confessions of a spankee

postseason

2007-09-29T16:45:00.001-07:00

Summer's coming to an end and it's time for me to calm down.
I've been neglecting this space because, well, I've been out partying like a rock star.
(sans the cocaine)

I have been traveling and playing and dancing and laughing and enjoying as much as possible.
I've also been working as little as necessary.

I'm ready to slow down a little.
Take some deep breaths, and settle in for the long winter ahead.

Hope everyone's summer has been as fantastic for them as mine has been for me.

*smile*
xo

The Cigar

2007-08-09T11:07:00.000-07:00

"You will buy a cigar..."

His words echoed through my head for weeks before I finally obeyed the request. It wasn't even so much a request as it was a declaration. He does that on purpose, or at least I think he does.

"..... and the next time you smoke, I will burn you with it."

He wasn't happy that it took me so long to procure said cigar. But he didn't put up too much fuss about it either. I've been acting up left and right, and he's had a lot to deal with in terms of correcting my behavior. He's picking his battles selectively.

Now I'm not certain if I thought he was bluffing, or I just didn't think he would be able to go through with it... but apparently the threat of such filthy injury was not enough to stop me. Sure it stopped me for a few weeks. But that is my recent pattern. I go out with friends and every few weeks, I end up smoking a cigarette. It has to stop. I don't want to smoke. I was once a regular smoker, I will not become one again. And he's going to help me make sure of that. Even if in order to do so, he has to be a cold-hearted sadistic bastard.

˙˙˙˚˚ººº˚˚˙˙˙

"Honey?" My voice quivers.

"Yes baby?"

"Please don't burn me."

"With a cigar?" He inquires, "did you smoke?"

I lower my eyes and say nothing.

"I am." The disappointment washes over his voice, "I am going to burn you."

"No honey, please, you can't..." I am filled with dread and desperation. And for some reason, I think I can talk my way out of it, talk some sense into him, and somehow escape what I knew I had coming.

"Oh I can and I will." He is unyielding from the get go.

This goes on for days. I beg and plead and argue and he doesn't budge. He is adamant. He is going to burn me. And still, I refuse to believe it. He guarantees me that there is nothing I can say, nothing I can offer, nothing I can do to get me out of this. I had fair warning. He was very clear. I smoked anyway. I promised him I wouldn't, and then I went ahead and did anyway. My regret is large but his disappointment is paramount. He wants me to learn the lesson. He has to burn me. He's going to hurt me, not harm me. But I am terrified that he's going to do the latter without intending to.

I am terrified.

I don't even know how to describe the quality of my fear. It is consuming and I am distraught with it for days.

˙˙˙˚˚ººº˚˚˙˙˙

So he burned me.

Three times.

The last two left two red marks with three little blisters, on the inside curve of each ass cheek. It hurt exactly the way that burning flesh hurts. Each time lasted a fraction of a fraction of a second. He didn't harm me, he hurt me. He did what he said he was going to do. He burned me, which in effect was insist I surrender to something I did not want to surrender myself to.

It's really very simple. I don't want to smoke. I'm not allowed to smoke. The punishment for smoking is getting burned with a cigar. I knew that when I decided to smoke. I smoked anyway. I needed to be burned with a cigar.

As easy to understand as that is, I freaked out and refused to surrender myself to the punishment. I bitched and argued and begged and exaggerated and pleaded for days. And in the end, I didn't hold still ( he had to sit on me), I didn't take it quietly ( my poor neighbors), and yet according to him, I took it well.

Truth is, I surrendered myself to it the moment I bought the cigar.... and he went easy on me. He went way easy on me and I'm not exactly sure why.

The Belt

2007-08-07T00:28:00.000-07:00

Spankings for me, are a cure-all. No matter what ails me, I need a spanking. When I'm naughty, I need a spanking. When I'm happy, I need a spanking. When I'm pretty much anything, I need a spanking. Even when I'm tired and have a head-ache. Nothing has as much effect over my state of being. It's remarkable, truly. I am the essential spankee. I'm not bragging as this has many unfortunate consequences for me; I have simply come to terms with this over the years, and I'm secure enough in my desire to own my proclivities.

