I’ve been greedy – or perhaps needy is a better word. I have had two sessions in ten days. One a month is more normal. The first was wonderful but left me needing the second. That was wonderful too but my reactions to the two sessions could not have been more different.
SESSION ONE: Sensory Overload
I described the first session here. I had arrived nervous but positive; excited for the caning I was expecting. I wanted it. Instead I had spent the best part of an hour being pushed deeper and deeper into sensory overload. Pain had relentlessly been layered on pain in order to satisfy the Mistress’s need to work something (I never did discover what) out of her system. However she never lost control of herself and the precision with which she held me on the edge, on the absolute limit of my tolerance, for what seemed like for ever was, looking back on it, incredibly skilful and impressive.
At the end of this session I had been wasted. I had slumped in my seat on the train, staring into the middle distance, not really thinking or doing anything. She had drained me. She had wrung me out like you wring out a wet towel; squeezing and twisting till every last drop is gone.
Then twisting one last time to extract whatever might be left.
Only later did I start to enjoy the memories: the extreme sensations; her physical closeness; the connection between us; the way she had used ME to satisfy HER needs. The session had been with me for days; memories, feelings and emotions rising unbidden and at odd times.
SESSION TWO: Caning
For all its depth and intensity, there was one need that the first session had not satisfied. I had arrived so certain I was to be caned, so ready to be caned, that the absence of any more than a few cursory strokes had left me with a dull aching need. I knew I could not allow it to fester through a family holiday as it would leave me able to think of nothing else. Yes, another session would be close enough to the holiday for bruises to be a concern, but a need is a need.
We met in a dungeon. Taking great care to see I was perfectly positioned, she strapped me to a bench, talking about how hard she was going to hit me. She promised she was going to hit me harder than she had ever hit anyone before. I believed her. There was a tension in her voice I hadn’t heard before; a nervousness that spoke of something new and extreme, something that had to be prepared for, just as I had to prepare myself to receive it. It was terrifying.
And then she caned me.
She hit me twenty-four times as hard as she could. Each stroke was a total assault on the senses. For a while all I could do was fight it, try and stay on top of the pain and control my reactions, living only from one stroke to the next. Later, as the end became something real to aim for, I became more conscious of her and of her absolute focus on what she was doing. I could see the way she lined the cane up, controlled her breathing, collected herself, rotated her body as she pulled the cane back, channelled her power as she struck me with it. I had half my attention on her, half on the severity of the sensations she was causing. When I am in this state, the caning no longer feels like something that is being done to me; it feels like a dance. It feels like two people moving to a music only they can hear, their absolute focus on each other, all external distraction eliminated. There is only her, me, the cane.
After the twenty four stokes, she hit me more, many times more; lighter, faster strokes, setting up a continuous wave of pain that left me with every muscle in my body in tight knots, that released slowly only after she stopped. It was beyond demanding; it was brutal.
So if the first session left me wasted; what of this severe, even extreme assault?
I was high! I was so high! I was ecstatic, euphoric even, bouncing round the room. I was somehow wider awake than normal, laughing, talking about it, bubbling with the joy of it.
And so was she.
The tension that had been in both of us was gone, replaced by exhilaration at the experience we had shared. For me that sensation lasted for hours. Vestiges of it are still there.
What a perfect start to the holiday!
So long as I don’t run out of Arnica before these bruises are gone.