Myths and Metawhores

For the past twelve months this gentleman has been a wonderful part of my life. While silent on the page, he’s been here held safe in my words and vicariously appreciated by you. He wrote this for me and I’m delighted that he consented to having it published here. Thank you my darling for this and for all that you are to me.

Gentle readers may I introduce my Lictor and ‘The One and Future Kink’.

***

The Once and Future Kink.

It is still only mid morning, but the day is shaping up to be hot; already so hot that we are driving with all the car windows open, front and back. The roaring wind noise makes conversation difficult at all but the lowest speeds, but the cooling it brings, especially when we bore through a still yet unheated green tunnel in the trees, started as welcome but has become essential. At a junction, not just of roads but of valleys, we swing a decisive right. I take my foot off the accelerator and we freewheel down this wooded valley, with craggy peaks graphing this dramatic land’s highs and lows against the sky. A fairground switchback of bends, a lake, cottages; you crane your head from your open window to miss nothing. Trees and fields of late springs lush promise down at our level, then soaring up a at a neck wrenching angle, the vivid purple of the heather and the acid green of the bilberry strewn slopes are enhanced by the neutral greys of boulders and scree.

We swing into a drive past a lodge house; its windows attractively divided into diamond panes, the divisions meticulously picked out in a buttery cream. We chug sedately up the drive, Cheshire rail on one side, a stone wall, neat and recent on the other. Two hundred yards on, we draw up in the National Trust car park. Our dilapidated Volvo slots into a vacant space, and is now one of many. Doors creak open, and we both get out and survey the car park. The others gleam, but ours…it is the grey rocks and mountain colours in reverse. Shabby and distinctly pre-owned beside the metronomically parked and pristine siblings of the Trust’s clientele.

“You don’t think we’re lowering the tone?” you say, only half joking.
“ Patina” I insist, running a hand over the tired and faded paintwork.

I open the boot and extract the prepared and packed small day rucksack. After having to converse at the tops of our voices en route due to the wind and engine noise, the drop in the volume of the background noise makes all seem whisperingly quiet. Somewhere a stream trickles on the edge of audibility. A raven’s guttural croak carries faintly down from beyond the Scots pines which surround us. So now we are arrived, is it the drop in ambient noise or the serried ranks of Volvos that makes us almost exaggeratedly polite to each other? The question of who carries the sack degenerates affectionately into a small war of mock - obeisances, before I settle matters by firmly taking it from you and shouldering it, the delicacy of your shoulder and back deciding the matter. I lock the car, wondering if we need bother among so many tempting brethren. But finally we set off, gravel crunching underfoot cool at first, but when we leave the trees, the sun of only the second or third really hot day of that year focuses on us with a lenses intensity. But we don’t follow the drive to the big house – not for us the imperfect periscope to a manicured past and its blue rinsed acolytes which is the Trust experience.

With barely a sideways glance we take the left hand lane, scrunch past stables, a red phone box, then a walled garden, the wall newly and precisely lime pointed. The gravel walk ends here, then we have soft grass underfoot and the oppressive order and neatness begins to be left behind. We shrug gratefully into the unkempt countryside. I feel like cheering at a bedstead gate teetering at a crazy angle, and that it is weighted to close with some unidentifiable rusty cogwheel fragment is a gourmet touch at which I cannot suppress a grin of delight. We catch each other’s eye and laugh. You nod back towards the perfect ones. “Try too hard, don’t they?”

Then we are through the gate and following a tall and still substantially built wall, with a century’s thick moss clinging to it. This follows the angle formed between the flat valley floor and a steeply rising hillside, scrubbily wooded and craggy. And we follow this natural line too, as others have before us, for there is a well-defined path, cool and dappled. Clear morning light, green and gold, slices into the shade of trees we pass beneath. You are in front, and I follow you to better enjoy your otter smoothness, the archipelagos of sunlight which slide across back, arms, down to the denim and its taught promise. You don’t see this, but from time to time, quite unable to help myself, I stretch out fingers to trace those random islands outline in the green air between us.

It is maybe half a mile further before we hear the water, something between a chuckle and a roar. We hear it, but it is not until the path rounds a craggy projection do we see it. An arrangement of slabs, venerable and massive, span a mountain stream in a primitive but effective bridge. Just upstream is a deep green pool, fed by a waterfall easily as high as a house. You think we’ve arrived, as it fits in with the little I’ve told you –mountain stream, pool, clear water. But lovely as this pool and the stream feeding it is, this is not the perfection that is Merlin’s pool, and I have to stop you from eagerly kicking your shoes off by enfolding you from behind, whispering into the nape of your neck.
That it is further.
And higher.

I take your hand and lead you across the bridge. Once over, we leave the path and strike off up the hill through bracken and heather. It’s rough underfoot and the path is so slight as to be non-existent. There are many rocks, arranged with some vague purpose, as though at some point a wall was planned, but then abandoned. Scrubby birch and willow catches at our hair as we shoulder through. We emerge from the trees on a craggy promontory above the thicket and beside the stream. Below, now but faintly audible, it throws itself in a headlong plunge into the pool by the bridge. Upstream, it slips towards us over and under flat lichened stones, down a small and perfect hanging valley carpeted with heather and bilberry bushes. We stand and catch our breath, panting from the exertion. Our eyes slide together, meet, then a teetering moment as we ourselves slip inexorably towards our other purpose. Without a word, for no words are needed, I take a folding knife from my pocket. I open the small but effective saw blade, then hand it to you handle first, and nod towards the nearest birch tree. Your eyes slide again up to mine and hold my gaze as you take it. My words remembered. “We’ll cut a birch on the way there” Then, an afterthought, thrilling and ominous to you in equal measure, “Usual rules, my darling…”

High above a small bird peeps like radio interference, and the air seems no longer the empty void of our day-to-day insulation from the world and others. The climb here, or this moment, or impending events, or all of these have acted on it so that rather now it is some thin, focussing liquid, rendering all perception halucinatorily clear. Up to now we have been hikers, Swallows and Amazons, Livingston and Stanley, but now…now the base of your stomach convulses, melts, then drops away in chalky apprehension. Your mouth is drying, and your tongue feels thick and unfamiliar. But the day and the valley and the sunshine are so perfect and I can hear the words crystallising almost before you manage to control your tongue sufficiently to utter them.

“Can’t we just….”

