Day two of a few precious child-free hours, and this time without any restrictions on marks.
God, I love those words. While I undressed, I watched him lay out torture devices…wooden spoons, the small sting-y floggers, and a set of large floggers, affectionately known as The Gentle Giant and his brother.
Knowing, or thinking I did, what was coming, my body responded. I could smell my own sex in the air with every movement. I readied myself to be told to assume a position, the position, any position.
Instead, Daddy set up his camera – and it wasn’t facing the bed. What?
So I played. I twirled. I danced to songs in my head. He took a few pictures of me. My scent lingered. I was still ready.
Then, I was the assistant to his flogging demo. Happy to be behind the scenes but growing curious and a bit impatient with the waiting.
Finally, finally, I heard, “Bend over by the bed, girl.”
I laid down across the bed, luxuriating in the softness of the sheets.
“No, not there. The end of the bed.”
Awwww, shit. This wasn’t going to be sweet and gentle. This was going to hurt. My masochist side smiled somewhere in my head.
I gripped the rails on the bed as I bent over, presenting my ass.
“I’m going to push your limits today, girl.” He whispered in my ear – his voice so soft, a caress. His hands, in direct contrast, were firm.
He stepped back and I heard him take a few practice swings with the floggers.
Then he began.
The air whooshed by my body. The strands of the floggers fell with either deep thuds or sharp stings. There were times I could take it, and then times I couldn’t. I danced on my toes. I attempted to pull away without letting go of the bed. He would stop and stroke my skin, and then start back up again.
At some point along the way, I began to float. I became quiet. I bent over further, leaning against quilts and towels on the chest at the end of the bed. I almost relaxed completely. Until he touched me.
He slid his fingers across my slit before inserting two. With quick work, he brought me to the brink of an orgasm. I begged for release. “Cum for me, girl.”
Great shuddery gasps and convulsing muscles followed. Then he picked up two different floggers.
The small, sting-y bastards. I expected pain. But after what I’d endured with the Gentle Giant and his brother, the smaller floggers were almost easy to take.
Time lost all meaning. I hissed at times, but I mostly just floated as the strands kissed my skin.
Too soon, he was done with the floggers. He picked up a wooden spoon.
I hissed. This wasn’t too bad.
Painful, but doable.
“What is your safeword, girl?”
Oh shit. “Red, Daddy.”
“Good girl. Now count for me.”
The first few strikes with the spoon were painful, but I could take it. By 15, my voice was softer. By 25, my voice became strangled with the effort to count. By 40, I was near tears. At 50, I sobbed out, “50! Thank you, Daddy!” before falling to my knees, my hands still on the rails, sobbing and apologizing for sobbing.
He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m sorry.”
“Hush, babygirl, hush. Don’t apologize. It’s okay, it’s okay, I promise.” He rocked me gently until the tears stopped and the hiccuping started. He helped me into bed, gave me water to drink, and held me in his arms.
I felt cleansed of…what, I don’t know. It had been a long time since I cried from a spanking. He had promised to push me, and he did. Later, he fucked me senseless and we marveled at the marks the spoon left, but right then, we were peaceful and content, each confident in our place in the world.