“Don’t disappoint yourself”

I’m packing for Chicago Crimson Moon and don’t have a lot of time to write today, so I’m reposting a older blog about one of my scary favorite scenes (from Sandy’s Room, Jan. 31, 2011):

I was going to get whipped, something that both scared me and pulled me in.

It wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve been single-tailed before. A single-tailing CAN be quite sensuous if done a certain way, with a mild pain, repeated flickers and stings. At times it’s brought me to an almost meditative state. I’ve also felt some very harsh single tail strokes that caused me to cry out, but usually, these scenes did not last long — there may have been 20 hard strokes, tops. This was going to be different.

I had been talking a few months ago to John Smith, a fabulous top and the author of “Kink and the City.” In his book he describes both giving and receiving what sound like some incredible and painful single-tail whippings. I told him how these particular scenes were some of the hottest in the book. And then we started discussing the possibility of my experiencing it.

My friend Tori also knows John and they’d been having a similar conversation. He asked me if I’d like to do a joint scene with her — one of us watching while the other was single-tailed, and then switching.

John, who’s inflicted hard corporal punishment on me before but not this, promised a real single-tailing. Harsh, unrelenting. I initially hesitated. How would I react? Did I want my friend to see me yelling and crying out, which was very likely to happen? But after some back and forth and thinking about it, I decided I was OK to let myself be vulnerable and just let it happen. I like Tori and we’ve done scenes together before.

The scene took place on Saturday night at Pandora’s Box, a dungeon in New York City. We’d reserved a room there that provided lots of space for John to use the whip. He had also asked for leather hoods; he said these were necessary for protection. And he said that when I saw myself in the mirror wearing the hood it would feel somewhat dehumanizing (this had intensified his own experiences, he said). The notion of having to wear a hood made me feel more nervous. This was going to be extreme.

And so we entered the room, making some small talk, but soon getting down to business. I was to go first. John bound my wrists into leather cuffs and he attached them to an overhead bar that was in the center of the room. My arms were in a comfortable position, not too high. I was naked except for a thong. Then he put the hood on. It tightened in back. I could just barely see out of the eye holes. But he asked me to close my eyes anyway during the whipping, for extra caution. (I might have done that anyway).

My typical approach to something that surely will be painful is to not think about it until it actually happens. In the back of my mind I am strong; I will take whatever he dishes out; I will be brave. Even if I’m getting something I’ve felt many times before, like a caning, I tend to forget how much it actually hurts.

He began. “Nicely” at first — he’d promised to build, to increase the heat gradually. But the warm-up, if you can call it that, did not last too long. Soon more painful strokes began to fall. I know my words here will not do this any justice. What is the pain like? How do you describe it? I’d say that it’s almost like being cut, and it feels hot. I gasped at first and then finally cried out. Eventually some of the strokes simply made me roar. One wicked stroke cut across me from my upper right side to the center of my back. I screamed and sagged forward and down. John moved in close to me and ordered me to stand up straight. “Don’t disappoint yourself,” he whispered fiercely. I stood up straight. I didn’t want to disappoint myself. I didn’t want to disappoint him. I wanted to see how much I could take. Wasn’t that the whole point of being there — to experience it?

My safe word was simply “Stop.” At that point he would completely stop; the whipping would be over. I wasn’t ready to use the safe word, and he kept going. A couple more times I sagged forward from the slashing pain. I don’t know how loud I was yelling or screaming. At one point I was simply sobbing. The cuts continued. Once more he ordered me to stand straight. He whipped me a few more times and I screamed again. I was feeling crazy, not wanting any more, feeling it was unbearable, but still wanting to prove something to him, to myself. Another cut, another roar emerged from my throat. Then another stroke, and another. My back, sides and some of my front were searing with the pain. The whip came down again and at last the word burst from my lips in a scream: “STOP!”

It was over. I stood and simply breathed heavily, trying to come back to reality. He was at my side, helping me out of the cuffs, soothing me, telling me how well I had taken it. He took the hood off and I blinked. “How long did I last?” I asked. He said about 15 minutes. I’d had no concept of time. I did not feel disappointed; I felt that I had taken quite a bit.

Now it was Tori’s turn, and I relished watching her reactions. She is a petite girl with beautiful curves. She kept her knee-high boots on as John cuffed her into place, and I thought she looked very sexy, preparing for what was to come. When her whipping began she was brave like me, but soon she also cried out. I could feel my own welts throbbing as I watched her take her own. As I was not completely cognizant of the noises I was making during my whipping, I don’t know how to compare them to what Tori was expressing. But she was certainly in pain. I could not hear what John was saying to her but I imagine it was something similar to what he’d told me about not disappointing myself. She’s a tough girl and she bore it well. The moment she called, “Stop!” he did. But he kept her in the cuffs for a little while. I think he sensed she still might want to be pushed a little more. He asked her if she could take five more strokes, and she said yes. They were hard, and she yelled, yet I sensed a sense of triumph in her at accepting those last five.

I was happy I’d gone through it. It was very intense and it left me feeling strong and brave and a bit high. I joked that I was probably unfit to drive. I told Tori Imight do it again … but a lot of time would have to pass before that happened. This is certainly not an every weekend thing, at least not for me.

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