But no, we can’t, my look says, because I know that at whatever level this is something you want and need too. And again, no words are needed.

A minute later you are cutting long fronds of twitchy birch while I look on in approval, giving an encouraging nod when you select a particularly worthy switch. And you are well aware of what a risky business this, as our modus operandi is that you cut and collect ten sprays of twiggy, sappy birch branches, of which I’ll choose the best. I could choose two or three, or I could choose eight or nine. But we both know each rejected frond is a lip gnawing, extra stroke for you, while each one not rejected contributes to a bigger and heavier rod. I think about the times you have protested – to no avail - at how unfair this is. I smile inwardly, and direct your attention to a particularly lean and whippy spray you have overlooked. And you thank me, and how could I doubt your sincerity? You don’t look at me as you cut the tenth, and your head is held high, determined not to betray your feelings. The target number reached; you, impassive, pale, return the knife to me. I bundle the twigs and secure them with the flap of the rucksack, then reshoulder it. Then turn and begin to pick my way upwards through the bracken.

A little higher the path crosses a tumbled slope. Below there is a sheer drop of thirty feet to the stream, so caution is needed - a bad fall if anything should go awry. I help you negotiate this, eyes averted from the drop, each hand clasped around the others wrist. A final scramble with fistfuls of heather as handholds and the last craggy ledge is easily reached.Then we follow the stream, stepping from stone to stone until, quite suddenly, we are there…

You are transfixed, speechless. I look sidelong at your face, enjoying your delight, for haven’t I imagined your face at this point so many times? A pool, perhaps fifteen feet across and seven feet deep is retained by a fortuitous quirk of geology, which has left a natural dam of harder rock. This is pierced by a narrow channel two feet deep and a foot wide, through which the entire stream pours with mesmeric intent. Towering above us on the far side is a vertical face of rock down which washes lacy trickles and green moss intermingled. Above us stretches heathery mountainside. Across the valley brilliant purple smudges of rhododendron blossom bleed from crags pierced by ruined copper mines and the ochre scree of the spoil tips.

“Oh” you say, as if hurt, breathtaken and suddenly shy. You turn to me, almost angry, tears glinting. “You didn’t say it was this beautiful….”

Your movements are slow in your reverie, so I’m the first to get my clothes off. Then I’m in the water near the exit cleft, you ask if its cold, but I’m diving and spluttering, and I don’t answer until I find the rock.

“Not bad…not bad at all” I’m distracted, trying to get a firm hold on the rock. It’s lighter underwater, of course, so its not too hard to lift it, but harder to slot it in so that it fits the cleft and fills it, restricting the exit flow. You’ve been watching puzzled; but when the rock rumbles into place I see understanding lighting up your eyes. I pull myself out. The pool hasn’t raised its level perceptibly yet, but the wedged stone will – eventually - mean another foot or two of depth. Deep enough to leap from the top of the waterfall, or dive safely from the sides. You are quiet and contemplative, sitting still in quiet wonderment, sleek and golden skinned beside a pile of clothes on the warm rock. From across the pool you could be the water sprite of this place; my golden girl a lithe echo of the past in the present, for this is undoubtedly a place both venerable and venerated, an old and sacred place, the water gate to the otherworld of the Celts. Quieter echoes of the old times still reverberate whispering in ours, the local tales of the fair folk, the many stories of Arthur. I sit beside you, dripping and whisper…in a crevice in that very crag across the valley a man from the village found the cave of the Sleeping Knights, and between us and it, that wooded hilltop is the site of the citadel, where Merlin, Myrddin, or Emrys as he was sometimes known, the great Welsh magus, unearthed the two dragons.

And did he come here?
So close, he must have.
And if he did, was his purpose ritual…or recreational?
Did he come swim here with smooth girls of the castle retinue? Perhaps whip them too? Stripe their bared skin for something between power and pleasure? Did he draw his energy from the sacred mirror otherworld of the pool; did he dive through to it? I point out the hill where the fort once stood, and we talk quietly of Merlin’s might-have-beens as the water rises.

You sprawl face up in a fleshy soft centred star on the hot living rock, the sun soaking in to you like spilt water into desert dust. I’m nearly dry now, and in the time we have been talking the water has risen a good few inches - I could of course make it rise faster by caulking the damwith bits of turf, but I have other intentions which would not be improved by speeding the waters rising. You sit up, curious to see what I’m doing. I scrabble about on the bank until I find a riverworn pebble. You see me scratch a line midway up the chockstone. I beckon, and when you come, fold my arms around your shoulders, and explain matter – of – factly to the nape of your neck that that it is the starting line.

“When the water has risen to that line”, I murmur, confidingly “You, my wayward and deserving nymph…you will begin to be spanked…”

I breathe into your neck, savouring your smell, the spun gold hairs, the arousal which I know this announcement has precipitated.
Drips fall from me to you, and you shiver.

“And how shall I spank you”? I am smiling but insistent “ and how shall I spank you? How do you deserve it? Tell me…Tell me now”

You swivel your head to whisper over your shoulder, eyes closed, teething your lip before the words leave. Eyes open wide, find and lock to mine. “I deserve it hard”; you say quietly, quietly and levelly and bravely. And consider, then again, now dreamy and rapt “Really so hard…”

“Hard it will be, my girl”, I confirm, then gather the hair at the nape of your neck and twist it in a hard and silken knot. “And” I gather you to me, then continue, in a whisper” when the water reaches the top…there…” and I gesture to the top of the makeshift dam.

“When the water runs over the top”, and I tug gently but firmly on the knot until your eyes swivel back and lock to mine.“Then I’m going to birch you, my darling. Correct my girl…whip her for her faults” The phrase is one of exquisite resonance to you, and you flinch but with a delicious relish.

I smile, for this in you delights me more than I can say.

Then I continue the catecism.” You have six strokes of punishment coming, don’t you?”
“Oh..h..h..” you exhale in woebegone fashion, for the birch is always punishment…at some level. You slide your eyes from mine, and examine and twist your fingers.

“Six strokes” You admit, then meet my eyes winningly, lip between teeth “…plus the extras…Sir…”

I quickly select and place the four best birch sprays in your hands, then delve in my pocket for the knife. You begin to cut and
remove the more untidy twigs not wanted in the finished article, at first with some distraction, then with more purpose. You will make the birch this time, we agreed. And you know that in this matter too, like your harvesting of the fronds, I require certain standards, for which I will exact a penalty if not met.

