump in and out of me, and I wanted to grind onto His hand and lift my butt into His paddle strokes. 

We played for a really long time.  Some sort of crazy mix of pain and pleasure and simple, restorative closeness that was very, very good.  I ended up flushed and teary and cuddly feeling  He ended up all hot and turned on.  Most of all, we were together and happy with one another at the end of a session.  It felt so good.  It can happen for us.  I want more and more and more of that for Him and for me and for us.

swan

Spanking Bench -- A Technical Question

I received an email from a reader today.  Apparently, I've had correspondence with this person before, and it seems he may have run afoul of my tendency to admonish people who approach me in ways that I find too familiar or offensive at some level.  I honestly don't remember the exchange that he refers to, but however that went, his question today seems reasonable and even a bit intriguing (and besides that, some have declared this to be question month, so here you go):

Interesting.  Hmmmm...

Hello Swan,

...I emailed you ...a few questions about your lifestyle some time ago, and you were a bit put off... I'm just a guy that reads and enjoys your blog...You answered some of my questions in a later blog post, which I really appreciated...I appreciate everything about your blog. I like the realness of it, and you. We all know there is professionally produced BDSM porn on the web, but none of it looks real. None of it looks like something I might experience some day. I don't have a dungeon and never will have. I will also never have a young woman with a perfect model's body. I really like your pictures of the bench in a living room, in the real world, with pillows to make it comfortable!! So, my question this time is ...about your new bench...do you think, if you completely lost control of yourself and struggled hard trying to get away, while restrained to the bench, that there is danger you could tip it over sideways, risking injury?

The short answer to that is, "No.  I don't think I could cause it to tip over."

It hadn't really occured to me to even think about this.  The bench is still very new, and I've only been on it a couple of times, so there are potentially things about it that will surprise me, but at this point I think it is very stable.  It sits fairly low.  The ratio of height to width makes it seem unlikely to "rock" or wobble.  Too, once I am on it, all of my weight is pushing down on the structure of the bench.  I'd think that the action of gravity, and the laws of physics would work to keep that bench on the floor under those circumstances. 

We are not really "into" bondage AS bondage.  He restrains me as an adjunct to His play, and His primary interest is in erotic and disciplinary spanking (and related arts).  Bondage for its own sake holds no particular appeal for either of us.  He likes the bench because, with it, I can be secured in a position which works for Him while still being relatively comfortable for me.  For us, the use of restraints is more often about creating a safe and secure situation for our SM play.  I will sometimes ask for restraints if I sense that a session is going to be particularly difficult, or if I am feeling particularly wimpy (and He usually indulges me).  Given that reality, He can choose to restrain me with varying degrees of severity, and the bench seems very accommodating on that score.  So, for example, the restraints that He used last weekend were fairly "easy."  I had some range of movement, and while I wasn't going anywhere, I was able to shift and stretch and pull a bit at a number of points.  I was able to arch my back, lift my torso completely off the surface of the bench, and move my hands to a couple of different places where I could hold on.  That was just fine for what we were into over the weekend, but we do have sufficient restraint gear to completely immobilize me if that becomes the goal.

The expectation here is that I will stay in position during our sessions, and I am pretty good at that under most conditions. However, there are levels to our play that make it very difficult for me to stay put. Some of His preferred implements can pretty quickly drive me into complete and absolute panic and / or rage. That is particularly true of his synthetic switchy/birch-style rods and the singletail whip. And... I am not a petite, delicate flower. I am, by any estimation, a big, strong, muscular woman, and I have been known to "walk" a full size St. Andrew's Cross completely across the floor of the dungeon while lashed to it -- powered only by the intensity of His blows and my own efforts to cope with the pain. So, I am familiar with the effort it takes to "move" a piece of bondage furniture while strapped in place on it. I just don't think it would be possible to do with the bench -- especially if He were to put me in very tight bondage on it.

