If you had asked me before John Brownstone latched me to the St. Andrews Cross if there would be marks later, I’d have shrugged. Marks are nice souvenirs (that I love!) but never the point of our play.
If you’d asked me during our scene if he was hitting hard enough to leave marks, I would have shrugged. They felt good, and that’s all that mattered. Except for the stingy smacks and taps. Those suck.
My head never got into a deep enough space where pain becomes ephemeral, and he can swing harder than before. I was with him every second of the way. Even giving an almost annoyed, “Green” the first time he checked in.
Our play wasn’t the deep fantasy of masterful Dominant bending a submissive to his will, taking me to the very edge of my limits. Not this time, though he did try.
Instead, it was the easy give and take of two partners, enjoying the moment and having fun. Yes, he made me dance with a few swings of the paddle. And yes, there were moments of “Ouch! That fucking hurts!” but that’s also part of the point for us, too.
So, without the mindfuck play, without the subspace, without all the things I associate with a deeper impact play that often leaves marks on my body, imagine our surprise when I got naked later.
Since taking the picture above, most have faded, except that purple stripe — from the cane. That bastard will probably hang around awhile, reminding me that although I hate the cane, I love the souvenirs.