“I want you to wear my marks”

Is it time?

I saw Suburban Spanker at breakfast on the last day of Crimson Moon. He and his partner were getting ready to drive home, but he said he still had time to play if I came to his room while they were packing up.

The timing had not worked out earlier. I didn’t want to let him go without playing with him; I might not see him for another year. But I was scared.

I told him would meet him shortly.

I went upstairs and showered, uncertain. I dressed, questioning my motives.

I texted him that I was on the way and I walked to the elevator.

I was wearing shorts but wondered if I should have brought long pants to change into. Should I go back to the room and get them? How bad would this be? I’d already pressed the elevator button. I told myself that whatever happened, happened. I didn’t go get the other pants. The elevator arrived and I rode up.

I was talking to myself: Why was I doing this? What was I getting out of this? Was I crazy? Was I doing it simply because he wanted to do it to me? Suburban Spanker had been teasing me most of the weekend, grabbing a small fistful of my hair and pulling hard, then whispering sweet nothings in my ear like, “I want to hurt you.”

Do I decide who gets to hurt me simply by how much they express a desire to do so? Of course not. That would be ridiculous; there are plenty of guys who want to play with me that I say no to. Suburban Spanker just has a very quiet, scary dominant way about him that gets my heart flittering and other parts pulsating. He’s also attractive. And his partner, Betty Crocker, is sweet and adorable and has a sort of innocent aura, which tends to suck me into their web and make me feel safe. (Ominous laughter)

One thing occurred to me on the way to this appointment: In all the years I have played and in all the pain and power exchanges I’ve gone through, there are still some players who make me hesitate, make me shiver with nervousness. The fear is still there, as much as it was 17, 18 years ago when I first started seeking out partners. Very few people still make me feel like that. Suburban Spanker is one of them.

I tell myself I’ll be OK

I think, You will survive and you can always safe word out. But I didn’t feel OK. I felt crazy and reckless, and I wondered if the payoff would be worth the pain. I kept moving forward, though, and I got to his room.

Suburban Spanker was finishing off a scene with another woman. She was getting up off the ottoman with a glazed look in her eyes. He had used a rattan carpet beater on her. I didn’t know how long they had been playing or how many other things had been used prior to that. That rug beater can be brutal. I knew better than to ask whether he’d use it on me. I wasn’t going to ask, but I doubted I’d have a chance to say no if he picked it up.

The other woman left, and it was go time.

“Strip, then kneel on the floor with your hands on your head,” Suburban Spanker said.

I did. He put cuffs on my wrists, hooked them together, then pulled me up to my feet and dragged me over to the ottoman. He ordered me into position across the padded rectangular furniture where the other woman had just been.

Nerves make me chatty

“Why did you put cuffs on me when you didn’t use them on ____?” I asked, naming the woman who’d just left. It was a nonsensical question. Basically I was feeling him out for how hard the pain might be. But even if he had an idea of that ahead of time, and even if he decided to tell me, how would that have helped anything?”

He leaned over and stared at me, not saying anything for a few seconds. I blinked and said, “Should I be shutting up now?”

“Yes, that would be a good idea,” he said. Then he said. “We’ll start with a cold caning.” I didn’t know if that was “punishment” for my asking about the cuffs, but I was getting a cold caning. I should probably point out that Suburban Spanker doesn’t really do warm ups, at least not much, with me. So everything, really, is “cold.”

Across the room, Betty had just taken a shower and had gotten back under the bedcovers. I think she was napping, but she might have been watching our scene a little. Either way, it comforted me to know she was there.

When the cane came down, it was brutal. I heard the high-pitched whoosh before it struck, and then it struck again several times while I held my breath and tried to stay in place. I finally cried out. There were a few more strokes and then my panic kicked in. No! It’s too much, my mind screamed.

Things start to get real

I said it out loud: “I don’t think I can take it!” At the same exact time I was berating myself: You’re not going to wimp out, are you? Are you going to be a pussy about this? You can take it! (My head: You are crazy! Why are you doing this? It’s harder than before and it’s just going to get even worse.)

Suburban Spanker stopped swinging and bent over, placed a hand on my bare back. “Breathe,” he said.