The other consideration, as I think about this, is that I am convinced that if I were to tip the bench over while I was strapped to it, I'd very likely damage things in the immediate vicinity, and probably injure myself. His goal, in terms of SM play, is to hurt me. He has NO interest in injuring me, and I am certain that He would not allow me to injure myself -- especially while I was so totally vulnerable and under His control. He watches me very carefully during a session, and shifts and adapts to manage me and the environment. If I were to become so agitated and out of control that I actually succeeded in turning the bench over while He was "in charge," I'd be sure He'd feel responsible for that event. I can't imagine things ever getting so out of control with my Master.

swan

Spanking Bench -- Round 2

Sunday afternoon, after things settled down a bit, He and I found some time to play again with the new spanking bench.  It works.  The kneeler makes the geometry of the thing function as I imagine it is supposed to.  It isn't uncomfortable.  It is wide enough to comfortably support my shoulders, arms, and hips.  It is long enough that my head rests on the padded top and does not hang out in space.  We have a set of macrame restraints, made for us by a friend many years ago, and they work well to fasten me down to the thing.  The restraints make it impossible for me to take off in the middle of the session, and that increases the vulnerability level some, but it also gives me a sense of security.  With the restraints, I am not entirely left to my own determination to stay put as the intensity increases. 

He likes it because, as He puts it, the bench "presents" my ass nicely.  That's obviously a plus for Him, but since I don't often get to hear much about what He thinks, sees, or experiences during our sessions, I find that having that information improves my own experience, too.

I had two minor issues getting settled on the bench as we were getting started.  The first challenge is that the leather always feels cold to the touch.  Why is that?  I've played in all sorts of settings, and it always seems that the surface of whatever bondage equipment we might use is ALWAYS icy cold.  Putting naked parts down onto that cold surface is like jumping straight into a chilly pool.  It is OK once you get in, but that first plunge is tough.  The other challenge I encountered was about angles.  The inclined top of the bench seems to align my hips and spine in a perfect position to make every impact on my butt travel straight along my backbone and explode at the base of my skull.  It feels like He's swinging straight at the end of my tailbone and driving my spine right up into my head.  As a migraine sufferer, I am nervous about anything that is likely to send me over the edge into one of those beastly headaches.  However, this problem was pretty easy to manage.  He brought a couple of pillows off the bed and tucked them under my hips.  That changed the angle just enough to resolve the issue.  Thank You, Sir!

It was a pretty good session, I think -- for both of us.  He started with the suede floggers -- two-handed.  That's another benefit to the new spanking bench -- it seems to position me at precisely the right height/angle to let Him swing a flogger without it hurting His shoulders.  We've just about quit flogging because the arthritis in His shoulders has gotten so bad that He just can't do it without significant pain.  It might be that the new bench will give us back the shared joy of flogging.  Of course, suede floggers are very sensual toys and they don't create anything like the sort of painful intensity that He so enjoys.  Getting flogged with suede is a lot like a rapid fire massage.  The only real pain that is going to result from a suede flogging is that eventually the rough surface of the leather will create some abrasion.  It's a little sandpaper-ish after awhile.  Given my absolute preference?  I'd go with buffalo floggers everytime.  Buffalo is way heavier than suede.  It packs a pretty good wallop.  Buffalo hide has a pebbly texture, but the surface of the hide is smoother than suede.  The falls of a buffalo hide flogger fill the air with a delicious, deep, heavy leathery fragrance.  It is a whole other level of sensuality.

I think that He shifted from the floggers to a couple of different leather straps -- one about an inch and a half wide, and the other with a split tail.  I remember that the straps fell sharply and I remember the louder cracking sound they made as they hit.  It was a vivid contrast to the floggers, and I think I remember Him saying that I was getting a "beautiful red ass." 

In between implements, He wrapped His arms around me and assured me that He loved me.  That sort of closeness sustains me in the midst of a session.  He can ground me with His voice and His touch.

I'm not sure what He used next; maybe a quirt...  Quirts deliver that eyes-wide-open sort of stinging lashing pain.  I think that, with the quirt, I fell out of my usual "I love You, Sir" chanting and was reduced to counting strokes.  I try to never count strokes.  It doesn't work for me.  When I am counting, I inevitably hit the place where I become desperate, comparing the number of strokes past to those still to come.  Counting is the road to panic.  With the quirt falling across my butt in no discernible pattern, I caught myself counting, and as soon as I caught it, I forced myself back to my "I love You, Sir."  Better.  Way better.

