I’ve only once in my life had a flogging. There was I, face-down on the hotel bed, ankles tied wide apart, hands bound above my head, drifting happily into subspace as the soft leather falls bounced off my buttocks in a steady, measured onslaught.
It didn’t hurt enough. I wanted him to use his belt instead. Of course, begging for the belt only resulted in admonitions of “patience, little one” – and no belt.
I like it to hurt. Not so much that there’s no room to escalate, but enough to make me yell or flinch at each blow. Stinging, sharp, sudden pain is my preference – the flexible paddle, the cane or the whip. The ruler or the palm of your hand. You can put down your dull, heavy blunt instruments, your floppy fabrics – unless of course, you’re trying to make me wriggle and moan with thwarted desire.
The impact sensation is only a small part of the pleasure though. The exposure, the vulnerability, the being-at-the-mercy-of-another; that’s what it’s really all about for me. Is it a contest, my endurance versus your sadism? Perhaps a fun-punishment, hard enough to make me squeak for mercy and laughingly recant my sins. Maybe a role-play, me the sullen pupil, you the stern schoolteacher; you, the stern Emperor and I your favoured concubine?
I once had a thorough spanking with a leather paddle in a torch-lit birdwatching hide amidst a black-backed gull colony. No matter how much noise I made with my fingers on my clit and my reddened arse exposed, the gulls obligingly drowned me out with their clamour. The sound of leather hitting flesh reverberates imposingly inside a small wooden box. Most satisfactory.
My best ever impact play session involved a St Andrews Cross and a heavy three-finger tawse. It hurt so beautifully, I actually orgasmed right there in the club, moaning and sagging from the restraints in ecstasy, thighs damp and skin glowing. Fuck, that was good.
Hit me baby, one more time!