Posted at 00:14 on 2 Nov 2011 by Pandora / Blake
I've just come back from visiting Tom's new crashpad for the first time since we started living apart. He's staying with one of my oldest friends while he looks for his next job.
After a couple of weeks apart we were both dying to play, but it wasn't easy. Some inconvenience related to his temporary living arrangements (my sprained ankle is still not healed up enough to deal well with climbing a loft ladder) triggered some difficult conversations. Maintaining a D/S dynamic when the dominant partner is out of work, ill or both is tough, people. He's in a bit of a low patch anyway - a perfectly rational reaction to jobhunting in this economy. Plus health issues, the fact I can't even visit him for the weekend without needing to bring work with me, the lack of control over his environment... there was a lot of frustration and emotion to deal with.
Spanking can be very therapeutic for a stressed out bottom, but a top doesn't have that luxury. Using play to vent his frustration wouldn't have been safe: we needed to talk it through before spanking could improve things.
Even then, we were both so drained I wasn't sure if we would. After making up the sofabed in the lounge and negotiating some privacy with his lovely housemates, I was prepared for us to just snuggle. But I felt like I could sense this fluttering of hope in both of us: frightened, reluctant to push for anything, both of us wishing it could be easy. We stood with our arms around each other, contemplating the sofabed.
"Well, those cushions look like a convenient shape," I quipped, trying to break the ice.
"I was thinking much the same," he replied. "It'd be a shame not to take advantage of them."
And somehow, after that, it was easier.
I lay across his lap with my feet up on the sofabed, hiding my head in my folded arms. His hand spanking was not hard - well, not by Tom's standards - but even so I needed to plead with him to go slower. When he did, I felt myself finally start to relax into it. I tucked one hand under my tummy to rest against his jean-covered thigh, mirroring his palm holding the small of my back and adding another thread of communication between us. He began to slow the spanks down and rub my bottom in between each smack, and suddenly pleasure rose along with the pain, and the power of the strokes ceased to matter. I leaned back into spanks and caresses alike.
I felt floaty and dreamlike when he moved me facedown onto the sofabed with the cushions under my hips. The first stroke of the belt was not hard, but I still jumped as I anticipated the next one. He paced them slowly, delivering a set on one side before moving round to land the tip of the belt on the other cheek. I couldn't stop looking back at him over my shoulder, beautiful with his bare chest and arms contrasting with the blue jeans. He was gorgeous, but I found myself struggling to take it. Not knowing how many strokes would be in each set was hard, and the wait between each stroke became increasingly nervewracking. If it was lighter than I expected, I'd feel foolish for flinching; if it was heavier, it would make me even more jumpy about the next one.
Frustrated with myself, I tried to coax myself into relaxing again. Come on, I thought, he's not trying to push you. You've been wanting the belt for days; craving it as you go to sleep at night. It's the belt you fantasise about when you pleasure yourself, and not a slow, loving belting like this, either: you fantasise about severe, no-nonsense punishment whippings with barely a pause between strokes.
Imagining the whipping of my dreams, the next lick of the belt seemed like a jolt of pure pleasure. Encouraged, I focussed on the fantasy. Well, strictly speaking it wasn't a single fantasy, but a blurring of images from recent belt whipping stories that had turned me on. I was Tiffany, kneeling on the sofa and getting the belt from her dad, overheard by her boyfriend on the other end of the phone. I was Chelsea being whipped by her parents while her schoolfriends looked on through the window. I was Cobie's film character, punished by the mob boss.
Visualising those severe, nonconsensual whippings turned me on just as much as it had on previous occasions. As soon as my mind centred on the fantasy, my body became hungry for the sensations I was experiencing in reality. I arched my back and lifted my bottom for the belt. The mental image of it landing on a reddened, bruised, tender bottom somehow made me more receptive to pain.
Suddenly, I wanted him to go harder, faster. I lusted for more impact. I was relaxed, I was enjoying myself, and I was certain that I was physically aroused. Instead of fretting about why I was being jumpy, I found myself thinking: please don't stop. And: oh my god, if he doesn't fuck me after this I might actually scream.
Luckily for me, he kept going for a while before he stopped. And when he did, regardless of other noises he elicited, I didn't have that particular cause to scream.
It's not the first time I've turned to fantasy during a real-life scene to stave off panic and rekindle my desire for pain. It's never surprised me that during 'vanilla' sex I find it difficult to come without a part of my brain focussing on spanking. But during an actual spanking, I feel like I should be in the moment; take full advantage of an experience I rarely stop craving.
Easier said than done when the reality is often harder to bear than you'd like. Sometimes it's easiest to be in the moment if you let fantasy show you the way.