When in a heavier impact scene, I go deep in to my head. Sometimes non-verbal, sometimes not, but I always get lost within myself unless forced to stay more “conscious” of the present.
To do this, I need to be told to speak. Made to answer questions or made to count. When I’m allowed to be quiet, I retreat quickly into my head and allow myself to just feel.
The hottest caning of my life came when I was made to count. And in the end it broke me.
I don’t cry. Ever. But this time I did and the tears just flowed.
The circumstances were all wrong. TSH and I shouldn’t have played like we did; emotions were running too high. Yet we played. And it’s the closest thing to punishment, for us both, that we ever came.
He had me kneeling, hands resting on the top of the headboard, ass sticking up, knees apart. It wasn’t a comfortable position and he knew it. And then he told me to count, and ask for the next stroke. Every single one felt like fire. Blooming white stripes of heat searing into my flesh.
I fell into a rhythm. “One. Another strike please. Two. Another strike please…” Like a mantra of contrition, though we both knew I actually had nothing to apologise for.
I tried to slow him down, pacing my words. But he knew. Didn’t let up. Picked up the pace. And over and over we went.
Until he broke me. The words slurred. My tears fell. Nothing that came out of mouth made sense and I erupted into body-wracking sobs.
My arse was on fire. Big welts and raised stripes. Heat that I felt for a couple of days.
I’d never choose to do it again. I hated every second. But the release was incredibly cathartic, and knowing I’d been broken and survived was empowering. All because I wasn’t allowed to go into my head.
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