There's a heavy leather paddle from Leather Thorn, and I think He used that and a small lexan paddle.  Somehow, the paddles didn't seem as difficult as paddles often do.  Maybe I was flying a bit.  Maybe? 

Toward the end, He brought out the Adam and Gillian cane.  The cane strokes seemed really heavy.  Sharp and biting, like a cane, but heavier than I remembered.  I don't know why that should have been, but it is the way it seems as I think back about it.  I think I must have made more noise than is allowed, because I remember Him shushing me at one point.  He wasn't angry at all, and I think I quieted down, because He went right on with the cane then. 

At the very end, He went and got one of those nasty switchy things that He's been fascinated with here lately.  The one He chose isn't as bad as the other one.  I remember trying to remember to just go through each stroke one at a time, but I don't think that held up very long.  The switchy things are just awful, and what I end up feeling at some point with them is that I just want to grab the damn thing and beat the shit out of Him with it.  Not the expected or acceptable reaction for a slave.  I know.  Whatever I did in response to the switchy thing, He didn't use it for very long.  He offered me the paddle to kiss, I thanked Him for my spanking, and it was over.

I think I did pretty well.  He seemed to think it was one of the "better" spankings that I've had in awhile.  I was glad, at the end that I'd done as well as I had, although I was aware of a sense of not going as far as I used to -- as far as I know He'd like me to.  I also know that I didn't come to that "other place" that I get to after a really good, and really intense session.  I ended up on that point of being angry over the switchy thing, and we didn't push past that place.  I was left wondering what might have happened if He'd gone on in the face of my anger.  Back in the "old days," that's what He would have done.  He'd have faced down my fury and gone right on with whatever He had in mind.  I'd have raged and stormed and strained at those restraints, and we'd have traveled to whatever place He saw for us.  When that used to happen, I almost always fell out on the other side of my anger and panic -- finding myself in some place that was washed in complete submission, feeling softer and safer and calmer. 

Everytime we talk about our current levels of play, I find myself feeling weak, frightened, and timid.  He always throws the challenge of just blistering me "the way He'd like to," and I always fall back into that unsure and scared place.  I am unable to assure Him that I'd like to play there, but I wonder...  If He took me there; if He claimed me as His, what would that be like?  I can't drag my mind away from that question.

swan

A Quirt is not a Flogger

As I've mulled Tuesday's session over in my mind -- because I can never seem to just go with things without thinking them half to death -- it occurs to me that I referenced that portion of His play with me that involved His collection of quirts with just a simple, almost throwaway line.  It all made perfect sense to me, but for those who read here, perhaps it seemed odd that a session that was nominally built around floggers would transition to quirts (although floggers and quirts are both part of the larger family that are known as whips).  I have pondered whether perhaps some observant reader might not have thought for just a moment, "But, wait -- a quirt is not a flogger!"  If so, that observation is certainly true.  A quirt is not a flogger.

A quirt is, very simply, a short handled whip with a lash made of leather.  Quirts are the American equivalent of the riding whip/crop and there are many regional variations. This particular style of whip is sometimes called a riding quirt, horse quirt, or a dog quirt.  The word is thought to have come from the Mexican word, cuarta.  These prosaic whips were initially meant for use on livestock -- but then that is true of many of the whips that have found their way into the BDSM milieu. 

In my experience, the quirt bites very sharply, and tends to leave dark, almost fang-shaped welts that mirror the width and shape of the lash -- usually about half an inch wide.  It is a challenging sensation, but one that I can find intriguing and attractive.  I have to work at it, but generally, I can find my way to some sort of accomodation with the crude little whips.

That gives me an almost full repertoire of whips -- floggers, quirts, dressage whip.  That would be just about the whole whip family except for the signal whip/singletail whip.  That one I don't seem to be able to get my head wrapped around.  I guess I'll just have to acknowledge defeat and leave the field to the real pain sluts.  Sigh. 

swan

Guilt -- Roots?

Our family has, in the last few weeks/months, made the acquaintance of several people who are new to the lifestyle, curious about the lifestyle, or making a transition from one sort of BDSM practice (or perceived set of roles) to another. Our new friends comprise an interesting cross-section of people with a wide range of relational dynamics and desires. We don't pretend to have "answers," although we do gladly offer to share what we've learned along the way with anyone who has the patience to listen to us all babble on about what it is that we do.


