D. thrashed me on Sunday. I was god-awful sore after filling my hedonistic urges all weekend. I’d been caned and strapped and spanked, and D. himself had bruised my left butt cheek on Friday night with his big, solid hands.
But he left me craving more. We weren’t done. He said on Friday that he didn’t want to spoil me for the whole weekend, a declaration I humbly accepted (but did not like at the time). Next thing you know it was Sunday night and and he looked across the room and beckoned me. “Will you be free after I play with L____?” he asked.
What did he think I was going to say? I didn’t want to think about how scary and painful it was going to be. I just wanted to get back on that roller coaster before I had to leave the amusement park.
“I’m scared,” I admitted to D., half an hour later when we were finally alone in his room. “You should be,” he said, with an evil smile. He wasted no time and ordered me to drop my pants. I was wearing comfortable pajama bottoms with sexy panties on underneath, which might as well have been boring cotton ones, as we skipped the “pulling down” phase. I was over his knee and he gave me a perfunctory warm-up spanking. After a minute or two of this, he started hitting me with something that felt solid, sharp, and painful. He struck my thighs just under my butt, with the edge of the toy hitting the right side of my thigh. He used the tool for a minute or two, giving me about 20 or 30 crisp whacks that got me yelping and crying in pain.
When he took a break, I turned my head toward him and asked, “What was that?”
D. showed the piece of leather to me. “My double-thick strap,” he said.
“It’s nasty,” I said. As if that were going to make a difference in whether he kept using it or not. No. Not at all. He was greatly enjoying my suffering. I say that matter-of-factually now, a few days later, but at the time I was in distress and really vocal about the pain. He gave me about five more bursts with the strap, maybe 20-40 strokes each time (I was in no frame of mind to count). It was hitting my thighs more than my ass, which I do not like at all, but hey, I was not in charge!
A little breather. I love D. for his strappings and beltings, but he said it would be the cane. Eee! Okay. I love the cane, right? Ha ha. Over the bed, in a comfortable position, here we go … I counted to myself just out of curiosity. I don’t always get the count right, in the thick of things, but I believe there were 28 strokes. I thought of something significant that had happened to me when I was 28. Your mind goes strange places during and after painful scenes. I’m not sure I can accurately describe the pain. To me, 28 strokes does not sound like a lot. But they were all pretty well delivered. I was quite vocal, but managed to stay mostly in position until the last few, when I wriggled a bit.
We were lying around afterward. I’d had enough, he was apparently satisfied with what he’d given me, and I was just going to go on my merry way. But … D. Come on. You know I love getting strapped by you. In my usual coy manner I let him know, only if he wanted to, that I wouldn’t mind a couple strokes with the strap.
He pulled out the prison strap, a longer London Tanners product. Uh … uh … uh, okay… Damn. “Maybe one or two?”
“Three or four? Five?” he said. Wicked smile again. Grrr. What is wrong with me?
“No more than five,” I said. Now I was in for five … in what spanking universe would “no more than five” mean I would get less than five?
D. being so indulgent, such a wonderful service top, went ahead and gave me the five. Slowly. With power and a lot of follow-through. Five seems like so little until you’re at number three wondering once again what you were thinking. Wham, the last stroke, the last yelp out of my mouth, and we were done. Enough. Yes, I’ve had enough, I thought. We lay around cuddling with my endorphin-addled brain sending nonsensical thoughts to my mouth, which didn’t hesitate to share them. D. was warm and understanding. He seemed to be glowing, too. He said he gets high from the top side.
“Why do I do it? It hurts so bad,” I said, the words coming out of my mouth and that feeling of deja vu creeping up. I know I’ve asked that question before. I can’t tell you the answer. It hurts like hell but it feels good. We do it because we’re hedonists, masochists, sadists, sluts, control freaks, submissives … we just do it. No reason why. Are we better off for it? Maybe I’ll look into that another day.