I Miss Him

Can a girl be so spoiled as to have a great top/dom/boyfriend like I do...and still miss her Magician?
I know I am. I'm that spoiled.
We've decided that it's best we don't see each other for awhile, and maybe indefinitely. I don't use words like "FOREVER". I refuse. Only God uses a word like forever. And part of the time, it's about hell being forever, so I don't like to follow in those kinds of  footsteps. No. Forever is not in the picture.
I really do hope to see him again.
And I miss him.
But I'll get over it, I suppose.
Maybe it's that I'm an all-or-nothing kind of person. Maybe I can't ever give myself fully to one man--my boyfriend--and then only give a part of my self to someone else. Maybe it's all or nothing. I'd like to think that's why things aren't working out. That if our situations were different (And I wouldn't trade College Guy for anyone), my Magician and I could continue where we left off.
It would be nice to think that the problem wasn't with ourselves.
Even though it was probably both--the situation, but also ourselves...
I want to blame him.
I want to blame me.
I want to blame him so that he'll make it better. Change it. Fix it. Make it stop hurting. Please. Work some magic.
I want to blame me so I can let go of it. I want to say, "I couldn't help it. It's how I am. I can't change the way things are. So, it was inevitable. And it was my choice. So it's ultimately my fault. But it's not my fault because I couldn't help how life progressed."
How nice, to think that something that hurts is inevitable. Can't be helped. Not my fault. Not his fault.
More than anything else, I want him to not blame me. I hate that, and I think that's part of the reason I'm attracted to punishment spankings. It may be unhealthy, but there's something lovely about showing someone that you will "pay for your sins".
But we lived far apart. I haven't seen him for almost a year. Our only contact was through weekly emails. It's not like the pain should last too long for either of us, right?
I hope not.
And I feel guilty. I have College Guy. It is more than enough. And...am I leaving him with nothing?
Of course not.
Of course not. I couldn't ever envision him wanting when it comes to female attention. It will happen. And he will be fine.
Still, I wonder about it. And I miss him.

The Conclusion

After our "break", I am back on the bed, with my feet on the floor, hands still tied behind my back. And I am rambling about why I had squirmed out of the rope on my wrists earlier: " I think I thought I was going to cry, and I didn't want to, and I almost couldn't. And I was afraid that if I did start crying, it'd be too much of a crying scene."
"You know I don't mind your tears," He says.
"I know."
I can't remember actually all that went on next. Maybe it was more of the wooden paddle...with some caresses worked in there somewhere too. And then a tiny bit of the cane.
At one point, I wiggled down the bed-side, hoping to make the cane-stroke miss my sit spot. "You move like that one more time and you are in huge trouble, Bonnie-jo."
"I'm sorry..."
"If I hadn't seen you move, I could have easily hit your back. And that could have been dangerous."
"Hmph." I grumble. "I'm sure it would have felt better than what you've been doing."
Finally, he says, "You're almost done. 20 strokes of the cane---"
And I interrupt with whimpers and wiggles that put emphasis into my words, "No, no, no, no, I can't..I can't...Please no..." And I feel the panicked feeling coming back, and the feeling where I want to cry, but can't, and am holding back, for dear life.
"Hush. Yes, you can. And you will. They won't be fast, okay? They'll be really slow. You can do this."
I groan. "Okay, I know I can too."
"Okay."
I still myself now. Sometimes I react to a stroke, and he lets me squirm after each one, and then I still myself again.
Waiting.
Towards the middle of the 20 strokes, I'm sobbing after each one, but it's that kind of sobbing that is forced, the only way to let out the pain, and it dies down seconds after each stroke's fury dies down.
And then it's over.
I can't remember exactly how the rest goes. But I know that I wanted to cry when it was over. The need was the hugest I've ever felt. I needed that release, and was concentrating on working up the tears.
But College Guy doesn't  know. He hears me sniffling and he is intent on comforting, of course.
"I"m going to go get my lotion and take care of your bottom, okay, Bonnie-jo?"
I'm sniffling, and I don't  answer. Hoping my silence will give him a clue that something is wrong. The tears aren't coming. And I suddenly want him to spank me more. I want to cry so badly.
He pulls me into a sitting position on his lap, and I curl up, trying to bring the tears forward, but they're not coming.
 So I roll over onto his lap. This is the position that feels right still. No others do.
"Do you seriously want me to spank you more?"
I whimper, the tears are almost there. I'm grasping at them. Arghgh!! They're not coming!
"Bonnie-jo."
I don't respond.
"My lotion is over there on the table. I would get it and use it. But you are on my lap. Can you get up and bring it to me?"
I'm angry. I want to cry. I get up and attempt stomping over to it. But I'm slightly dizzy and feel kind of weird, like I'm tipsy or something. I manage to pick up the lotion (it's actually Aloe Vera, but let's call it what he called it....), and I don't hand it to him. I toss it at him.
"Here." I say.
"Get over my lap."
I do so. And as he touches my bottom, rubbing the lotion gently in, it stings slightly, and I sigh into the bedspread. And then, through the kindness of his touches, I get what I wanted. I cry. It begins softly, and soon I can feel my body shaking gently with the sobs. I don't think I've ever cried this hard before in front of him. But I console myself that it's not really in front of him. The bedspread hides my face. And he can't really see.
My tears fill me up, and my shaking subsides, as he continues to smooth my bottom, gently up my back, then down my legs.
Then he asks me, "Are you okay?"
And I say, "Yes, I am now."
He leaves to get a bucket of ice, and I stretch out on the bed while he's gone, almost falling asleep.
He puts the ice in the bag, and I say petulantly, "You don't have to do it, I can do it myself."
His hand comes down hard on my sore bottom and I yelp.
 "No you can't," He says. " I'm doing this."