There is so much that someone "new" to all of this wants/needs to know. For us, it really is a matter of listening carefully, responding openly, and then sharing the fruits of our journeying over the years.


One thing that has come up with a couple of these people is the notion that there is something about all of this that might/can/should engender guilt (or some similar emotion). There is a lot that fuels that reaction. It is based on a set of assumptions and social beliefs that are so convoluted, it can take weeks or months or even years to unravel it and begin to sort it all out. I don't pretend to be any kind of expert, but I do think that, until a person comes to terms with that set of assumptions and beliefs, it is very difficult to move forward into a healthy and joyful BDSM relationship dynamic.


So, let me see if I can get to some of the roots of this kind of guilty reaction...

I really believe that the most likely source of BDSM-related guilt is the connection between almost all of what constitutes BDSM and sex. I know and acknowledge that there is the sort of Dominance/submission relationship that is not specifically (or even remotely) sexual. There are relationships that are entirely and purely based on service. At least that is what I have heard and read. I've never personally met anyone involved in such a dynamic. Almost always, at some level, it is about sex/romance/love.


Power is sexy. Power is erotic. Power is hot. If I give my power, if it is taken and used to move me in ways I cannot control or direct, that can give my partner and I, both, a huge arena in which to explore our sexual natures.


What makes that so difficult for so many of us is that we mostly come from a social background that tells us (from the time we are very small) that sex is bad, sick, wrong, crude, vulgar, dirty, perverted, nasty, disgusting, ... It is so disgusting in fact, that it must absolutely be saved for the marriage relationship (huh?). Even then, it must only be engaged in within certain very tightly defined boundaries. Anything that is outside of the approved sexual expression list, is cause for extreme guilt.

Much of that is driven by traditional religious dogma and convention. I know that my own Roman Catholic upbringing was pervaded with messages that made it clear to me what was considered "good, Christian" behavior for a girl and/or woman, and what was outside that boundary. The church told me not to be sexual, not to enjoy sex, not to seek out sex, not to display my sexual nature, not to entertain my sexual desires. The church taught me that I could aspire to no higher vocation for my life than to follow the path of sexless, life-long chastity, but that, if I simply had to succumb to the lures of SEX, a church-sanctioned marriage was the only way to do that and still be OK. Even then, the church emphasized that I was to engage in sex for one purpose only -- that of procreation. If I wasn't willing to become pregnant and bear children, I was taught that there was no justification for sex. It is a mean and nasty sort of theology.

Even outside the church, there were a myriad of messages about what it meant to step outside the sexual norms. It was common, in my adolescence, for girls who flirted with sex to be saddled with the perjorative labels which identified them as irretrievably fallen from grace: slut, whore, floozy, tramp, loose, cock tease... And I am old enough to remember friends who took the risks, found themselves pregnant, and were then "sent away" to bear their "shame" in secret.


So that was the background for my coming of age sexually -- the air we all breathed in the years of my childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood. I know that it is nominally a newer world where those judgements are less common or at least less vitriolic, but I believe that they are still there, although less overt. I certainly hear them in the language my students use -- even when they seem completely unaware of the implications of what they say to one another.

But there is more. Because we are not just talking about a little good old fashioned, roll-in-the-hay sex. We are talking about BDSM. We are thinking in terms of sadomasochism, bondage, Dominance and submission, discipline, humiliation, objectification, and a whole range of kinks. It is all so -- well, perverse. Isn't it? That question continues to be raised. The labels continue to be applied. Never mind that BDSM has been removed from the list of paraphilias listed in the DSM-V. A pretty cursory Internet search will turn up plenty of references that will lead one to question the state of one's mental stability -- "what the hell is wrong with me?! Why can't I just be normal." I know I've asked that question more than once.


And then there is the fact that what it is that we do can land one in all sorts of social trouble. People find themselves unemployed, arrested, in child custody battles. To come to be generally known as a BDSM practitioner can lead directly to the role of social parriah. It is the rare practitioner in the lifestyle that finds it possible to share much about their life with friends, family, co-workers, worship community, teachers at their child's school, or health care providers. There are those who, by whatever circumstance, are able to be "out" in varying degrees, but for many, following a lifestyle path, means spending a good part of one's life in disguise. That has its own crippling side-effects.

