See Me, Feel Me, Spank Me, Heal Me
(with all apologies to The Who)
I’m definitely in a strange place as of late. Offhand, I can’t remember when I last had a day that didn’t include shedding tears. Why? Doesn’t matter. It just is. I ride these peaks and valleys and accept them. They pass.
It’s annoying, though. In this place, it takes very little to start the waterworks. A kind gesture or some sweet words will set them off. Today, I got email from Cali, thanking me for the “wonderful grand finale.” And there they went again.
Still, I pulled myself together, ran errands, straightened up the place, changed my clothes. ST was coming over, after all. And by the time he arrived, I was in quite the good and chipper humor.
We bantered a little as the scene started. I told him about the particularly dastardly move from V on Saturday — 50 paddle swats in a row on the right cheek only. So of course, ST thought it was only proper to give the left cheek a lot of focus. Said he wanted me to be well-balanced. (Me? Not in this lifetime, toots.)
But then we settled into a rhythm and fell silent. I wasn’t sure whether or not my new neighbor was home, and I wanted to be cautious. So I clamped my hands over my mouth, buried my face. Still, I arched my back and thrust up for more. He couldn’t see my face or hear my voice. But he read my body language, sensed my need. He laid into me harder and faster. My feet flailed, but I held my position.
The tears came early, and they came fast. Good tears. Cleansing and sweet. And the harder I cried, the harder he spanked, strapped and paddled. How does one explain the bizarre dichotomy of feeling pain and relishing it so thoroughly?
His voice, normally so gentle, took on that rough edge. He grabbed my hair. “You need this, don’t you,” he growled. Oh yes. Yes, I certainly do. More, please. More.
He had me count the final 20 with the strap, 10 with his belt and 10 with the paddle. I barely whispered the numbers, but he heard me. Then held me close as I sobbed and sobbed for a long time afterward. It took quite a while before I was able to raise my face and look at him.
No face pictures tonight. He didn’t even try to take any. I was grateful for that.
The first thing I said, when I could speak, was, “So, what’s it like playing with a basket case?” “You’re not a basket case,” he said, stroking my hair. “What makes you say that?”
“Because,” I sighed, “it’s always something with me. I’m either angry about something or sad about something else.”
“Well… so are a lot of people.”
Sadly, I guess that’s true. But not all of them have the magical pressure valve that we do.
He’d come over earlier than usual, and asked me if I’d like to go to dinner. I had to decline. All I wanted to do was lie in a boneless heap on the bed… the thought of getting up and going out sounded as impossible as flying to the moon. So we talked about odds and ends.
He said there should be an Erica Scott doll, one with a string you could pull and she’d say bratty things. I could dress up like a doll for Halloween next year! “I’m too old to dress like a doll,” I muttered, and he said, “You look like a doll to me.” Goddammit. Nearly set me off again.
Time for a shower and then perhaps a little something to eat. I believe I will sleep like the dead tonight.
And guess what? I have a small mark — on my left cheek. 🙂
Thank you, ST. ♥