Posted at 20:58 on 12 Mar 2013 by Pandora / Blake
In my fantasy, Tom tells me to put on a school uniform, an authentic one with a knee-length skirt and shirt buttoned up to the collar. He pulls out my desk chair into the middle of the room and sits down on it. I stand to one side of him, fidgeting with the hem of my skirt, until he tells me to lie across his knee.
He lifts my skirt and spanks me with his hand, slowly, thoroughly. He does not stop when I start to whimper, nor when I start to yell. His other hand curves around my middle, holding me secure. He spanks the resistance out of me, and continues to spank me long after I have surrendered limply over his lap.
After my spanking, Tom tells me to stand, and he gets up as well. Then I am to bend over and grip the seat of the chair with my hands. He chooses a cane. It is one of the thin, whippy ones I hate, the ones that slice viciously into the skin with a fierce sting that grows and grows. Subdued, I do not argue. In my fantasy the slashing, stinging cane bites into me again and again.
In chat the next day, I confided my fantasy to Tom. What we ended up talking about was how to successfully manipulate my headspace into one that was receptive enough to bring a scenario like that to life.
Indulging my sadism has nourished my masochistic impulses, but dominance has not made submission any easier. Now I'm topping regularly I find it easier to connect to the part of me that craves pain, but only if it's the type of pain I would choose. Accepting pain on someone else's terms (AKA submission) ... well, that's the tricky part.
The spanking I'd been craving was one with some degree of formality, of distance, in which I was made to feel a little smaller, somewhat stripped of my power, without being made to feel unsafe. That was the effect the uniform, the chair, the choice of cane all combined to achieve.
I mentioned these things Tom, but at the same time I had no desire to write the script for a scene. I wanted to communicate a desire, an idea. If I wanted to actually submit to him - and I did - ultimately the method and the choice had to be his.
If I started to struggle with the pain, or the type of pain he chose, I wanted to be reminded that I had voluntarily chosen to submit. I wanted him to challenge me to see it through.
In reality, it happened like this. The TV episode had come to an end. We agreed that we would play, and then eat, so I wasn't bending over while full (never the comfiest). I straddled his lap, we kissed. Anxious that he not forget all-important details, I prompted him, "Do you want me to go and get changed?" He said that he thought that would be a good idea, and asked me to put on a short skirt and long socks. I skipped off to the bedroom, partly disappointed, partly glad that he hadn't chosen something identical to my fantasy.
I picked out a red and white tartan mini, a black top, long black socks with white ribbons, and high heeled patent mary janes. It's amazing what a difference dressing up makes to my headspace.
When I returned, shyly hoping he would like the ensemble, he was already sitting on my desk chair, in the middle of the floor. I barely had time to register the delicious nervous drop in my stomach before he was guiding me over his knee.
His lap was high and broad and solid. My toes touched the floor but I couldn't put my heels down. The sensation of resting my weight on him, his knees pressing into my tummy, was very exciting.
Over new black lacy panties picked out for the occasion, the spanking began, slowly but surely. At first I squirmed impatiently, wanting it harder and faster. Then I began to relax into it.
Then it began to get hard.
He built it up slowly enough for me to absorb and accept each new level of pain, praising my obedience, telling me how good I was. By the end it was hard, hard, hard. I took it, sobbing, glorying in the pain of it, in the opportunity to show him my receptiveness. Part of me wished the spanking would bring me to tears, but I felt too safe to cry.
He let me up, kissed me, and told me to bend over the sofa and wait as he went to fetch implements. I pulled the end piece of my corner sofa around so the back faced the room, leaned over it and rested my elbows on the seat. Then I changed my mind, stood up again and tucked a couple of pillows under my hips before bending over again. Thus padded, it was a good position. I felt uplifted, exposed, and comfortable.
My warmup continued with the long, heavy leather paddle. I soaked up the strokes. Next came my new thick, light cane, the one that's easy to aim and easy to take, but still with a real bite to it. I counted out my twenty four (or was it thirty six?) strokes, sinking deeper and deeper into the heat and security of the moment.
Once he deemed me toasty enough, he swapped the cane for a riding crop. I felt a shiver of fear. It had been a while since he'd cropped me, and I remembered it hurting a lot. This certainly wasn't a pain I would have chosen.
On the other hand, I'd just come back from a shoot on which I'd whipped two spankees with the very same riding crop, which gave me an added incentive to shut up and take it.
Tom hunkered down next to me. He murmured in my ear. I can't remember exactly what he said, but his voice was reassuring. He told me that he was going to push me, but he was going to build up to it. He warned me that the whipping might not be as slow-paced as I would like. He asked me to trust him to read me well, and to stop when he was ready. Would I do that for him?
At first, he used the crop at a strength that allowed me to fully savour the sensation, assess and appreciate all its subtleties: the springy stem with its deep thud, the distinctive bite of the tip. Then the cropping moved into a perfect pulse and rhythm, in time with my heartbeat perhaps, where I felt beautifully in tune with it. It was painful, it was hot, and I was riding it. I felt kinky and submissive and strong.
Then it got a little quicker - or a little harder - or both. My heart beat faster. I started to cry out, not just delicate little ladylike cries; I started to kick and swear. The crop whipped down remorselessly on the most sensitive parts of my cheeks, too fast for me to catch my breath. I wasn't riding anything any more: I'd fallen under the horse. I was twisting about and shrieking and begging, "Please - please - please!"
Finally, he stopped. I was panting, feeling simultaneously sorry for myself and proud of myself. I'm not entirely sure what happened next, whether he cropped me any more after that.
I do remember that after we'd put the sofa back together, he'd taken some pictures and cuddled me, he told me that he planned to beat me more after dinner. I was thinking clearly enough by then to be aware that "later" beatings could not always be relied upon, and that I very definitely wanted to be beaten more now. I asked if he wouldn't mind giving me a quick six of the best with his heavy 12mm dragon cane before we stopped.
"Well," he smiled, "since you asked so nicely."
Back I went over the endpiece of the corner sofa - kneeling on the seat, this time, with my elbows on the back. I was in the full giggly glow of an endorphin high, so the mood now was more light-hearted. He counted for me, so I had nothing to do except exclaim over how much each stroke fucking hurt.
The pain of a cane stroke is slow to develop and slow to fade, and he paced these six very deliberately so that each one landed just as the pain of the previous one was in full flower. Like the most intense part of the cropping, the pace was ever so slightly too fast, so that I never had time to process or recover until the whole six was over, and I was flopped and gasping and laughing and shaking my head.
After that, I definitely felt done. And as it happened, I didn't get beaten later after all, so I'm very glad I got that last, satisfying six when I did.