Master and I had a fucking amazing weekend. There are some bits that I totally want to write about but can’t. There are some important bits I can.
First on the list: spankings. They have often been a trigger for me. I’ve flipped out, lost my shit, blacked out, caused myself physical harm, and attempted to harm the person spanking me (even love pats could bring forward this violent reaction!). They’ve left me feeling gross and sad. I’ve been living/playing with WIIWD (What It Is We Do) for more than 15 years and an “introductory” sort of fetish has been something beyond my reach. Master’s technique is solid, but my childhood made spanking a landmine. There were a few revelations Saturday that gave me a new perspective about how I approach my masochism and how to handle my triggers. Especially considering that I lap up kicks and punches to the same body area, previously believing that there was something about those impacts that was “significantly different.” Saturday gave me a clue: the expectation of the difference is all in my head … all in the map and memories.
But with these new ideas under my belt (see what I did there? I’m hoping that we can work up to that) Master spanked me for FORTY WHOLE MINUTES on Saturday. I loved it. I was content. It felt nice. It was grounding. I understand why people want to be spanked.
I. Understand. Spankings.
I might even want one as soon as my deep tissue bruises are healed (some).
And (maybe because of those same revelations that let Master wail on my rear for almost a whole hour, or maybe because Master was able to spank me with some rhythm and randomness for more than three swats before I became a crazy ball of bad responses) when the opportunity to play in about 20 square feet with an overhead tie-off presented itself, I was more than ready to participate with Master and engage in a scene … he and I … eye contact, screaming, laughing, shrieking, begging … a scene in which I was free to move, but unable to run away, or truly “hide” behind my flinching limbs while Master made me into a training dummy to practice martial arts on. Heh. It was a scene where anything else in the background never made it into my memory.
Feeling those kicks land with such precision and feeling certain that he’d pulled back, that he’d held back…that the ridge hand was less than a quarter of his strength, landed squarely on one of my functioning pressure points… I spent the scene jumping up and down in circles, laughing, screaming, shrieking, occasionally jumping up and trying to land a kick squarely in his belly with my hobbled feet…Smiling with him while he laughed at me…
I never wanted it to end.
I wanted to stay there forever.
It was catharsis.
It was not crying, painful catharsis. It was connecting catharsis. It was repairing the gaps of time when Master and I have been unable to play deep, heavily and long. It was mending the places where the demands of every day had tried to strip Master of his power. It was feeding the starved masochist inside my soul who had forgotten how to feed herself, how to eat like a ninja.
But forever wasn’t quite possible. Eventually my legs were too done to hold me up for very long. Too many strikes to the nerves on the outer thighs. The bruises are really just beginning to surface 24 hours later. (The first points started showing up after about four hours – now we’re getting to the multi colored stage. Squeee!)
As I write this, the masochist inside my soul is licking her fingers, as if she’s just devoured an entire chocolate cake, greedily, without apology … she’s delighted with the bruises spotting my hide. If Master isn’t touching them, I am.
Also: we were delighted to see familiar faces lit with joy, glad to put faces to names, and grateful to see so many giant smiles. May much happiness dwell in the hearts of our fellow kinksters – for those who were there at the thing I am not naming here, and those who were not.
<3 Reaper & His creature