So I like to be hit with things. Lots of different kinds of things. Interesting, creative, mercilessly painful things... such as his hand, a wooden spoon, the tawse, the cane. A variety of implements adorn my closet wall. And of them all, in much the same way that spankings are my panacea, the belt is my most favorite of favorite implements. When given the choice, more times than not, I choose to be hit with the belt. The deepest, darkest bruises, (I have a bruising fetish), have come from the belt. Truly, there is so much about the belt that appeals to me, I'm not even sure where to begin.

The domestic connotation cannot be ignored... and although I was spanked for discipline and punishment as a child, I didn't feel the belt until I was a consenting adult involved in a DD relationship. In fact it was probably the first implement, besides his hand, the first man to ever spank me ever used. My love for the belt has developed over years and every time it kisses my skin, my appreciation grows. When I'm being hit with it, I surrender to it quicker than I do any other implement. It's almost as if it comforts me. It certainly hurts, and yet there is this security that permeates the pain. It doesn't disguise the pain, it enhances it in just the proper way so as to quiet my mind and allow me to drift off into the depths of rapture that is a spankee being spanked.

In general, I'm not a pain whore. I don't get off on the hurt. I don't crave the ow. I don't necessarily find comfort in the agony. I am able to translate pain into pleasure, but not exclusively so. However when it comes to the belt... I am a slut. I relish in the hurt of the belt. The closest I've come to coming from a spanking, was with the belt.

But not just any belt, his belt.

Breaking

2007-08-03T02:17:00.000-07:00

I have been horribly misbehaved recently. I've been angry and my feelings have been hurt and I've used both as an excuse to be a pugnacious little devil. I've sassed and bratted and blatantly disregarded direct instruction. Never before in my life have I been so willfully disobedient. Sparing you the gory details, and me the embarrassment - let me just say that today, he put me firmly back in my place... with his belt.

Rebellious as I've been, of course I fought at first. He came over, we talked and ate some lunch, and he told me in as calm a voice as can be,

"I am going to break you today."

*gulp*

I defiantly shook my head in disapproval.

"Oh yes," he chuckled, "and I'm going to use my belt. You need to be punished for your unabashed brattiness. It's gone too far, you've crossed the line; and I will not allow it to continue."

His voice became stern and the look in his eye turned cold. Not callous or unaffected, just cold. He was going to break me. I could see it in his eyes. I struggled. I refused to hold still over his knee. I kicked and squirmed and pleaded.

"Ow. Ok. Ow. Ok honey, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please. Ow. Ok. Ok. Ow!" I cried out, reaching my hands back in a futile attempt to cover my bare cheeks, kicking and squirming more.

He's naturally much stronger than me and can easily overpower me in that position. Pinning me to his lap, he smacked away at my bare, and by now pinkened, bum. My struggling continued and eventually he grew tired of my fighting. He threw me off his knee, next to him on the couch. I smiled in response to my faux success only to be scooped up off my feet and over his shoulder. Brat that I am, I smacked away at his backside as he carried me like a sack of potatoes into the bedroom. Tossing me to the bed, he turned to get the belt off the back of the door (which is where it usually lives). It wasn't there so he went to the next logical location, the closet.

"It's not there either!" I called after him, giggling to myself.

"Fetch me the belt," he commanded as he walked back into the room, clutching the tawse. "Now!"

He began swinging the tawse at me. Thrashing me relentlessly, he asserted his willingness to just use that until I produced the implement he sought. Reluctantly getting up, I dug through the laundry basket to find the jeans it was last worn with. And he proceeded to smack the tawse against my flesh as I pulled the belt from the belt loops. You see, not only have I been disobedient, I've been neglecting my chores.

"Kneel and present it to me properly."

I hesitated.

*SMACK*

"I said, kneel and present it to me properly brat!"

Falling to my knees, I carefully folded and raised the belt in my hands. I obeyed, though I didn't bow my head. I kept my eyes on his, in my own quietly defiant way.