Details

It seemed like a rush. He kisses me fast, we say our hellos. Grabs my bags, and then he is off in his characteristic fast walk that I have to push myself to keep up with. We are on the second floor of the hotel. But no matter. He picks up my rolling suitcase and carries it to the next floor, no time for elevators, with me trailing behind him, chattering away "How do you feel? One year since we've been to this very same hotel. And we're dating now..." He answers my questions as he walks, throwing them over his shoulder. And then we are at the door, in the door, putting my stuff in corners of the room.

"I have to go to the bathroom, give me one minute." Our beginnings have become a sort of dance, with me characteristically prolonging the inevitable. And I'll let you in on a secret, it's usually because I want to start up so badly that I try to savor the moment.

I pop back into the room moments later.
"Lose the flip flops" he says, "And get on the bed." We spend a bit of playful time there, and then it is on to business. He puts me over his knee. I had been promised a thorough warm-up before this spanking--this spanking that was going to be the"somewhat erotic-but really hard spanking" I had asked him for. We had a bit of discipline to get out of the way first, but then it was supposed to be a spanking that would be nice and awful all at once.

I still have my jean shorts on as the OTK paddle thuds softly onto my rear end. I bite back what I want to say, namely, "What are you doing? Why are you going so soft? Where is your hand for this warm up? Where is my bare skin getting warmed? What do you think you can possibly do through my shorts?" But the combination of his implement of choice and the degree of clothing I have on is more acceptable than me losing the shorts and him continuing with the implement. So I wisely keep my mouth shut.

And soon I am biting back little squeals because these shorts are awfully short, and he has begun using more force and  interspersing little spanks to my unprotected thighs.

Then,
"Get into the corner, now."
"Which one?"
"That one over there."
I giggle. The room has random lamps and other objects in the way of all of its corners. "That's not a corner."
"Move it."

I do so, and he adds, "I want your shorts and panties down but not off."
I take my time pulling them down and leave them more on than off. He lets out a sigh of disgust and pulls them all the way down for me, smacking my butt for my insolence. I try to hide my grin but give up struggling with my face. I'm grinning. But after a moment of standing with my hands on my head, my smile fades. My butt starts itching/stinging in a way I've never felt before. It hurts in tiny little splatters, here and there, like pins and needles. I stamp my foot, trying to get some relief.

"Don't move, Bonnie-jo."
ARRRRRRGGGGGGGGG. It is perhaps the most annoying moment of the whole spanking, the moment that employs the most self-discipline, but I get through it.