I settle back in a warm nook in the rock, and close my eyes to slits against the suns glare. I give sidelong glances to check your progress. At times you look a little awkward, and there’s a moment when all twigs escape your hand like a collapsing fan…still, eventually you cinch the ribbon tight, and all draws together. You present the rod to me in trepidation, eager and not eager for my opinion. But I am not consistently unfair, and this time give praise where it is due, pronouncing it excellent and complementing you on its neatness. You look both relieved and pleased, less so when I pick up the discards and count.

“Six, my dear. So you will be receiving…?”
“Twelve strokes, Sir”
“Louder, and don’t mumble”
“Twelve strokes Sir”
“Exactly…and now…shall we begin?

We are both naked, and the sliding of sun-warmed skin over sun-warmed skin as you span my thighs as I sit on the heated rock is pleasurable and beyond this when you then lower yourself into a comfortable position, secure over my lap - the feeling then is overwhelming, indescribable. It is like coming home and honey and longing and getting, all rolled into one. And if there is a little more wriggling and twisting than is strictly necessary as you settle yourself, then …so? I feel the fur of the brown mouse at your groin gritty-soft against my right thigh. I skim and circle your cheeks with my fingertips, sweep my palm edge with gentle, even pressure from behind your knees…up…up until my palm docks with and cups your nearest cheek. My fingers are dipping into your divide up to the knuckle, and I graze the tips across the pucker of your fundament making you convulse, then gape.

“Such a bad girl…and so immodest, to show yourself to me like this”
Your response is to convulse again, thrusting mound and mouse hard to my thigh.

“So very bad…very, very bad”, I whisper and begin to slap. The slaps are dry and quite quiet in the open air. The stream laps a quiet commentary and I spank with a measured laziness all over this white unblemished canvas, each a little harder than a pat, but not much.

A long minute with minimum of exertion on my part has you even rose -pink. I pause, then trace from the dimples in your lower back – God’s thumbprints – down the divide, until I reach the split juicing fruit that is your sex, slick and welcoming to my fingers. You raise a little, wayleave for a finger, two, and you are juicy fruit inside too, gripping and rough – slippery. My other hand slides over and presses its point at the other entrance. And yes, admission is gained there too. And, entrance gained, I rotate and toy with this new possession to some effect.

“I wriggle, twist and twiggle, like a crocodile” I sing gently, to your bafflement.
So you do.

Timeless and elastic minutes while I allow you your goodgirl reward for your conduct so far. Then hands have a more convoluted road to pleasure back on the agenda. I slap harder and with more weight now, and deliver upward slaps catching the jut of your cheeks. You squirm between the rhythm of the slaps. The moisture that runs down my leg is warm, and there is no question about its origin. I draw your attention to it.

“I’m sorry, Sir”, you murmur “but I can’t help myself. Please…Please punish me for it”
“I will. Oh, I will indeed.”

And I do. I slap harder now, displacing yielding flesh with each slap. You draw in breath sharply at some, and moan protestingly at others. I stop cupping my hand and slap you with fingers loose and open. You acknowledge the change in texture and increased discomfort with a grunt and a sharp exhalation. Minutes of this and you are vocally protesting.

“Then I’m getting through, am I”? I enquire, pausing.
“Yes you bloody well are”, and the reply is through gritted teeth.

I deliver six slaps, harder still, to each cheek in turn. The silence after the final one is punctuated by both our panting. Then I reach round with my left hand and grip and push your furthest cheek away, the divide not so much a divide now, more a declivity. A declivity I slap hard, surrounding and covering that tender, so secret and shaming place with stings and smarts. Your murmured protests are of outraged violation but so quietly and unconvincingly given that I’m not fooled for a minute. I slide you off my knee and you stand unsteadily, rubbing, at first, then exploring with fingertips and trying to see over your shoulder whether you’re as red as you are sore.

When you look up it is to see me retrieve a small tailed martinet from the daysack. I’m worried about your knees on the bare rock, so with slow and deliberate movements both our towels are spread on the flat rock, folded double to give some cushioning. And I haven’t even had to speak – some telepathy is in operation, and you have clambered on to the rock, and are kneeling, legs spread, facing away from me. You lower your upper torso to the towels, breasts deforming against the towelling, rear high and proud towards me. Curves intersect and sweep from one to other with infinite subtlety. A wriggle, a showy dip of the back – you enjoy my gazing at you - then you reach back, both your handsgrasp a cheek and you pull the widest exposure. And I flex and toy absently with the martinets tails between my fingers, quite entranced by the vista you present.

When I whip you, it is hard, fast and unstructured. I target the brown button you present for me with strokes that come in stinging flurries, deliberately arythymical. And it hurts, and you begin to weep, silently at first. I know because your shoulders shake, and your breath comes snagged and teetering.

“Six more” I murmur encouragingly. “Only six. And just look at the water”.

I pause while you take in what I am saying…all the same, seconds pass before I see your head turn and take in that the water now laps a bare half-inch below the top of the stone.

“See…nearly there. With a little recovery time in hand. So…tell me when you’re ready.”

You rise, you rub, I rub too, before my hand is taken and …placed. Fingers explore, and fingers become slippery and perfumed. The water has risen half the remaining distance, is millimetres from the top before you are composed enough offer a shaky and gulping

“Ready…please, not too hard.” and resume your position.

The strokes are firm, no nonsense, but not brutal, given at a stately pace After each I trail the tails between your legs, a so-slow advance from the gape at the junction of your spread thighs, up past and catching that tight and private knot, then ending at your tailbone, at which point the lashes are raised, to crack home a second later with purposeful effectiveness. The penultimate stroke has you dancing on the brink, tears imminent. I push you over with a stroke which lands low and hard, stinging the tops of your thighs.

“There’s something you must say, now, isn’t there”? I have you enfolded in my arms, and am speaking into hair, over shoulder and into strangely exultant sobs.

“Thank you…thank you for caring about me enough to discipline me. Sir.And Sir?”
“Yes, my darling?”

And she is sliding away, down my body. I feel her hair at my groin, and then fingers, teasing and skilful, encourage tumescence, growth, solidity. Then…then her verbal answer is just not a possibility for some minutes, by which time sobs have ceased.

