He started pulling a number of tawses out of the drawer. He added two firm leather straps to the mix as well. Gulp.
I … laid down over the side of the bed in my usual spot. He pulled me to him and settled me over one thigh, as he sometimes does, the other leg trapping mine at the calves. My arm nearest him was trapped against his body, and my right arm was bent up on my back and held by his left hand. It’s an optimal position for him because I’m not going anywhere, and he can feel all my squirming. It’s also more intimate and less formal, which is good by me, but it does mean that with the longer toys, the right side of my hip gets more than it’s fair share of the worst part of the blow.
“Oh lord, no warm-up today,” I was thinking in that calm way you get in the midst of a disaster. But he put down the strap he’d picked up, and started spanking me. They weren’t light spanks, but it didn’t unduly distress me (that being one way of putting it!)
Then he went for one of those firm straps, and I thought, “Oh no, here we go—!” but both the firm straps turned out to be, if not friendly and gentle, at least not the sort of pain I can’t manage. The pain built up right quick, to be sure, but I was handling it well.
After he’d given both straps and my bottom a good workout, he put them down and started spanking me again. The spanks were hard and fast, but they were right on my sweet spot, and the exact right intensity and tempo that’s guaranteed to make me orgasm. And I did, delighted that he was gifting me with an orgasm at this stage of the game.
Well, my Master’s not Greek, but I should really beware gifts from him! He shifted me off of his left and onto the bed, stood up, grabbed a tawse, and started in on my bottom.
Yeeeeowch! The Scots are not a race of people who mess about—when they want someone punished, they make proper tools to do it with! I’d had the “warm-up” (my Master’s definition of warm up is somewhat more vigorous than most peoples!) so I was able to breath through the first half of it. But, eventually, there came the stroke that undid me, and as the blows were coming down relentlessly, remorselessly (and other words starting with “r” and ending in “lessly”) I couldn’t regain my masochistic balance, and so ended up yelping, dancing from foot to foot, and finally, crying. He got in a goodly number after the crying started. He used to stop when I started crying, and the fact that he’ll now push me on from there means he trusts me more and expects more from me (and, errr, that he’s been reading this blog and seeing my rather unsubtle hints about wanting more intense beatings).
What can I say? It was pure hotness—and no, I don’t mean how my bottom felt to the touch afterwards! It was just like my fantasies, and I wish that I could cherish the moment when I’m in the moment, the way I do afterwards when I remember it—and when I replay it while masturbating. But, of course, it hurts a wee bit too much to cherish the sensations at the time! The problems of being a masochist!
