Although I’ve been into this spanking thing for a long time Jack is only the second man to spank me. The first, well that’s a story for another time… This story is about finding balance.
When we first met we were understandably cautious with each other. I hadn’t yet had the chance to really test my limits, to see where they lay. Jack needed time to learn to read me before he felt comfortable judging on his own. And so, at first, we took things slow.
This one was too soft…
In the beginning I was like the little bear in Goldilocks’ house, except I was sampling spankings and not porridge (much more interesting that way) and after I’d gotten over the initial shock of “oh my god spanking REALLY hurts” I found that they didn’t quite get me where I needed to go. Don’t get me wrong, they hurt in all the right ways and while I was draped over his lap (or desk or bed) and his hand (or belt or paddle) was coloring my bottom to a very hot shade of red I wished for nothing more desperately than for the spanking to end and the cuddling to begin.
It was after that, as the heat faded into a gentle warmth and the fog of pain lifted from my mind, that I slowly realized not all my buttons had been pushed. Last week Bonnie had as her Sunday Brunch question the topic of whether a spankee can ask for a longer or more severe spanking. I did ask for more, quite frequently in fact, and Jack always smiled and gave me exactly that.
This one was too hard…
Time went by and I had many firsts with Jack. It seemed each time we were together I learned some new fact about myself and although I often thought these revelations were mine alone, Jack was diligently cataloging them away for future use. As our comfort with each other grew the balance shifted. Jack, now knowing my limits, pushed harder and farther than before and I stopped having to ask for more. The spankings progressed but that wasn’t all. We added new experiences to our arsenal and Jack delighted in finding new ways to torment and embarrass me. I sometimes cried, but the release I was seeking remained elusively out of my grasp. I continued to learn: that for me, the physical experience was secondary to the mental and that while he would never give me more than I could take, when a spanking became “too” hard physically without my being in the right mental state I spent so much energy focusing on getting through it that I couldn’t let go and just experience it.
This one was just right…
I’ve always loved fairy tales. When I was a little girl my favorites were those of the Brothers Grimm. Now that I’m an adult my favorites are a little different… You see, what I was searching for was the spanking you read about in so many of the best stories. The release of just giving in and trusting yourself in someone else’s hands. It took me a long time to find that because, as it turns out, I had been looking in all the wrong places. I thought the key was being pushed past my limits but as I eventually learned, for me, the key is not the force of the spanking but the mental build-up combined with a moderate amount of pain. Too little and I can’t push myself over that edge, too hard and I struggle against it.
I’d been struggling a lot with demons in my vanilla life the past few months. It seemed that just about everything that could go wrong did go wrong – I felt like I was sinking and a large part of me wanted to curl up in a ball and hide from the world. And then there was Jack. He showed up on my doorstep, his toy bag slung casually over his shoulder, and I was in his arms in under a second flat. If it had been up to me I might never have let him go, but eventually he eased me from his arms and arranged me face down on the bed. I’d spent so much of the last months fighting everything that I had no fight left. I didn’t even complain as he bared me and took out the dressage whip – probably my least favorite of all the toys in that bag.
He didn’t talk and I couldn’t think as it lashed down again and again. Not nearly as hard as it could but enough to make me squirm. Enough to sting and turn my flesh red and even welted. He didn’t chastise me for moving as I wriggled forward (but never out of its reach – it followed me with painful precision) until there was no where else to go but jump off the bed which was clearly unthinkable. And stuck there, with no where else to go and the whip falling over and over – never slowing, never flagging in its attention to my vulnerable skin – I realized that it would never stop until he wanted it to.
The tears came then along with the realization that I hadn’t truly given in yet because in the back of my mind I thought he’d stop, now that I was crying he would surely stop. He didn’t. My hands, which had been gripping the edge of the bed for dear life loosened their hold, then hung limply over the side. My head fell, dripping tears onto the floor. And still he didn’t stop. After a while the strokes became harder, my sobs louder. And then, when I had cried out every last frustration and fear the whip dropped to the floor and his hands found mine, pulling me into his arms.
I smiled and thought “that was just right.”