So it is a little later when your diction is again clear, unmistakeable when you say “Sir? Do you think I’m ready to be…”, and you swallow, then continue more firmly “…to be whipped for my faults now?”

And I look, at you, at the rock. And the first few drops trickle and spatter over the chockstone into the warm, water worn channel… I estimate that you probably are, and pick up your birch by its black velvet handle and whisk it authoritatively through the air.

“Now, my girl…where shall we have you?”

You stretch across the flat rock, a tilted tabletop that might have been made for the purpose. With your dancers grace you extend your arms, hands, fingers, with a grace and arabesque that recall the oriental, the ceremonial. Then, decisively, you grip the far edge. You separate your ankles wide, move feet on the stones until stability is found, then tilt up your backside, until it is offered raised and high, and quite ready for the rodding it is about to receive. I pick up your creation – it is a darling birch, carefully made, and a truly Victorian example of structure following function. Then, I extend arm and birch until I can touch flesh with those twig tips, the rod a tangent to those expectant curves.I only have to wait a moment.

“Whip me for my faults, Sir. Twelve strokes, Sir, but please give me more if you think it will benefit me”.
“Thank you, my dear. I will”.

And the twigs are raised then descend in their swishy arc, spattering red dots and wine clear pain as the tangent is reached and passed. Your “Oh” is surprise and, yes, delight too. Then you collect yourselfand intone “One”.

There is an inimitable streaky and speckled quality to the blush imparted by the birch. A unique roughness under the hand as well, with which I reacquaint myself. Then the rod is raised again and delivers its implacable, impeccable message. You gasp this time, as there is a cumulative quality to a birching, of which the exponents of previous generations were well aware. Nevertheless, your “Two” is even and controlled. I aim the third visitation at the top of your thighs, already caught and sore. Your “Three” is, as was my intention, distinctly less composed. You are able to hold composure at this plateau for four and five, too, but “Six” is delivered in a panicky gulp, and I sense a need for respite. I slide hands and fingers over the twiggy roughness and heat, cupping each tender orb comfortingly. You settle back on the rock, and push against my hands, particularly when my fingertips delineate the
division between scored sore cheeks.

“Six more” I remind you gently. Your hand appears, searches for and takes mine, delivers it to kissing lips, sliding tongue, enveloping mouth. Fingers taken one by one and given a treat. The minutes slide by like the glassy water, until you are calm, and I am in your thrall. Then with a final sigh and a kiss to each tip my hand is relinquished. You ask sweetly and meekly for the last six to be laid on hard. I kiss each offered orb reverently, and part them to kiss the privacy hidden in their divide, once, twice, thrice, before replying that I will indeed.
And I do.

And it takes you quite to the brink, and when I deliver strokes five and six in unexpected and conflagratory rapid succession, you sob your release, are quickly enfolded weeping happily in my arms, your breasts squashed against my chest, my hands stroking down your back - spine, thumbprints, tailbone, and the swell of the two hillocks, streaked, dotted and hot to the touch. When the last sob has shaken itself loose I stroke your hair, kiss your eyelids. Then, telepathic again, we leap together, hand in hand, in an inelegant bum first bomb dive into the living glass of the pool. It is cold, but not too cold. We swim circles, play catch, dive and duck each other, children again. When I pull you to me and you lock your legs round my hips, I reach down with both hands to cup your buttocks andfeel your stripes; you close your eyes, and grind moss against my awakening interest. And I can’t decide whether I should spank you some more for your forwardness or kiss you for it.
And I still can’t

“Only the axis of blows is different: spanking is tangential, sodomy is radiant. In both cases it is a form of passive masturbation. Someone is interested in your fate, in your body.” - Jean-Luc Hennig

Let’s assume you are interested…..

As the vibrant colours of the weekend fade to memory, I interrupt their journey by gently calling them back. I need to live them again and again, and so I ensure their pathway from the velvet box of experiences known is smooth and easy.

You were wonderful and as always kind. Despite the heat of the day and the vibrancy of my attire, I have felt distinctly pale of late. Yet all colours are restored through reintroduction to our vice. Your hand bestowing a heat sharper than sunshine but easily as inflaming as sunburn. And like time in the sun, the longer I lie under your hand, the more tanned my skin becomes.

But not for this wanton girl the sun kisses of gold, no, my rewards are swellings of crimson and the dusky promises of plums and deepest purples. Passively I seek my centre; flesh throbs, heart and mind tenderise. Reaching the point where emotions flower, contentment sighs as each lick of pain pulses…staggers to my brain to be interpreted anew.

Discipline is the most divine undertaking and urged on by your hand, I am possessed with a jubilant grace. My wish is that you’d been there after when the fire of my whipping pierces the cold hollows of my psyche and my rich blood drips with a lesser known peace. You’d treasure the alchemy as much as I, and as the immediacy of the experience fades, my bruises serve as acupressure points for serenity, releasing the evidence of pleasure on warm inner thighs.

Later, I watched rose oil droplets shower like spring rain into my bath. I sank deeply, gasping at the surprise revivification of heat. Indulgently…slowly, I read your story, pausing momentarily to close my eyes allowing blissful eyelid movies to lick their soft way across my internal screen. Beautiful moments savoured in the underbelly, the backside of love.

*update*
I’ve changed the photo accompanying this post. I actually agree with sandie (in comments) and didn’t much like the original picture but thank you kochanie and roper for your words. This picture I think displays the 4 marks of the cane much better and while I have one photo showing all six strokes, it’s not as pretty as this one.

***

Someone out there came searching late last night with a question buring their lips:

‘How does it feel to be caned?’

I completely understand the seekers curiosity, most especially if the knowledge is sought on the back of an impending experience. Or perhaps they are curious because it’s a desire that drenches their fantasies and they wish to pad the image with some sense of the feeling. Or maybe they simply want to know for knowings sake.

It’s a potent question and one I asked myself many times before I found out. So for that individual, here is an answer of sorts but do bear in mind, words have their failings most especially in translating a sensation so extreme you temporarily lose your mind.

It hurts.
Of course it hurts, I mean it really hurts.
It’s a sharp, cutting, breath stealing white flash of agony. Utterly precise and unforgiving. Think back to an incident when you burned yourself; do you recall how there is a passage of time between accident and feeling? You just know it’s going to hurt yet there is a space in which to think and recognise that the damage will flare in full, fleshy awareness.

