For me the term spanking is not, as it might be for others, a short sharp punishment. It’s not a six of the best to highlight a broken rule. For me it’s part of a highly intimate dance over one or perhaps two hours in a CP session.
The actual spanking part is an intermediate stage in a progression of CP that culminates in serious caning. The point in the ballet where it is applied is perhaps the most physically intimate stage of the performance. It sets me up for the mentally intimate stages to come.
It doesn’t look all that hard to administer a spanking and CP. Someone exposes their arse and someone else hits it until one or the other decides enough is enough.
Yet, I’ve come to appreciate how skilfully and nuanced she applies herself to the task, it’s tailored precisely to my reactions, both those currently being observed and those noted over many sessions.
I need her skill for my own safety. I become so introverted it’s impossible to speak a safeword. Someone once gave me a little bell to hold that I could drop as a safeword alternative – nah, my hand just locked on it, it was going nowhere.
In earlier days she used to rapidly turn my skin to leather, something readers might relate to. It’s a wonderful sensation at the end copping a feel of a sore arse and finding it responding like a slightly dried out leather jacket.
Marks and welts recover fast on me and an attempt to make them last longer backfired when the bruising turned inwards and infected the bone.
Which is why she now employs a different technique, using great skill in ramping up the intensity without the leather effect. She creates and works through many layers of desensitisation where there’s the effect that I become increasingly numb to a level of pain and at the same time incredibly sensitive to a light touch. The lightest trace of her nails will have me squirming as if there was major pain – an agonising tickle.
I’ve said it here before, I am not a masochist. These early stages to create the first effects of desensitisation – I hate them, I don’t want that pain, no matter how minor it is compared to later. I know the reward for enduring and seeing through this early pain, but you won’t get me to actually like it.
To take me beyond those initial levels there are light implements and soft floggers until she deems me ready for her hands. It’s very misleading to look at someone so petite and think that she can’t hurt you. Those delicate hands that so recently bound your wrists turn into lumps of concrete when she decides it’s time for real impact.
Her concentration really kicks in when she starts to spank and the rhythms of the music playing in the background start to be played out on my bottom. All the while she’s varying intensity, constantly checking that she’s taking me through a crescendo of layer upon layer of desensitisation without turning me into leather.
She strokes my mind into trance as effectively as any of her vocal hypnotic inductions. Sending me deeper and deeper to a place where the pain barely matters and limits are part of the world I’ve just left.
There’s a point with each layering where I become numb to all but the hardest strike with a particular implement. Only the strongest impact will draw a reaction from me. Below that threshold I feel the impact as it spreads more numbness, yet it’s become tolerable.
That’s her sign to move onto the next implement. Last time she turned to the double strap. I knew she would as I’d bought it for her a while back. It looks fearsome and it was preying on my mind beforehand. It’s a sign of how much my limits have moved, I loved that strap. I love heavy thuddy things. This is a new favourite.
As implements become more painful the trance veers deep in to sub-space and the mental intimacy of the dance becomes my whole reality. By the time she arrives at the canes, I have no discernible limit. I can float in this space indefinitely, acknowledging harder strokes as some abstract sensation, feeling that there’s an infinite set of desensitisation levels she could take me through. I’m like the frog brought to the boil, I no longer have a sense of self-preservation. I’m boiling in a soup of endorphins and adrenaline and I want it to go on forever, to leave me bloody and eviscerated.
And back to an old topic of mine, I revel in the trust I have in her to know when to turn off the heat, take me out of the pot and save me from myself.
Written for the #TellMeAbout prompt “Spanking #7”. Click on the image to read informative posts from across the D/s spectrum.