Punishment--the return of the Crop and Blindfold

I was standing, hands at my sides, bottom bared, fingers lightly playing with the sides of my thighs. He was sitting in the leather chair behind me. Silence, then, “Do you remember what you told me I should do to you? Because of how serious this offense is?”

I froze, fingers stilling, then grasped an idea, “Yes.... but only if you wanted –“ I took a breathe, then, resigned, said quickly, hoping the speed could help me get the words out, “Blindfold- me –and- use -the -crop.” There was history to this. He’d done it before, and I’d freaked. It was the first time I’d told him to stop. Now the magic words “crop” and “blindfold” loomed before my brain, snickering at me, pointing accusing fingers, claiming I was too afraid. I hated being so afraid of anything.

“Yes, you did say that.” His voice was calm. “ You said that I could.”

But he didn’t. He went on to stand me in the corner. To use the strap (which I thought was the crop—--power of suggestion?). He put me over pillows, and used the strap again. Put me over his knee. Spanked hard, spanked long, then began to stroke my bottom, soothing my fast breathing. I looked over my right shoulder, confused. Were we done already? I didn’t deserve to be done yet. I didn’t deserve mercy.

The calming motion of his hand continued, broken up here and there by a firm, but un-stinging slap. “You’re going to learn boundaries. It’s part of becoming an adult. Adult is not a dirty word, Bonnie-jo.” I looked up at him, he was grinning. All I could think was that I still felt awful, that I wasn’t done yet.

“Now, I’m going to give you the choice. Do you want me to blindfold you and use the crop?”

I opened my mouth, closed it. Moaned softly. Opened my mouth and closed it again.

Finally, I said, “Okay, you see. It’s like…Arghh…It’s like I’m afraid of it. Because the crop hurts a lot, and the pain is centered all in one spot at a time. And when I can’t see, there’s nothing to distract me. I can’t think about anything else to distract me….Why am I telling you this? I shouldn’t be telling you this!” I blew out a breath of air.

He smiled. Waited.

“Okay, okay.” I said. “Yes, I want you to, kind of, because I don’t like to be that afraid of anything. I want to be able to do this.”

“Okay.” He rose, opened his “Magician’s” bag, brought out a pink mask, still in the package.

“Where’s the other mask, the one from before, the black one?” I blurted, trying to calm myself, but realizing that I was calm already. Did I trust him this time? Maybe I trusted him more? The thought was inviting as he slipped the mask over my head. It came down too far over my nose, smashing it in, and I pushed it slightly up. Then silence, darkness. He won’t let me down, I thought. I am in his hands, and he won’t stop caring.

I breathed, trying to deepen and slow the breaths. Then I felt him behind me. He took a wrist in each hand, and I leaned slightly back, almost touching his chest, feeling the tension, feeling him behind me, even though he was only touching my wrists. He slowly walked me to a wall. Placed my hands and arms on it. Moved his hands on top of mine and pressed lightly, waiting, as though gluing them there. Then he stepped away. I stood still.

He took my wrists in his again, and we walked backwards slowly, turned to the left. Did the same with the next wall. I felt his hands on my hips, as he tilted them towards him, away from the wall. He rolled the hem of my shirt slightly up, stepped away. And I waited. I remember thinking, this is why people like BDSM, this is what I never really understood. I trust him. I don’t care what happens. It’s about being alive, and knowing that everything is going to be okay, no matter how bad it’s going to feel. That you are in the right place with the right person and it’s going to be okay.

I heard him breathing behind me. Stepping closer. And then the crop touched my leg, ran up my thigh, my bottom. I don’t know how much time passed. It seemed long and it seemed short. I didn’t care. I didn’t tense in expectation. I didn’t wonder when it was going to come.

Then it came, one short burst of pain on the upper part of my bottom. I breathed. Then nothing. I stood there. You couldn’t even call it waiting. It was all the same, the blows and the non-blows, all part of the feeling that was washing over me. The game may have lasted minutes or seconds. I do not know. I stood there. And stood there. It came, sometimes hard and fast with multiple blows. Sometimes with slow, single ones. And even though the hard ones stung at first, each drifted away into that warm, numbing sensation that begs for more.

I heard him take a deeper breathe, signaling a change, felt his hands on my wrists again. We walked forward. I felt his hand on my back gently pushing me down and forward. The foot of the bed came up underneath me as I fell across it. I stretched out comfortably, arms above my head, unconsciously crossing my ankles, toes on the ground. He nudged my feet apart with his shoe. Then I heard him walk away, off to the right. The hiss of his Diet Coke bottle as he unscrewed the cap.

I waited, stifling an embarrassing moan, for this time it was one of pleasure, a plea for more. Shut up, I chided myself.

I felt his hand cupping my shoulder, squeezing softly, “Are you still afraid?”

I turned towards his voice, “No, not at all.”

“I didn’t think so.”

He used the crop again. Sporadically. And part of my brain told myself not to fall asleep. It was just so relaxing. Or maybe it was the way I was breathing. Slowly, deeply, hypnotically.

When he took the mask off, I sat up. Smiling.

“How do you feel?”

“I’m glad I did that. But, well, I felt like that wasn’t very good for punishment. You were too nice.”

He chuckled.“Oh. No, that wasn’t punishment at all. I ended the punishment a long time ago.”