Being caned is a bit like that. There is the strike and then the pain, a rolling, cruel, merciless pain that curbs reason and obscures sense. And in between resides a thrumming anticipation, a darkness before the lightening bolt that ignites your nerve endings in a blaze. On reflection, that was a curious and unanticipated moment for me. I though it would hurt immediately, I hadn’t counted on this fragile bridge from sentience to oblivion.

Snapping back from that threshold and grasping the rough edges of your dignity calls awareness home. And all there is, is pain. It’s a sharp, quick, liquid, fluid agony, not dull and heavy like a headache. It’s more immediate, slicing through your sexual consciousness to a point of pristine present moment awareness. In those seconds, nothing else exists or matters. I’ve mentioned elsewhere that your only choice is to hurt.

Of course the severity of the experience depends on different factors, such as the thickness of cane used. The thin, whippy ones if executed forcefully enough wll leave incisions in your skin, sharp curves of contrition. The birch, for all its mess is a master of such acute feeling, although it lacks the precision of a cane. The force of the strike is another obvious consideration. More subtle influences are your mood, the interaction between you and the Dominant, the situation and for ladies, the point in their cycle.

The experience of pain changes, as does your interpretation of it so there is no easy answer. Of course the only way to really know, is to experience a caning and then you may understand why a sensible reply is so elusive. But think clean and cutting brilliant white pain.

“People say that what we are all seeking is the meaning for life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive.” - Joseph Campbell

One week today I shall be safely enshrined in a hotel room with my lictor. It’s been months since we met, so long that our last meeting saw me dressed in stockings and a light skirt with no concern or awareness of temperature. How different the weather is today. Pausing momentarily from writing, I cast my eyes across distant snow covered fields and wonder as to the life they will yield. The field closest to me escaped the snows gentle caress for it (and indeed my house) rest in a sleepy hollow. The countryside has many curious nooks and crannies, places that exhibit micro-climates and foster secrets. Most people don’t know I’m here, and any visitors usually sail past in their cars. I have to walk out onto the roadside to wave them down. It’s my little safehouse, surrounded by trees that feel eerie by night, protective by day.

It suits me well, easily lending itself to increasingly complex musings on my wild heritage. Beneath the snow blanket the roots stir softly, waiting only for light and warmth to favour their emergence. By dint of the same credo, my sexuality integrates the flux of intuition and organisation, flashes of my soul, from past and future fused. My libido exists in hyperspace, throwing off relections of itself and these spark like unhewn diamonds into my acquaintance with the threshold. This radical break from my wayward nature serves only for taming, and in the delicate process of manifestating a non-ordinary reality, I bow to a new awareness. Frankly, I am scared.

While I’ve loved and reveled in blissful sexual encounters over the Winter months, only now does my deep need for spanking rouse and shake me. For a long, long time I have felt unbearably alienated from my kink, accessing it only through safe fantasy scenarios, situations where I can wipe out the emotional circuitary before it takes a hold and I collapse into the agony of thinking. It breaks me, I fragment and I fall. In this barren heartspace, I jolly myself with tender vanilla experiences and dancing. Sensual places that call to different needs and allow me to be a different woman for the duration. My sexual beast disconnected, dispassionate and dissociated lacing softness and grace through a lattice of bad dirt, it’s a need as urgent and valid as any other. But it fails to assuage the demonic repressions that demand absolution.

Poiesia articulates this cold, crushing feeling with an elegance that pitches me into dangerously deep refelection. She writes:

“Situationally submissive….yeah, welcome to it, welcome to the downside of it. Pick and choose the wrong times to reject it and Siberia is reachable. Distance can be more than merely physical and I’m in it, wandering aimlessly, too disinterested in finding the map back. Nihilism is complete and the social contract between us is fractured. All deals are off and that is my right, isn’t it?”

(The immense relief of realising that others know well the downtime torture is a welcome blessing. Poiesia helped me hold my sanity in those lonely months of dragging myself through sexual Siberia. Our personal contact may be infrequent but it is precious beyond words and I thank her exquisite soul from the bottom of my heart. I would recommend anyone drenched in the unbearable isolation from their kink read her recent posts.)

So now, it is with sleepy eyes and crooked smile, that I spin life back into the compassionate relationship with the man who knows my sexual soul so well. He’s handled me beautifully during my funk. He suggested that it could be an acute experience of Bottom Drop. (read Poiesia’s fine post detailing Emotional Intimacy. Point four deals with the Bottom drop.)

Soul loss and the fear of gathering those broken pieces have kept me from him. Shards of feeling that promise cohesion but could just as easily arc inward and shatter my deepspace with traumatic dissociation. It’s happened before and as those parts drifted in isolated protection away from each other, my survivor linked hands and prayed the gaps in memory could and would be reached one day, some day.

Coldness is conducive to contemplation. Too cruel to care for our heartsongs, indifferent to our fragility, harsh conditions consume passion and spit out our sexually confusions. They rest in the air, not possessing the beauty of snowfalkes for all they share the same fractal individuality. The summer brings its angst but I much prefer to roll around outside on a balmy evening, naturally more grounded and at peace on warmer days. So sexuality has its seasons, as the woman I am has her ages. My kink feels like a besieging devil, ruthless and keen, and totally attuned to the places of myself I twist in an attempt to hide from.

It’s funny that humiliation is such a vital spur to the thrill of spanking, because in many ways, it also serves as the taboo’s executioner. While this is not without its charm, most of the time it taunts like a Zen riddle. The trick and the challenge is depth. Purely on a superficial level, erotic spanking is fine and lovely, but the galvanic surge can only come from total emotional complicity of which the physical actions are but a shadow or a reflection.

No matter how much I may pretend this is just another hotel encounter, we both know differently. He knows how to help me back, a gentle guardian to this part of my soul. Pain and subspace confuse the struggle that permeates normal life, they extract the pure thread and cleanse it of turmoil. This is no awkward disconnect, for as my lictor coaxes extreme feeling in the plump swells of my behind, he also navigates my mind and emotional body to bring me back whole. It’s no small responsibility for him.