Too, for many of us there is the expectation that modern-day feminism places on us -- to be strong, to be independent, to take care of ourselves, to follow our own paths. I know. I am a feminist. I've fought the battles for years, and believe the foundational doctines of that religion: that women are different than men, but ought to be treated as political, social, and economic equals; that all men and women deserve equal access to the opportunities within our society; that no one ought to be relegated to the background on the basis of their gender... A strong femininst ethic can seem to stand at odds with a personal inclination toward submission and/or masochism. How do you fit those two together with any kind of integrity?



That's a heavy load, and it is, by no means, an exhaustive list. Many of us grapple, at some level, with a set of stories that bear a resemblance to that set of "notions." And, then, we turn up with a personal understanding of "who we are" that drives us into an exploration of lifestyle SM and D/s or M/s. Talk about cognitive dissonance! So what can be done, to wind through the thickets and find some sort of peace and personal comfort with who we are as sexual/erotic beings within that context?



Every person is going to have their own set of solutions and answers. Here are a few of mine:



1) Religion/spirituality -- I was already on a path of discovery in my spiritual life by the time I began to actively explore BDSM. I already knew that, for me at least, the set of beliefs that I'd been taught as a child did not work for me as an adult. That isn't always the case as people come into the lifestyle. So, one of the first steps to take, if personal faith is in conflict with sexual drives is to evaluate systematically and carefully. I believe it is helpful to honestly and openly ask questions:

• What do I believe?
• Why do I believe this?
• Where did I acquire this belief?
• Is there any reasonable, logical foundation to the things that I believe?
• Have I ever "fact checked" any of the stories I was told as a child?
• How would my life be different if I came to relinquish the belief system that I have held to from my youth?
• What is the value of this belief system in my life?
• Does my sense of who I am rest irretrievably on my adhering to this set of beliefs?

Next, I believe that it is necessary, when one chooses to practice BDSM, to make friends with the bodies we occupy. One of my favorite authors, Kathleen Norris, wrote in her book Dakota, about the importance of personal geography -- the value of a sense of personal rootedness. Just as coming to a sense of attachment and belonging to a place, I believe it is necessary to become attached to and rooted to our personal, physical selves. Our bodies are, for each and all of us, our ultimate and essential personal geography. We live nowhere except that we live in our own skins. We may not be able, for a variety of reasons, to be "out" to friends, family, co-workers, and the other inhabitants of our lives, but we simply must come "out" to ourselves. To find the contours and topography of our own sexual selves brings us into self-acceptance and a loving celebration of our own glory as part of the creation. Acknowledging the gifts we have been given, embracing the uniqueness of our sensual expression brings our hearts and minds and bodies into alignment with one another. None of that can change the way the outside world views us, but it can go a long way to making the words we tell to ourselves be affirming and positive.

The social stigma of what it is that we do is a reality and a fact. It is unfortunate. It is not fair or just. It can be dealt with and managed. It is important to make pro-active, self-determined decisions about what it is that we share with those who are not into the lifestyle. No one NEEDS to know about our interior lives. For some, it is healthy to be very open and honest about their internal lifestyle dynamics. Each one who can go openly into the world, educating and advocating, clears the path to a more open future for all of us. Still, it should be by choice and with care that we share who we are with those who might not understand. Know that such sharing can have benefits, but may also have real costs. Choose carefully what you share and with whom.

As for the political drumbeat of feminism. I sincerely believe it need not be a philosophy that lives in conflict with the choice to engage in personal power dynamics. Without personal power to lay on the table, the power exchange becomes pretty meaningless. There is nothing weak about choosing a path that deliberately explores the nature of power, how it might be balanced, and what it means to relinquish it. We choose to explore and live at the outer edges of the human sexual/erotic experience. It is a choice that requires great courage and personal strength.

The trick, through it all, is to come to this with awareness, personal integrity, courage, and openess. It is possible to live healthy, happy and whole in the midst of the lifestyle -- nevermind what the rest of all those people might say.

swan

He Came and Got Me

I've said it before, more than once, that one of the very most difficult things about the whip is the distance that is necessary for its use. There is no way for Him to whip me and touch me simultaneously. I go through whippings apart from Him. And that is a terribly frightening prospect for me, because He is my absolute source of strength and energy in session. I can do almost anything if I have Him to anchor to. Alone -- I'm not nearly as strong.