"Turn around and come over here." He is sitting on the couch. "Kneel in front of me."
I do so, feeling very submissive and serene. It's all going to be okay.
Reality check.....
He begins, "This is the discipline part, okay. I'm going to give you 100 with Gepetto." Perhaps he talks more, but this is all I hear for awhile.  My mouth has dropped open. I'm looking down, trying to fight the many impulses: get up, run away, cry, beg, tell him no.
He is lecturing me on what I did--procrastinated on days when I could have gotten lots of needed schoolwork accomplished. When he starts numbering what I've done and how this is the third time he's addressed it, I fill with shame.
"Look at me!" He grasps my face in his hand, forcing my eyes to his gaze. Whenever he does this it's a rush for me: first adrenaline, then embarrassment, then this submissive feeling where I meet his gaze. But today, I keep moving my eyes.
"Bonnie-jo," He warns, my face still in his hand. "If you do not look at me I will cane you."
So I do. I meet his gaze and don't break it. He has said the magic words.
"Do you have anything to say?" He asks me.
"No, yes, uhhh..no...yes..What..What about the rest of the spanking?" I quaver.
He smiles. "I'll give you time between this and the rest of it. You'll be able to make it."

I place myself over his lap, and begin whimpering before he has even touched me. I can tell he feels some kind of pity, because he says before he starts, "Just try to focus on getting through it, okay." I don't hear through my whimpers, so I say "What?" And he repeats himself. Has anyone noticed how hard it is to listen when you're thoroughly in dread of a spanking?

I try to just exist as he spanks. At first  But then he pauses. I didn't know pauses were allowed in discipline, but these ones are so helpful. "Take a breath, Bonnie-jo." He says. And when he begins again, I have new resolve.

When he is done, he tells me to get up. Pulls me into the bathroom. Firmly pushes me down, onto the closed toilet seat. "Sit here. No, sit, all the way on the lid. I want you to stay here, feel that sting, and think about what you did. It cannot happen again. The procrastination is stopping. It will stop. Hands on your head. I want you to think about it."

Later, the "fun part" has begun, and discipline is over. I'm on the sofa on all fours, and he has his belt out.  As each stroke falls, I arch my bottom out, ready, hungry for more. Well, at 4 out of 5 strokes I want more. Every 5th or so stroke has me yelping and falling back down onto the sofa. And then I raise my bottom up again to meet him, wondering how long it will take for me to use up my desire for this. Yes, belts are nice things, but what's to come isn't so nice. And I know this. Thankfully, he sets down the belt frequently and uses his hands in other ways, not spanking, if you know what I mean.

Then he ties my hands behind my back. I have decided that being tied up isn't a feeling I particularly like, and I never really have. What turns me on is the tying part. The process of being tied, the rope placed around you, the feel of him threading it through, the drag of it on various and sundry body parts as it wisps at flesh, the way he tightens it just enough, tests it to see how it will hold. This is what I love. But then I am immobile and slowly but surely spiralling into a slight claustrophobia--just enough to make me very turned on and very sensitive, and speedily approaching the limits of my feelings of any kind of control over myself.

It is at some point during the caning that follows, a caning, I should add, that is a very kind caning as far as canings go--cane swipes with much space in between swipes to allow me to breath and him to soothe my burning skin with his hand and his kisses. But during this caning I reach a kind of climactic need, a need, I'm not sure for what. I feel like I want to cry, to scream, to sob, to fall asleep,  and to cum, all at once. The feeling is too powerful and I don't know what words to use to let him know. So instead, and I still don't know how this happens, because that rope was on tight to start off with, I wiggle my wrists out of the bondage rope.

He doesn't notice for a bit, and then he does. "That was foolish."
"I know, I know.." I laugh. "Uhh...it was just too much. I didn't know what to do."
"You could have used your mouth and let me know."
"I know, I know...I was scared."
"Is that an apology?"
"Oh. Yes, yes, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I should have talked to you." I crawl off his lap and he gets of the bed.

"Bonnie-jo, I'm going to punish you for that. You can't just go and do what you want without talking to me. 6 swats with the three-holed paddle."
I moan. "Okay, okay."
"Keep your feet on the floor."
These swats hurt like hell. And I suddenly realize that this sorority-style paddle can really hold its own alongside that cane. It is almost a relief to know that after these 6 swats, I have the cane to look forward too.
He ties me back up. "If you need a break, you need to let me know with your mouth."
"Hmm..speaking of which." I say suggestively, "That's a good idea. I can think of a really good break."
He smiles. "Do you want to?"
"Yes, but I'll need a glass of water first, or else it won't be a very good one."