I have a responsibility too. While a part of me longs to fly from this, I am so drenched in need and longing, I am more afraid not to. There rests within submission a pulsating truth that breathes into blocked areas gifting the courageous and sexually bedraggled with harmony and release. Reading Portia Da Costa’s, erotic spanking tale ‘It Had to Happen’ (from Sacred Exchange edited by Lisabet Sarai and S. F .Mayfair) my mind acquiesced to wet, lewd gratification with these words:

‘Mary-Ann felt fearful and defenceless, yet filled with a strange sense of peace. There was nothing she could do, nothing she had to do, nothing she wanted to do. Her Master had relieved her of responsibility, of choice. Life was very simple, very clear to her now; there was no decision to make, she only had to hurt.

And hurt she would.”

As my heartbeat settled, I saw myself safe in his arms, for all I need do is hurt and feel as deeply as I dare and know that he, in his own words:

‘must look after you - caring and guarding……. are two faces of the concern and care and love I feel for you. With anyone else such a paradox would demand explanation, but Lena needs it not. I miss you. I want to care for you, from kneading tight knots in your shoulders with my fingertips to inflicting the will of the silver and ebony fate you have just chosen. And all points in between. All my love, my darling.’

You see, as the snows melt and we move into novel territory, we do so under the guise of a game. And here, the joy of living dangerously is a tightrope but in taking love’s hand, I am ultimately and always safe. My folly would be be to shrug this obssession and so be destroyed by it. This way, I have control and choice, and with that I elect to sever the remaining threads of illusion.

This story is for someone very special. He will understand the references and the bliss of climaxing in my ass in a strange bedroom. Thanks for being my friend, this one’s for you.

***

Don’t let the fire go out.
Please let me come to you.
Let’s take a hotel room, which we can make ours.
Give me twenty-four hours of your life.
One day.
One night.

A small ceiling light casts a dim glow along the narrow corridor. Pausing before the door, I glance up and acknowledge the room’s number - 101. I smile at the converging universal codes, cyberpunk meets every sacred mythology the world has known. Ironically I know you care little for either thread but faith nudges a recognition that the ‘one’ embracing ‘infinity’ tonight has an entirely different connotation.

You’d cautioned me to relish these timeless moments outside the door and to ask myself one last time, if this is what I want. Your mail read:

“enjoy the odd realisation that an everyday act of knocking on a door is very likely to result in me ejaculating in your rectum”

And so my hand trembles as I raise it to knock. I pause, breathe deeply and lower my arm. I know you are waiting on the other side, that you are supremely aware of the struggle I must endure no matter how much I desire this. Lifting my hand again, I knock hard before the possibility of changing my mind hits and I wait.

The door swings open easily and I look up and into your deep brown eyes. All else is eclipsed. All thought. All action. For an indefinite time you hold my gaze, and then extend your hand. I know that in giving you my hand in return, I am granting you my full consent. Our fingers weave as you pull me gently into the room, pushing the door shut behind me. You bring my hand to your lips, and as you kiss my fingers your eyes flash to mine. ‘Are you sure?’ they ask one final time. I nod my assent and the climax of our long correspondance begins.

***

My underwear is the last item of clothing I remove.

“Give me your panties”

A command I expect, we had discussed this but upon hearing it I shake. I hand them to you. You turn them over in your hand for a while, letting the lace slip between your fingers, seeking out their wetness, and then you slip them into your pocket. Silly really, how that almost casual gesture sends a jolt of obediance from my brain to my cunt. My vulnerability is flushed with shame, as I feel your eyes venture over my flesh, taking an inventory. The information feeds into your mind, a complex of practical equations and lascivious possibilities.

Moving to a chair, you grasp the back and pull it to the centre of the room. I watch your muscular arms work and in a reciprocal gesture learn that the chair is heavy and that your body is strong. We are collating the final elements of necessary information about the other. Realities that our extensive online communications could never yield. We are learning about dimensions and complimentarity, scent and chemistry and soon the bloom of taste and the truth of touch.

“Come here”, your voice thick with an accent that I am not yet familar with. That momentarily too long processing time provides you with the excuse you need. I know you are a patient man and that you won’t hurt me. And since we both crave this flashpoint, the key to my surrender and your control, this is sufficient justification.

Swinging my body around, you seize both of my wrists in your hands. The room flashes with vivid luminosity as I concede cognitive control. My body reverts to a primal instinct and I struggle but you manhandle me to the chair and we collapse into a prime position. I am sprawled across your thighs, with my arms pinned behind my back. Spreading your legs slightly, you perfect my position for your own pleasure. I whimper with the realisation that this is the first time you have seen me this exposed. Certainly we’ve exchanged many photographs and in that frozen in time sense you know every aspect of my body but that revelation was free from shame. This is not.

Adjusting your hold, you clasp my small wrists in one hand. With the other you begin to strike me. Hard spanks with no warm up. A fierce, ruthless volley of blows aimed low, striking me in the most sensitive of places. I cry and moan, writhing and twisting in futile attempts to escape. My skin is so hot it burns. Releasing my wrists, you pull me farther onto your knees and my hands fall to the floor to regain my balance. Taking advantage, you cup one cheek with your hand, pull it back and deliver a series of hard strikes to the tender skin around my auns. I howl at the indignity but you continue.

Stopping as suddenly as you started, I suspect because your hand must hurt, you allow your palm to rest and soak up the heat of my tender backside. Your fingers travel, tracing, contemplating the imprint your hand has made over and over. A heavy knock to the door slices into our warm cocoon and I start. You lift me and issue a simple command.

“Go and stand in the corner”

I freeze.
The knock comes again.

“Now, Lena” and you grab my arm and force me there, before walking back to the door. In a jumble of panic and shame, I am so confused that I stay where I am. You answer, and the conversation reveals room service have made a mistake. As you close the door, I turn with a laugh bubbling. You meet my relief with a smile and the instruction to turn back around. Snaking your arms around my waist, I feel your lips tenderly kiss my shoulder.

“Place your hands on your head Lena, but sweep your hair up as you do”.

I do as I am bid, and the trail of gentle kisses mitigates the flush of humiliation this immodest posture awakes in me. Your hands leave me and I hear the distinct sound of your belt unbuckling, followed by the swoosh of leather running through fabric loops. Stepping away from me, you stand back and I feel your eyes admiring your handiwork. One second later the leather cracks through the air and contacts my ass hard. I stumble and almost fall, and so you instruct me to spread my legs wider.

