cane mark

The Manfast

So I start my very own blog and I name it "confessions of a spankee" (because by all means, despite current circumstances, I am and will forever continue to be, a spankee) so I might relay stories of my adventures as such. At first glance this may not seem the odd endeavor, however, given current circumstances, I'm afraid it may just be an exercise in futility.

I'm currently on a Manfast, you see. Which basically means no spankings whatsoever. Zero. Zip. Nada. Leaving me with little to no fodder from which to draw inspiration. I suppose I could take a stab at fiction... though I've always been more the non-fiction sort.

The Manfast began on June 15 and ends on July 15. Perhaps.

So while I dredge the annals of journals on the shelf for entries to post, I'll also do my best to keep the ramblings as entertaining and brief as possible.

And thank you to all who indulge this little exhibitionist streak in me.

spankless

I miss them. A lot. More than any other aspect of being collared. More than any other aspect of being in a relationship. My life is tremendously incomplete without them.

I miss them. A lot. So much so, I dream about them. I toy with the idea of self infliction, but I'm not that naive. I miss them so much I've taken to innocently administering them to my friends. Playfully, not intrusively... yet still, non-consensually all the same. (yes, I know that's bad... bad enough to earn me a... *wink*)

I miss them. A lot. More than I ever knew possible. The intimacy, the connection, the expression of love, the trust required, the inherent discipline. Such a simple exchange of energy walloping such profoundly erotic power. Mmmm... the power.

I miss them. A lot.

The spankings, that is.

Once upon a time, I was a collared slave.....

For a little more than a year, I was involved in a M/s relationship. Throughout the relationship I kept a journal. The preceding 3 post are a few of my favorite entries from said journal.

cheers,
brat

The Speeding Ticket

"How fast were you going when you were pulled over?"

"I'm not sure Sir"

"What was the speed limit?"

"65 Sir"

"And how fast were you going?"

"Maybe 75 Sir"

"75? Ok, come here."

.......today it began with the caning. Only 10 strokes. But they were 10 very hard strokes. The last of which buckled my knees.

I've been a little lazy about holding position lately... and this was my worst job of it yet. Not intentionally of course, just moving a lot. He likes to hold me down though, so it's no bother.

It officially began with the tawse. (The caning, you see, was punishment for speeding.) I think I might have figured out why the kiss of the tawse is so cruel... it tricks me. It plays games with my mind and my skin. The beginning of the stroke is strong and thick, thuddy almost, with a distinct similarity to his belt. So I'm coaxed into a false sense of comfort. It feels familiar and secure. But then the final arc of the stroke is hot and sharp and stings like the nastiest cane stroke ever... only concentrated into a very small spot. It's so nasty. Doubly so when he hits my pussy with it.

...ow...ow...ow...

When he beats me with the tawse before the belt... it only sweetens the belt more. His belt is my best friend. I could be hit with his belt every day for the rest of my life and I'd still want more. It may bruise me better than all other toys, and it's not really a toy at all. It's his belt. And its kiss is sheer heaven. *swoon* (and it didn't feel strange today as it did last time... still not sure what that was about)

This time it finished with me over his knee -- quite possibly my most favorite place in the world to be.

*sigh*

(yay for spankings!)

A Random Beating

It doesn't always start with me over his knee. Sometimes, yes... not always. Today, it did.

It was very generous of him to warm me with his hands. Generous considering the sadistic mood he was in. Part of his plan too. Had he forgone the warm up, I'd have known exactly what to expect. I can feel what he seeks after only a few strokes. He knows this. So he tries to be sneaky. And he usually succeeds, because I'm so darn gullible.

Today, he wasn't out for blood and he didn't want to see tears. He merely wanted to make me sweat, give me a little pain, and of course, a reddened ass.

From his knee I was bent over a chair. My ass perfectly presented for his belt. (mmmm, oh how I love his belt) It felt different today though. Fiercer almost. Not sure what that's about. The shades of pink it produces are remarkable. And when he was satisfied with pink, he went for red.

Bent against the spanking horse for twenty-five with the tawse. (right now the tawse is my favorite of favorite implements) He swings it hard. I can feel him trying to hurt me. I take it well. I count and I thank him, for each stroke.

"...twenty-five... thank you Sir..."

The bite of the tawse is difficult to describe. It lingers.