Pleasure through Pain

It was because of our"really-hard spanking session, with some erotic stuff thrown in" that made me think about it. That was the only name we could really come up with for the spanking College Guy and I planned for this past weekend when we saw each other for another Saturday--a day stolen away from the normal others, a day to play hooky, a day to pretend like we were normal boyfriend and girlfriend just hanging out , a day that became one of the most tiring days of my busy life. I found myself fighting sleep at 10pm...knowing I'd have to wake up at 5 am the next morning to speed the 4 hours back to my job, my life, and my city.

It had been a heck of a spanking. And it had been a spanking for nothing, well,  almost for nothing. I'll give you details later, but it's late, and they'll take too long to write out. For now, I just want to tease out how it made me feel--like a brat, and not a sub. What am I? I'm still asking myself this.

I know what I want to be--the perfect play partner/spanko girl, of course. Strong in my own opinions, but able to learn from new ones,  fun enough to take a joke and to throw one back out at the top, but cognizant of the time to play and the time to be serious, innocent but wise, a little girl needing a man's help, and a woman that can stabilize her boy in a fast-paced, hurtful, at times foolish world.

This is what I want to be, when I actually think about it. But underneath everything, my most animalistic desire is to lose control, and to become...I'm not sure what...

I had asked College Guy for a "really hard spanking", one that would force me to submit to him, to sub to him. To give me the rush I craved, and hopefully, to give him one too.

But I feel that somehow I never really submitted. Instead, I  whimpered, cowered, wailed, fought, and wept throughout the ordeal. I faltered and withered and he stood firm. It felt good. It felt absolutely right. I balked at the spanking, and he spanked me while telling me I was okay. I loved it. But what was it?

Towards the beginning of the spanking, he sat on the couch in the hotel room and pulled me over his lap. There was some discipline with the bath brush to get out of the way. 100 spanks with the bath brush. It was the part of the spanking we "had to do" before the erotic,  horrible but fun part....It was deserved, but I still began softly crying the moment I was over his lap. Funny how it's getting easier and easier to make noise during his spankings. He counted them himself, silently,  and towards the middle, as I began to tire myself with fighting to wiggle off his lap, he stopped spanking, stroked my back. "Shhhh...take a breath." He soothed. "Calm down, Bonnie-jo." My body instantly responded to his voice and hand, and all of the fight went out of me. I took several deep breaths. "You can do this, " He told me. "I'm going easier on you then normal, even." It was true. I knew he was trying to save me for the "fun" spanking coming. "Yes, Sir, I know." I sighed.

I'll save the details of the "fun" spanking. Let's just say most of it was not very fun.... Most of it was hard and hurt a lot. Towards the end, he tied both of my hands behind my back, and bent me over the bed, feet on the floor. Then the cane came out. "Noooo" I began, remembering the last time we tried the cane. But he did not listen to me. And I was glad. SWISHHH!!! The cane would strike and I would respond with yelps and gasps and wiggles. Then his hand would stroke my bottom , my back, soothing, preparing for the next strike. Then a pause.I would moan and grumble, knowing what was coming.  SLICEEEEEE!! Down it would come again.

He told me he was going to end with 20 cane strokes. "No...I can't." My weak protest. But it was "not an option"--one of my favorite phrases I love to hate that frequently come out of his mouth. I whimpered and sobbed before and after and during each and every following stroke. To me, cane strikes slow down reality, much like some kind of drug. But he was there, fighting the battle with me, the battle against the pain and the  fear involved in that cane and the time that stood still in its presence. My whimpers grew to a kind of high pitched intensity, and once again, he broke in with comfort, "Shhh, hey.. You're okay. You're okay. Just a little more. You're almost done."

It was perfect. In the past, I would have scolded him or made fun of  him for comforting me. "You're supposed to be cold," I would have said. "I don't want you to care about what I'm going through. I want you to not care." But that's not true at all. And I realized that this time. I loved it that he cared. I didn't understand how he could bring down the cane full force on my welting bottom while simultaneously soothing me, saying "You're doing great", but that is what he did. And that was what I come back to every time when I fantasize about this spanking. It's the soothing hand through the pain...the pleasure through the hurt....the comfort through forcing me to face my fear. Pleasure through pain. Not because of pain. But next to it. Beside it. Through it.