I do, having time only to register the cool breeze between my thighs and increasingly exposed pussy as the belt whips through the air again. You deliver twelve lashes and then you stop. The agony in my flesh passes, changing from brilliant sharp pain to a throbbing, pounding ache. My skin burns. But more acutely I am drenched with utter shame, a psychological torment that physical pain cannot eradicate, only enhance.

Then you return to me, and I feel your warmth. Pressing into my back, you encourage me to relax into you, a mercy to my weak knees that have struggled to retain balance. Reaching around you caress my nipples, pinching but not too hard. Subtly the mood is changing. Your hands glide across my belly, spreading out to fan over my hips and then returning to my centre to find my molten sex. My cunt lips are wet, the outer lips swollen and slick with my juice. This is the real expression of my need and desire. Again you turn me around, but this time much gentler and we connect in an intoxicating kiss. Hot mouth to hot mouth.

My last act of submission is about to be given and claimed. Guiding me to the bed, you force me to adopt a dog bitch position, my reddened ass raised high for you. As I lift my hips, the scent of my own sex hits me and I know you can smell my heat too. I remain in this position while you undress and then come to kneel between my open, receptive thighs. A cool stream of lube hits my scorched ass, undulating down the cleft and pooling on my rosebud. You tease and caress my anus, gently sliding an oily finger in, and then out. Repeating this taunting gesture until you feel my sphincter yield and welcome you with ease and appreciation.

The seconds of slow and unstoppable penetration are never easy for me. I have to consciously breathe deep, harmonising breath with insertion, relaxing into the filling pressure. Depth is less of a challenge, the pain comes from the fragility of my screaming muscular ring as it fights this unnatural act. Finally I have taken the full length of your cock, and you celebrate this tender impalement by holding me still and safe for a few sacred moments. And then you resume making love to my ass, my reddened and full ass, while my fingers passionately care for my empty pussy.

Dear Sir,

Your last communication has left me unsettled.

“And how do you think my naughty girl should be made to display her red, sore cheeks afterwards? Tell me the most shameful, immodest and revealing pose you dread.”

While inevitably the variations of exposure and display truly engage me, I am hitting a wall hard here. Can cornertime be a hard limit? Or am I approaching this from the wrong perspective? In my mind, I associate cornertime with punishment and entering into this spirit, these are my thoughts on placing myself literally in such a position.

So I imagine standing in the corner, before being spanked. I sense the tension of anticipation, I may wonder at what could be happening behind my back, perhaps attempting to focus on stillness as a distraction from the inevitable. How keenly would I attune to sounds, guessing at how you have chosen to punish me. In a more immediate and intimate dynamic, say during the heat of a passionate exchange, I can see how it could be instrumental in cooling me down, but I would respond better to other ways.

I appreciate that your reference is post spanking, with the idea that your sweet miscreant is sent to the corner to reflect, think and centre.

“in the corner, nude and hands on head, exquisite”

I understand this visual appeal yet from my perspective, there are other ways of been seen and of settling to a soft serenity.

I have no experience of cornertime and am not sure it would enhance my experience of being spanked. Possibly I could be persuaded, and within a certain context, maybe. I think this is edging too far into role play for me, and as you are aware I have a certain distaste for this. My preference is to be with you and to be myself. I find no thrill in dressing up and playing at being someone else, and on reflection this may derive from the absence of such posturing in my fantasies. I crave the juice of reality, and this necessitates a purity in relating. I don’t need the prop of an alter ego and would rather keep the catharsis clean. Given that our relationship revolves around the roles of top and bottom/spanker and spankee rather than Dom and sub, the necessary impetus is somewhat lacking. Doubtless these parameters determine how far I can psychologically commit, just as the realtime commitments we have constrain the severity and intensity we explore.

I lay in bed this morning and tried to access this place in my mind. It was quite simply, psychologically excruciating. A tumble of embarrassing emotions, ignominies that sail dangerously close to contempt and dishonour to be fully arousing. But I say again, context is all and I am open to the following possibilities. Firstly this is just a hard limit and we should drop it. Second, we spin such a scene into a full on punishment, which evidently necessitates a confession on my part of some aberrant flaw or action. Third, we go for the old ’suck it and see’ philosophy, try pushing this boundary and ditch it pronto should it not work.

Option 2 - If pressed, I may be persuaded to do it. Allow me to delve my objections, I believe such clarity will serve us both. Considering cornertime causes my ego to squirm like a stuck pig, and I wonder how much this concerns my need to control, my (in)ability to let go and let you guide. Frankly I don’t like the helplessness and humiliation but recognise, and experience bears me out on this one, that sometimes I surprise myself. It would undeniably enhance your authority and render the scene more real. Funny middle ground this, an unknown marshland and my fear is of getting bogged down, stuck and thus bringing a pleasant scene to an undesired premature end.

Not so long ago you commented on how sensual spanking me was. This was new to you and something of a surprise. I think we were both taken aback at how quickly we became close and I believe this emotional openness reveals alot about me and my needs. Post spanking is a time for forgiveness, intimate discussion, firm hugs and gentle kisses, all marking absolution for your contrite girl. For me cornertime would ruin this because my need is for emotional and physical closeness, and I imagine being sent to a corner would make me feel sad and alone.

Perhaps all I need do is consider other means of post spanking display, one that satisfies your gaze while not violating my limits. Possibly all this is a mask concealing my fear of going deeper and so I shun this charged and vulnerable state. A small part of me suspects that facing the meeting of two walls is not the impasse I imagine it to be. In truth, maybe it represents the finer edges of responsibility and reconciliation, which inevitably is an undesirable facet of myself to confront. I am clear that punishment spankings ultimately hold the chastised individual safe. There is a profound relaxation and liberation from yielding to accountability, to accepting and welcoming atonement. This purging offsets my anxieties to a degree and tempts me to probe deeper.

So you answer your own question -

“in the corner, nude and hands on head”.

This I dread above all else.

Much Love,

Lena

**UPDATE**

Overnight reflection meets lazy morning masturbation suggests a new possibility. Still within the punishment scene, and requiring a stern disciplinarian, I am warming to the idea of post spanking - precaning/strapping cornertime. Still musing…..

In a recent television interview Criss Angel stated quite simply that:

“Pain is Beautiful”.