Next he binds me to the horse using thick, red rope. I love rope. And I love being bound while spanked. He doesn't tie me up often. And it's not like I try to escape when I'm not, there's just something about not being able to get away that intensifies each strike. My torso resting on the horse, wrists knotted to the legs on either side, legs spread, and thighs strapped to the other two legs... this is not a position he puts me in often. I'm uncomfortable. Just enough discomfort to make it worth mentioning, yet not even close to unbearable. He likes it that way. Keeps me on my toes without distracting me.

Paying attention is important.

The cane. Twenty-five, again. After the first ten, I'm almost crying. However, as I mentioned above, he wasn't out for my tears today. He allows me to catch my breath. (thank you Sir) And then he delivers the next ten with such quick ferocity, I fail to count them all. He doesn't mind though. He's enjoying himself. I can feel it in his strokes.

He speaks to me with that cane.

The final five I do count. He makes sure of it. And I know why. He loves to hear my whisper,

"One.... thank you Sir.............. Two.... thank you Sir................... Three.... thank you Sir............. Four.... thank you Sir..................... Five.... thank you Sir."

And I love to whisper it to him.

88

88 strokes...
88 deliciously wicked thwacks with the long, heavy rattan cane.
All told I'd say they were delivered in approximately 20 minutes.
There were three things I found to be noteworthy about the caning...

1. His pacing. He chose to hit me in groups of eleven. ~(oh, for those that don't know, I count and thank him for each stroke)~ First, I love grouping. Not only does it help me count, it helps me stay focused and it gives me little auxiliary goals to concentrate on... which in turn help me get to the big main goal. Second, eleven seemed the perfect number for each set. He's used many different amounts for sets before... this was the first time he's chosen eleven... and for some reason, it felt just right to me... neither too many, nor too few. Pacing is a big factor for me. The quicker the succession of strokes, the more challenging it is to keep my breathing steady and my counting audible and my position maintained. Too much time between strokes, and I start to lose focus... my mind usually wandering to what I anticipate will happen once the caning is finished and I get to show him my gratitude. Therefore, pacing plays an important role in our caning sessions.

2. His hands. He touched me a lot throughout the 88. Mostly between sets of eleven, though not exclusively so. And I want to be clear about the quality of his touch. It wasn't that he was caressing the inflamed flesh (although it certainly translated as such)... no, what I mean is that the intention I felt behind his touch was more of an exploratory nature. He was feeling for himself, not in order to comfort me. Which in turn, comforted me. This is an important distinction for me because I don't like a lot of 'lovey dovey touchy feely' mixed with my pain. However, I thoroughly enjoyed a lot of "oh, look at that mark!... or... feel the heat from that stroke radiate!" - which is what his hands on me felt like. I don't know that those were his thoughts, it's just how I received it. And for me, because of my nature, I am more comforted by his caressing me for his pleasure than I am by his caressing me for mine. (if that makes sense)

3. And last but not least... there was something that I didn't like so much about last night's beating. Quite often he would deliver a strike only to leave the cane resting upon the very spot he had just impacted. I found this to increase the difficulty of absorbing the stroke. It made the cut linger longer than it would otherwise, and it almost seemed to block the spot from my breath. Not sure how to word this in a way that it will be clearly understood... let me see here... So I'm not much of a toucher, I don't reach my hands back to touch the pain and rub the wound. Instead I meet the pain with my breath. I like to stretch a bit, breathe into the agony, bounce my knees, and let the sensation wash over me. What I found last night was by having the cane resting on top of the location of immediate impact, I was challenged to breathe into the stroke. In fact, at a few points I had to fight the urge to buck the cane off my bum. (something that would have undoubtedly cost me more strokes... more, nastier, fiercer strokes) What it made me realize is that the couple seconds between strokes in which I am counting and thanking him, that's when I embrace the searing pain and so having the cane rest on the traumatized flesh seems to mask that quality of time.

Oh... and I know I said there were 3 but I thought of one more...

4. His commands. Now, obviously as his sub, I live for his commands... however what I am referring to here are commands given in the form of a statement as opposed to an order. Instead of him telling me to keep my toes on the ground... He told me that my toes would remain on the ground. In a way it makes it easier to follow whatever the order may be. If he states it as a fact, then it becomes truth. Whereas if he poses it as an order, it implies that the choice is mine whether to comply or not. Now of course his commanding me in this way doesn't at all diminish, or eliminate, my choice of compliance. All it does (for me at least) is make it that much easier for me to obey.