It was time. I took him by the hand and led him into the other room. He had that look in his eyes — he wanted it. He wanted something, but I don’t think he knew exactly what “it” was.
He had brought his own toys and he’d displayed several for me to use. The selections included four different tawses, one paddle and one nasty hairbrush. I chuckled out loud. “Are you telling me something, here?” I asked.
I stood him in front of me, lowered his pants and bent him over a waist-high padded bench. I spanked him with my hand, noting how he jumped a little here and there, made soft noises, but was able to take it easily. Next I took a look at the tawses. Some had three fingers, some four, and their thicknesses varied. I examined each one and picked the one that seemed the thinnest, to start (they all seemed rather evil).
He saw my choice and said, “That’s the one that doesn’t hurt as much.”
A challenge? I thought. Is that his intention? Well, I’ll take him up on it, if so.
When I delivered the first stroke to his cheeks, he jumped. Maybe his fond memories of the last person who’d used it on him had made him forget how much it hurt. Maybe his fantasies imagined himself being more stoic as the leather stung his ass.
But I liked watching him jump and yelp. I liked pushing him back down against the bench when he’d rise up against the pain. And we’d only just begun. Three more tawses to go, a hairbrush and a paddle.