He knows well the contours of psychological mastery for they are an essential aspect of his art. For me, they are an essential element of my pleasure. Physical pain is pure sensation and within the sexual sphere is spun into a true recognition of the relationship between pain and love. Any lover knows well the emotional agony of a heart stripped bare by heartbreak, a wrenching and violating aloneness as our dreams and hopes are ripped from us and we are left with the tatters of promises.

We are all also familiar with pain due to damage, injury or illness. Or the survival flash that alerts us to protect, to move, to run or to freeze and so enable us to repair and resolve. Pain is both a blessing and a curse. Typically physiological psychologists have focused their investigations upon two essential aspects of pain – the sensory component, the literal stimulus from body to brain and the more subjective aspect, that of suffering, or the experience of pain. The sensory part represents the primary experience, telling us the location and intensity of the source. On the back of this is our automatic response, we cry out, flinch, move, our facial expression contorts, we may cry.

But all this deals with unexpected, chronic or acute pain. Rare is the exploration of why an individual may seek out pain. Most of the critiques on this subject have been conducted by outsiders, people who are not indulging in these unusual pleasures and view it with a sterile, judgmental and often self-righteous eye. The most notable exception is the pioneer Havelock Ellis who wrote so exquisitely;

“All living things are perpetually haunted by the fear of pain, for the fear of pain is but another aspect of the love of life”.

Early last month, my post cane kisses provoked mixed reactions, which I promised to discuss at some point. I appreciate that for many people, finding pleasure in pain is incomprehensible but this view denies the dynamic interaction between will and imagination, soma and spirit. It is only comparatively recently that masochism has become viewed as perversion, its history is more honourable (and if the beginning of this link is of no interest, scroll down for the last few paragraphs).

While excess can result in very real damage, most of us are engaged in mild to moderate psychosexual explorations of extreme sensation in our selves and the other. For the record, I have no great love of Corporal Punishment and severe beatings despite the impression you may have to contrary. My passion is for skilled, sound hand spankings. My bliss derived from submission, exposure, shame and contrition. I care very little for brutality and bullying, name calling and other such demeaning forms of control. I adore psychological sophistication and tenderness in a Dom, emotional maturity matched with fine intelligence, which manifests in sublime mastery of my flesh. Men like this are as rare as to be non-existant (and we are fortunate that our sexual blog circle embraces so many of them), that I, like many others, become involved with people who do not know how to handle the inevitable complexities and subtleties of surrender. It is no small act.

Within the context of a scene, beatings may give the appearance of cruelty, of violence but this is an illusion. Psychological empathy and insight allows one to collapse into the sensation and choose to interpret it differently. We change our experience of pain. Safe in the knowledge that no real damage is being done, that we are emotionally cared for, we can relax into the pain-pleasure paradox. There is no distress connected with the sensory pain of high intensity, because it is unaccompanied by suffering.

It seems that a prerequisite to such play is high and possible hypersensitivity, an acute awareness of the interface of body and mind. Theodor Reik said in ‘Masochism in Modern Man’

“individuals with weakly developed imaginations show no inclination to become masochists….I only wish to stress here that the importance of the fantasy as the very essence of masochism has not yet been appreciated”.

He highlights the creative face of D/s play, the ability to shed one’s persona and step into the intellectual decompression chamber that liberates our soul and sensuality.

At its most pristine point, I recognise the pain but I don’t experience it as pain. The shock is cushioned by an uncommon wisdom, a blanket of bliss and immediacy. Insightfully and in private correspondance with me, Always Aroused Girl recognised the vivid connection with the moment. During such experiences my consciousness is fully present and engaged, it doesn’t wonder or wander. I am here, now. I am also exceptionally calm and serene, for a peace decends upon me like nothing I have ever known.

Pain is beautiful when cultivated with conscious care and keen awareness. When delivered deliberately and in kind, considered pursuit of pleasure. Within the spectrum of human sexuality, pain is simply one more sensation, one we can know, one we can trust and one we can master.

So many of you have written to me expressing your thoughts and feelings provoked by my cane kisses.

Generally you’ve been split according to whether you consider the picture to be beautiful or an example of intolerable pain. I have been tremendously touched by those who expressed the desire to caress rather than cane, soothe as opposed to strike. Essentially it seems that such pictures confront us unavoidably with delicious confirmation of our kink or the realisation that no way, not ever is that something we want to experience. I think this is fair enough. I’m not surprised by any reaction but I would remind my readers of the disclaimer that sits below my picture.

I think the fragile balance that so often maintains respect comes from acknowledging our differences, and embracing them for what they are. I despise nothing more than pointless, self-righteous crusades and judgement calls over things that don’t matter. Besides, who am I to preach to the perverted?

I particularly appreciate those who sensitively expressed their viewpoints and asked what it is about pain and/or extreme sensation that I like. Few people commented on the psychological connections and elements of power exchange, less still on the transcendental nature of the experience.

Aroused Girl said…
There is a term from physics and optics called the “circle of least confusion.” It’s where images are best focused–with the least distortion. Perhaps this could be useful?

Thankyou Aroused Girl, it may well be. And you were very perceptive in your thoughts of how it concentrates the mind very much in the moment. White pain gifts one with a very visceral, very real knowledge of now, of living on the edge of time. It is also profoundly cleansing and cathartic.

I will write about the puzzle that is pleasure and pain. But for now, for those who were so concerned that I may be scarred, please look at the picture accompanying this post. As you can see, my flesh is flawless.

Mid-caning pictures are quite beautiful I think.

This is my sweet, sorry ass just after the fourth stroke. I am always slightly dismayed when I see such images of my own beatings because they disillusion me. The stripes that you can contentedly gaze upon above do not betray how acutely painful the acquisition of them is. I am of course aware of the effects, visual and otherwise that different canes and fierceness of strike produce but I am not seeking damage or the picture of the year. I am just reflecting on what you see isn’t what you get.

Brush that aside though, as I have a question for you. Mid-cheek, you’ll see that the second and fourth cane strokes intersect. They almost share a starting point, that bisects into a line of fire releasing into a cross and tail end. Indulging in a kind of spanking Rorschach test, I see a little fish riding the curve of my buttock. The belly of this little cane fish is a deeper colour than the rest of her flesh and is painfully where my skin splits.

My question - is there a specific word for these traversing lines, these darling dovetails? As well versed as I am with spanking literature, I don’t recall a particular expression. It seems such a sad omission from the sexual lexicon that I hope I am wrong. If you feel like making up your own, I will delighted to receive them.