The first few whacks were shocking. It's been awhile since I've taken a good belting, and I could tell by the hits that he was planning on making up for the lost time. He didn't warm me, but he was careful to not overwhelm me too quickly. I resisted. I moved. I cried out. I covered myself with my shaking hands. I pleaded for mercy. All I got from him was a smirk. I watched in the armoire mirror as he continued to lay into me with the thick leather. Loud belt smacks interspersed with "ow's" filled the room. He'd closed the bedroom door and at the time I wasn't sure why but I now know it was because the belt is loud, and he was hoping to spare the neighbors.

According to him it took me longer than usual before I surrendered myself to the beating. Which secretly pleased him. He loves beating the willful defiance out of me. And the longer it takes, the more I challenge him, the more it turns him on. I'm not sure how long it took, but eventually he reached his goal. He broke the brat in me. She yielded,

"Uncle."

And now this is one of the best things about beltings for us... once we reach the point where the pain turns to pleasure and the pleadings turn to coos, we can go forever. He can hit me with his full force, repeatedly, and with quick succession, and I just take it. I hold position. His eyes lock with mine. We smile at each other. He beats, I get beat. It's pure heaven. It's as intimate for us as sex, perhaps even more so at times.

can someone please tell me...

2007-08-02T15:24:00.001-07:00

Why autonomy can be so constricting,

and restraint so liberating?

No Smoking Please

2007-07-20T10:58:00.000-07:00

Forewarning: The following is explicit in nature and intended for mature audiences only. (As is everything I write, but this one especially so.)

I woke up in the wee hours of the morning from a bad dream, tears streaming down my face and my heart racing. I have bad dreams often. Nightmares, or as he likes to call them, night terrors. It's troublesome. For some reason I do a lot of processing in my sleep. And the frequency of the nightmares is a fairly accurate gauge for my stress level; along with my feelings of guilt. If I feel guilty about something I'll have a bad dream, guaranteed.

So I woke up crying, and my instinct was to reach for him. He wasn't there, but he would be soon; and I knew this, so I sent him a message informing him of my current emotional state.

"Awww, it's ok... it's not real, it's just a dream. Make a space for me in that bed... and go back to sleep young lady," his words were as comforting as his voice.

"Yes Sir," I whispered.

Of course I couldn't fall back asleep completely. I dozed in and out, and he was there within the hour. Climbing into the warm bed, his cool skin was both shocking and calming. I quickly nuzzled into his nook as he wrapped his strong arms around my delicate frame; and after only a few moments I slid myself down his torso and suckled myself to comfort, whimpering.

*sigh*

"I was a bad girl last night."

The confession rolled off my lips without my even thinking of doing so. Something about his presence and my sleepy state... there was no hiding. When I feel safe with him, I expose myself entirely.

"How bad?" He asked, his interest obviously piqued.

"Bad bad."

"Tell me."

"I don't want to tell you," I said as I buried my face in his chest.

"That doesn't matter. You will tell me right now," he snarled.

"I smoked a cigarette."

His hands grabbed a hold of me, positioning me over his lap before he even opened his mouth in response.

*Smack*
*Smack*
*Smack*
*Smack*

"Unacceptable behavior. You know I will not tolerate you smoking. You are going to get the cane for this. Do you understand?"

I couldn't speak. The displeasure in his voice had stolen mine from right under my breath. I nodded. He kept smacking.

*Smack*
*Smack*
*Smack*
*Smack*
*SMACK*

Pulling me up and back to his chest, he held me tight as he continued to scold me for my transgression and explain what was to come. Twelve very hard cane strokes.

"Now go get the cane," the look in his eye left no room to wriggle, yet of course I still tried.

Even when I'm in trouble, I'm a brat.

"No honey, just hold me some more," I pleaded.

"I'll hold you some more... after you take the twelve. Now go."

Instead of going I pushed away from his chest and rolled away from him. Tapping my shoulder he said,

"C'mon now, you know how this works, go!"

I went. I returned with the cane and handed it over. He instructed me to put on a pair of white cotton panties and to fetch a towel I wouldn't mind getting dirty.

"You know what I mean," he asserted.

And he was correct. I knew exactly what the towel was for... and the panties too. He simply adores white cotton panties. And he has a particular affinity for pulling them down from a naughty brat's bottom in order to stripe her with cane marks. The towel was for dealing with any mess that may result from his sodomizing me once my ass was striped with angry red welts. Something else which holds a special place in his heart.

