Posted at 23:07 on 17 Dec 2011 by Pandora / Blake
Yesterday was the first time in a while that I found myself sitting on a train home, bottom sore, welts tingling and itching under my clothes, my senses still full of what had just taken place. Dreamy, overstimulated, sated and reeling. Well, all of that energy had to come out somehow.
There was the belting on the evening I arrived, inspired in part (at least for me) by this hot write-up of a seven minute whipping. He started from cold, but warmed me up with the belt, layering stroke upon stroke until the throb intensified and I was squirming and sobbing over the pillows.
Then there was the twenty-four strokes with the birch which were captured on film on Thursday - this time without any warm-up at all, in the interests of producing more dramatic stripes. They were hard. But the difficulty of taking those strokes didn't undo me, didn't make me anxious or upset. It was a big, strong, challenging sort of pain, the sort of pain that inspires you to be brave, and leaves you feeling capable and proud. (If you're interested, you'll be able to watch the resulting video and photos on Dreams of Spanking from December 23rd.)
As if that wasn't enough, I got another six strokes of the birch that evening before we went to the pub - merely to ensure that I was leaving the house with a warm bottom, you see. Also, at my request, some hand spanks. That was the first time Tom had spanked me with his palm this visit. Whippings from cold are hot, evocative of realistic punishment, but after missing his hand so specifically I didn't want to miss out on a 'proper' hand spanking before I left.
That came the next day.
I lay willingly over his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed, one thigh bearing my weight and my body angled diagonally so I could rest my upper body fully on the mattress. The spanks started over my knickers, and although I knew he wasn't going as hard or as fast as he might, they were hard to take. I yelped and struggled so much he stopped to check in with me, but after giving me a couple of very hard smacks for purposes of comparison, he concluded that I was simply feeling extra sensitive, and continued at his original pace.
Looking back over my shoulder I could see reflected in the glass doors of his cupboard his hand rising and falling, my bottom bouncing under the smacks. The glimpse excited me and strengthened my determination to take what he had to give.
After a while he paused to pull my knickers down. As my skin gradually warmed up he intensified the weight of the spanks, never letting me relax into it. Having his implicit permission to make a fuss helped me to accept the spanking, even if my cries and kicks did nothing to lessen the pain. I found myself calling him "Sir" without prompting, partly out of a desire to show that my reactions expressed vulnerability rather than disobedience. When he decided I was wriggling around too much, he asked me for my hand and pinned it in the small of my back before continuing to redden my bottom. But nothing could prevent me from begging when he began to focus on my thighs. A couple of hard, low smacks and I was sobbing, desperate, pleading with him not there, no, please sir, please.
His voice was a dangerous purr. "Yes," he said, "I want to prepare your thighs before I birch them. I enjoy hitting the backs of your thighs. It occurs to me that this is something you'd benefit from training in."
I shut up and took the next volley of hard, thuddy spanks as quietly as I could. But I felt like the bottom had dropped out of my brain. My mind was spinning, my whole body shaking at the image flooding my imagination: Tom holding my thighs firmly in place as I lay facedown, his weight pressing down at waist and knee, preventing me from moving as he laid those great, hard smacks across the backs of my pinioned thighs, one after the other. Crying into the pillow; helpless; unable to flinch away. His breath warm against my ear as he encouraged me to take it for him.
I was so overwhelmed by this idea that my reactions changed; perhaps I grew quieter. He sensed that something had shifted and drew me up to kneel between his legs, stroking my face. He didn't need to worry. I wanted him to impose his will on me. I struggled to find words, but all I could think of was to whisper, "Please don't spank my thighs, sir. Please don't hold me down. I would hate that." I looked up into his face, searching for recognition, holding my breath in the hope that he would understand.
He did, of course. He stroked my hair and helped me back over his lap. Once again my arm was bent into the small of my back, my forearm pinioned by his, but this time his other leg crossed over mine so that his thigh secured my knees. Between his strong arm and the sturdy weight of his thigh, my bare bottom and thighs were exposed, goosepimpled, helpless.
The spanking began again in earnest. It was too fast for me to process each smack, his palm falling on bottom, crease, the sensitive, shivering skin on the backs of my thighs; every handprint leaving a huge, unbearably sharp sting. I cried, and then I bit down on mouthfuls of duvet to stifle my screams.
When he paused and his hand moved lower, gentle now as it searched out my secret places, he discovered what I'd known: I was soaking wet. My cunt and thighs were slick with arousal. The pain had been intense, but it was his dominance that undid me: the careful, smiling imposition of his will as soon as he realised I would accept it.
After that he could have done anything to me, I think. I was aware of a growing, aching need to be fucked, but I was deep in surrender, happy to let him do as he would.
What he did was move me over pillows in the bed and birch me again. Harder than the day before, and longer.
He didn't give me a number in advance, but told me that he would deliver six, and then see how I was doing. At his instruction I counted them, and thanked him for each one. My bottom and thighs were still tingling and stinging from his hand, and the preparation did indeed take the sharp edge off the lighter, initial strokes. After six he was reassured that I was able to cope, and proceeded to intensify the whipping without further ado.
By thirty, I was crying real tears. I was incapable of resistance even if I'd wanted it. My fists balled helplessly at each whoosh of the birch, as I felt new welts blossom and begin to burn. He only dealt a couple of hard ones to my thighs, but each of them made me howl. As the strokes grew harder, his voice grew gentler, soothing me with praise.
I thought he might stop when I started to cry, but in my heart I was glad that he didn't. He took me to thirty-six before he stopped. My bottom was hot, welted, throbbing, my throat ached and all I wanted was for him to fuck me roughly, right there and then. When he started to draw me into a reassuring cuddle, I knew in that instant that if I needed more from him, I would have to make it explicit. I summoned my courage and told him he didn't need to be gentle.
And oh, he really didn't. What followed was raw, loving and violent: hands wrapped around my throat, pulling my hair, forcing orgasm after orgasm from me. He fucked me as roughly as I needed, and then we slowly came back to earth in a tangle of limbs and sweat and kisses. We whispered words of love to each other, told each other how turned on we'd been, confided our mutual enjoyment of his most intense acts of sadism.
I feel like an edge of trust, security and violence in my connection with Tom that has been missing has finally returned. It's been a long time since the sadistic threat of something I would find unbearable made me yield to him rather than resist, and it feels like falling down the rabbit hole. But this time, it feels more mature, more open and more communicative.
The memories of this scene are immediately, intensely erotic. They have filled my head ever since. Whenever I think of being held down while he deliberately smacks the backs of my thighs, I melt all over again.