I was sick with the flu for most of last week. Beginning last Tuesday, I battled with viral symptoms including fever, aches, weakness, and intestinal upset. It was not been pretty -- or much fun for any of us. Then, Saturday in the middle of the day, it was as if someone had flipped a switch and I was well! I was hungry and energetic and good again. I was ready to play and make love. He, of course, was tired. So we napped.



We napped and looked at TV and napped some more -- until late. Very late. Past midnight, when our hapless Reds finally won a game, and the mood here was celebratory. Knowing that we had to get going on Sunday morning for a brunch date with Grandpa, I'd set the alarm for 8:15 and explained to my Dear Sir that there was no way we were sleeping in "too" late. Laughing, we toddled off to bed, ready to play a bit before sleeping, and so I got a late night spanking and caning, and we drifted off wrapped in each others' arms.



Sunday morning, we were awake before the alarm, and ready to play in earnest. Over the pillow I went, and He went to "work," with a couple different straps and then a lengthy, rapid-fire paddling that built to a crescendo, and left me gasping. Still, I was doing OK... working with it, and breathing, and staying in the warm and positive regions -- avoiding the dark edges where I slip over into hate and rage.



Then, He went for the whip -- the new whip. I saw Him move toward it and began to "chant" to myself in my head: "I love You, Sir... I love You, Sir ... I love You, Sir..." That little mantra tends to do several things for me: it keeps me focused on Him and my connection to Him, it helps me remember to breathe rather than holding my breath, it puts a sound in my head that keeps the roaring rages at bay. There is a "heartbeat" feel to that "I love You, Sir" repeated over and over that just works for me most of the time.



I felt the strokes begin to fall, and I kept chanting, and chanting, and chanting. I was so intent on doing what He wanted me to do -- determined to not disappoint.



And then...



I was plastered into the corner of the bedroom, clutching my "fluffy" blanket, shrieking -- and He had me wrapped in His arms, holding me and speaking calm, soothing words into my face. I had no idea how I got where I was; had no recollection of ever moving from my accustomed spot. All I know is that, whatever happened; however I got there, He came and got me. From across the room, from the other side of the bed, from the other end of that whip -- He came and got me. He held me and rocked me and murmered soft sounds until I was breathing more reasonably. He assured me that I was fine and wonderful and fabulous -- told me He was proud of me. We eventually came together and made soft, sweet love.



In the end, we were completely in touch, completely at peace, and I knew the one thing that I will remember always -- He came and got me.



swan

New Cane

Just over a year ago, in February of 2007, He broke our favorite rattan cane during a particularly intense session. It was the cane that we'd bought on our trip to Thunder in the Mountains, and we'd played with it many, many times, and taken it with us everywhere we went.



Since then, we have searched and hunted to find a replacement. We've had a notable run of bad luck on that score. He ordered a bundle of "rattan canes" from Hanson Paddlewerks. They were a terrible disappointment. We've sent away for at least one or two other canes in the intervening months. They've proved serviceable, but none of them have risen to the level of excellence (in terms of the product quality) of the one that we broke.



Finally, last week, He capitulated and ordered a deluxe cane from Adam and Gillian's. We've looked at them before, but balked at the price. Sometimes, you just have to pay the price to get the thing you want. It arrived early this week, and it is lovely -- not exactly a duplicate to what we had, but darned close.



Of course, things being what things often are, we've had no time at all to try out that shiny, new cane. It's been here probably three days, and it is still "virgin," sitting untried in its scabbard thing.



But there is hope! Today, I got an email from Him saying that He is fantasizing about a full on session (not just a spanking) that would culminate in the debut of the new cane.



Can I say, "Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!?" I don't know exactly what He means or is thinking, but the notion of a REAL session that steps through levels and stages to some culminating point seems terribly exciting. I know I'll likely be entirely miserable at points along the path, but I am still very wrapped up in the potential for playing. I can't wait until there is actually time. Soon I hope.



swan