When I returned with the towel, clad in the panties... I assumed the position. Hands and forearms flat on the bed. Hips bent at 90º. Legs straight. Feet flat on the ground. Back slightly arched. Ass presented perfectly.

*THWACK*

He didn't wait. He didn't ease in. He gave no warm up and no warning.

"One.... Thank you Sir."

*THWACK*

Hardly any time transpired between the strokes, barely a moment for me to catch my breath.

"Two.... Thank you Sir."

*THWACK*

"Three.... Thank you Sir."

By now my voice was strained, and I was breaking position. He kept me down by placing his hand on my back. It was both helpful and comforting. He always knows exactly what to do to assist my taking the pain; the searing agony with which he lands that stick. He hits me hard, and God does it hurt.

After the fourth stroke I was on the verge of crying and he voiced his approval of such.

One by one the barrage continued. Him swinging the cane harder, me counting, him helping me maintain position. By the time we were through the first 6, my ass was ablaze. He paused, leaned the cane against the bed, and slowly entered my now thoroughly soaked pussy. Mmmmmm. It felt so good even though I knew it wasn't for my pleasure, it was merely a stepping stone to the next 6.

Switching sides, he continued.

When he finished, he didn't finish. He gave me three more very hard strokes, in quick succession. And when he was finally done, so was I.

Wiping some of the juices from my pussy backward, he slowly prodded his way into my ass. It clenched. It didn't want to let him in. I wasn't trying to fight it, I just couldn't surrender to it. At least, not at first.

"Relax and let me in... I'm not going to stop so it's just going to hurt you more.... I don't care."

He was deep before I gave in. When I finally did, he felt my body melt under him.... felt me open myself to him and yield to his force. He rode, hard. Faster and faster. My hair wrapped in his fist, my neck pulled back, and me watching him in the mirror. It felt so fucking good. For both of us. It was written all over our faces. He warned me not to come. This was for his pleasure, not mine. My ass belongs to him and he will take it and use it for his purposes only.

"My God there is nothing quite like caning you and then raping your ass. Truly, nothing compares."

I came. I received 6 more strokes for it. But oh my did I come. As did he. And then he cautioned me of what was to come the next time I smoked a nasty little cigarette....

"You will buy a cigar and I will burn you with it."

(Fucking ouch.)

spankable

2007-07-14T14:49:00.001-07:00

I can't remember the artist but I adore his work.

It's the Timing

2007-07-13T11:41:00.000-07:00

Forewarning: This post is going to be nothing more than a jeremiad so please feel free to not read it.

I realize that my going on the Manfast, reading through old journals, and starting this blog are not mere coincidences of occurrence. They are a matter of timing. Specific timing. Reasonable and noteworthy timing. He placed a collar around my neck in June, 2005. It was removed in July 2006. Although truly, he took possession of me well before the collar, and he gave me up approximately two weeks after the collar was removed.

I am doing well. I'm independent and supporting myself and enjoying my life in one of the greatest cities on earth. I'm learning new things, taking care of myself, meeting new people, and reconnecting with old friends. I'm learning to rely on myself and trust myself again. And this is all very good for me.

But my God do I miss him. He hasn't been my Master for over a year now... and for some reason the anniversary of the de-collaring has me nostalgically melancholy. And yes, I realize those two descriptors make an oxymoron.

It isn't that I'm not capable, intelligent, willful, opinionated, and confident. I am all of those in spades. It's that I'm in need of possession. I need to be told what to do. I need to be taken. I need a strong hand to guide me. I need to serve and entertain. I need someone to answer to. Not just anyone though. I need that someone to be him. Since we've parted, I have not been attracted to anyone. I have fleeting moments of attraction that are based in loneliness, but I have made no genuine connection. I don't feel hopeless about it... I've learned to accept it for what it is. A case of very bad timing.

And it's not that he's so special. His failings are many, and significant. He and I are perfect together, you see. The things that turn me on, turn him on. He understands me and my nature better than anyone I have ever met. We compliment each other in all the fundamental ways that lovers and partners possibly could. It was almost as if he was made for me... or rather, seeing as he's older than me, that I was made for him.