The sadist was comforting me, calming me, relaxing me … so he could keep hurting me. All I could think was, “He cares about me.” But his touch did feel nice. I tried to breathe, tried to be calm. He caned me more. Then he picked up a thick strap and beat me with it. Butt and upper thighs. It felt nearly as severe as the cane, maybe worse.

I started to try some of my pain management techniques. Focus on the pain. Focus on what you are feeling and what the actual sensation is. Separate that from your emotions. Is it hot, cold? Stingy, pounding?

It did not work well. Focusing on one burst of pain doesn’t help when others follow too quickly. Still, I remained fairly still and my vocal outbursts were kept to a minimum.

Suburban Spanker finally helped me up off the ottoman. I was still scared because he said he was going to whip me. Again the internal debate: Why are you here, why do you need this? Are you crazy?

I never remember any of the pain before we start. There was a vague recollection of, “Yeah, he’s rough and I had a hard time getting through it before.” But the actual pain? No. In my memory, I was a tough girl who just rode out a few difficult parts. And: I’ll just let him start, and when it gets too rough I’ll safe word.

But I don’t like safe wording …

Suburban Spanker whipped my back. It was harsh. Some strokes were excruciating. My masochistic mind was racing, saying, how much will he give me, how much can I take? I can’t take this, I can’t take this, I can’t take this … have I taken enough to have pretty marks later?

I didn’t scream that loudly, not that I can remember. But I was grateful when it ended. I certainly was not going to ask for more.

He uncuffed me then turned me around to face outward.

Remember: Watch your language

Suburban Spanker had included “no cursing” in his rules before we started, and that was fine. I told myself, Remember, don’t scream “fuck” or anything like that while he’s whipping or caning you. I have a tendency to express myself that way. I did fine while he was hitting me. No cursing. But then he said he was going to cane the fronts of my thighs. I was relaxed, it was in between implements, and my guard was down. I let out an exclamation. “Oh, shit.”

Oh, no … “Sorry, Sir.” Sorry, sorry, sorry… He looked at me, a hard glare that had a little subtext of amusement underneath. I hadn’t made him angry. He was happy I’d slipped up. It gave him an excuse to do more bad things to me.

He picked up a leather “loopy Johnny.”

“Spread your legs,” he directed me.

No safe word. But where was he planning on striking me? I could almost feel my sheen of sweat growing. No pussy. Please, no pussy. I will safe word if you hit me there … I gripped my cuffs tighter, tried to prepare myself. So scared, but I wasn’t going to stop him. I didn’t want to stop him. He aimed the loop at my soft upper thigh, high and inside. Right side first. I breathed. He swung and delivered. There was a 2-second delay before the impact traveled up my nerve endings and struck my brain. Then I gritted my teeth and let out a loud moan at the searing pain.

Other side, other thigh. Another sizzle of pain. Two strokes. That was it. I’ll never curse again! (Yeah, right.)

The front-of-the-thigh caning was our grand finale. And it was nasty. But he went slowly and I was able to catch my breath in between. Each fiery stroke made me shake, but I otherwise kept still, hardly made a noise, and took it. I was brave, a warrior. He was my spirit guide giving me the pain I needed while helping me endure it.

I could have sworn he’d already given me the sixth stroke and that we were done, but he said, “Last one.” My brain somehow cut through the fog and said, “I wouldn’t debate numbers right now if I were you.” Later I counted six lines cutting across my thighs. Glad I didn’t say anything. He gave me a relatively soothing flogging to end the scene.

This is not something I can do every week, so when I see Suburban Spanker at a weekend party I have to ignore my trepidation and make the time to play with him. My fear goes in other directions, too. I get nervous that he won’t want to play because I’m older than him, my body’s not as tight was it was before, and all kinds of other negative things I tell myself including, “there are plenty of crazy girls here who can take more than you can.”

I feel like Suburban Spanker really “gets” me. He knows how to push me just enough and always just a little more. It makes me happy that he likes playing with me. It makes me feel special, and it definitely makes me feel strong. Of course I love seeing his marks on my skin. I’m glad they take a week or more to fade. I like knowing he caused them. I like knowing I was brave enough to earn them.


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