He began with His hand, spanking hard, pausing occasionally to stroke the curves as if remembering; reminding Himself of what was His. Rolled into His chest, I held on, clinging to the one solid reality in my universe; focusing on His presence, His warmth, His rhythms -- trying to ride the waves that He was unleashing on me.
Hand spanking doesn't usually last. For us, it is usually a brief passage, but this morning it went on and on, stroking fire into my flesh; setting the stage and evoking the mood.
With time, I reached the point of quivering anticipation and He left me. Seeking. I waited. He returned with cuffs and straps to bind me into place under His power and for His desire.
Restrained and positioned, I learned my fate: leather tawse, paddle, whip...
His pleasure. One hundred strokes with each implement -- broken into sets of twenty-five.
The tawse first; heavy and sharp. Double thicknesses of heavy hide, measuring an inch and a half in width, and split at the end. Eliciting gasps along with the first welts and blood. "I love you, Sir. I love you, Sir. I love you, Sir!" My mantra as the blows fell everywhere. Before this, the bleeding would have brought things to a halt, but He went and found the box of bandaids and patched the wounds and went right on. Twenty-five, and twenty-five, and twenty-five, and twenty-five again.
A short respite as my breathing slowed a bit, and then He brought out a large, heavy wooden, sport paddle. The burn of wood combined with the pounding impact of weight, and a size that leaves no escape. The first twenty-five strokes were like being beaten with a board. Gasps turned to shrieks and then to sobs and begging. More bandaids as the blood began to splash and splatter. For the second set, He switched to the Jokari paddle; just as heavy, but slightly smaller in terms of area. Did He alternate between the two? I don't remember. The paddling left deep bruises across my ass and thighs.
Two hundred strokes into our session, it was time for His whips. Two of them: One is constructed of a supple leather with a soft suede tip. It stings when it lands and raises lurid wedge shaped welts with every strike. The other is a five-foot, 24-plait singletail whip, given Him as a birthday gift two years ago. Its cracker burns like liquid fire, leaving bright red lines wherever it lands. Beginning with the rubber whip, He alternated sets of twenty-five strokes as my body jerked, and the breath tore from my lungs. The pain was simply layered too richly for me to sort or comprehend by that time...
And then it was over. I'd come through it all. He released my bonds. Lifted my sore and bruised body onto His and let me love Him. Secure and reassured, it was a good morning, a good day, a good night...
The masochist needs the sadist to take what can only be offered. It is a duality that cannot be realized in the singular.