I do not expect to ever meet another with whom I 'click' so completely. I can't even fathom the idea. And part of the intention of this Manfast is to come to terms with that; to recognize that the connection we made is not common, and the chances of it happening again with someone else are just not likely. I understand this now. And I'm learning to accept it.

Yet still, I miss him something awful. I wish he'd call me and give me instruction. I wish he'd come to me, take me by my hair, force me to my knees, look into my eyes, and tell me he just can't live without me. I wish I could lay across his knee and feel his belt kissing my flesh. I wish he would scoop me into his arms and carry me to our bed and whisper into my ear.

My God I Fucking Miss Him.

My new commute = 4.5 blocks

2007-07-07T02:36:00.001-07:00

I love my city.

I love my neighborhood.

And I adore my new job.

(audi a4 for sale by owner)

girl on girl

2007-07-03T11:16:00.001-07:00

There's nothing in the rules of the Manfast about receiving spankings from fellow females.

*smirk*

The Switching

2007-07-01T22:42:00.001-07:00

She stood in the corner, waiting patiently though slightly anxious as well. The things he'd asked for were placed carefully on the bed. Including the switch he told her to bring, which she'd cut a mere ten minutes prior.

She'd never had a proper switching before. Not the kind of switching he had in store for her. She could sense that.

When she heard him enter the room, she resisted the urge to turn around and look at him - for only a moment. Quickly her desire to see him overcame her self-discipline and... she peeked.
And he saw her look, of course.

"Face forward!" He barked.

She quickly twisted her neck straight and listened for his steps as he approached from behind.

The first thing she felt was his breath on her neck. Shivers shot down her spine as he reached his hands out to touch her. (She melts in his hands.) He told her to drop to her knees by grasping a fistful of hair and tugging downward. Once she was there, he kept pulling; harder and harder, until her back was arched and her chin sticking out, leaving her neck exposed and vulnerable.

He wanted to kiss her. Though as he went to satisfy the desire, he caught a glimpse of her red lipstick, and he stopped. He had told her to wear that lipstick.

He thought to himself, "What a good girl I have."

Wanting to save the mussing of her lipstick for another type of kiss, he opened his mouth and bit into her neck only to abandon it and dive down to her nipple.

"Ouch!" she yelped.

(He bites those things so dang hard, always has.)

He loves it. And so does she.

The switching came next.
She quickly became aware of such as he positioned her precisely where he wanted. She tried to settle herself, but she was holding her breath and unable to focus. She was nervous.
She hadn't been nervous like that... waiting for the first stroke..... in a long time.
Maybe it was her not knowing what to expect from that thin little stick. Whatever it was, it threw her concentration off and as a result she found it increasingly difficult to maintain position. This is not a good thing.

He does not like it when she breaks position.

She doesn't like it when she breaks position.

It's disrespectful.

That little stick hurt her something awful. Each stroke was like a little razor blade slicing across her skin. Not deep like the cane. Similar, but more superficial. Nasty.

Nasty little switch in the hands of a mean Master. Every time she moved, every time she broke position - even slightly, he struck her thighs: swinging that nasty little switch faster. God it hurt. She was shocked by the pain. She struggled to breathe and take it and she just couldn't stop herself from moving. She could feel his frustration. He's under a lot of stress right now and his slave has been acting up ad nauseam.

This switching was for him: much more than it was for her.
It's usually for her.

She desperately needed the last beating, the one with which he broke his cane.

He desperately needed this beating. Which makes her breaking position that much more troublesome.

He welted her backside superbly. Angry little stripes crossing every which way. He hits her so hard. And even with her incessant moving, she takes his hits so well. It's truly remarkable. It's impossible to know how many times he swung that skinny little branch against her flesh.

Many many many.

cane mark

2007-06-30T17:57:00.000-07:00

The Manfast

2007-06-30T03:00:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-27T22:13:00.001-07:00

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.....

2007-06-26T16:59:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-26T16:30:00.000-07:00

"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

2007-06-26T16:21:00.000-07:00

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

2007-06-26T15:58:00.000-07:00

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.