I can’t believe it’s been a whole year since Steve and I met for the first time. I was floundering around, feeling left adrift after things ended with ST, and Steve quietly slipped in and offered me a lifeboat. Granted, it was a lifeboat filled with all kinds of nasty oars, but still. 😉
Yesterday was the day we’d designated as our celebration. He showed up, surprising me with pretty flowers and a card… and a new toy. Apparently, he’d been shopping around on Sunday, and happened to come across a large, thin wooden paddle, with one side covered with a rubber tread that looked exactly like the bottom of a man’s boot. It was marked half-price, because they said it wasn’t selling. Gee, I wonder why! Horrible @#$%ing thing that is! He told me I was going to be the first to experience it. Lucky, lucky me. OK, technically, the second, because he tested it on himself. Just a couple of strokes, though.
So we started the evening with a long OTK hand warm-up. Despite my joy over our special date, I was also dealing with a lot of vulnerable feelings and some insecurity issues, which I won’t go into here. So I broke down and cried, just from the hand spanking. He paused briefly, but I wept, “Don’t stop! Please don’t stop.” I wanted to feel. I wanted that sweet, cleansing pain, given with kindness and compassion. He delivered.
We decided to break there and go to dinner, since it was around 9:00. “And then,” he said ominously, “we’re going to Boot Camp.” (gulp)
Dinner was lovely; we went to a local Japanese restaurant and had some nice treats. We were yapping so much that Steve got distracted. He was animatedly describing something, and as he did, he reached for the soy sauce to pour more into his dipping dish — and he poured it into his glass of beer instead. I laughed so hard, the sushi chef across the room was looking over at us and grinning. (I do not have an indoor laugh, I’m afraid.) Our server got into it too, saying that’s what happens when you drink too much. I said, “No, he’s like this when he’s sober, too.” All through dinner, he kept giving me The Look and growling how he couldn’t wait until Boot Camp.
Back at my place, it was time. We agreed that, in the interest of getting a good picture of the paddle treads, we were going to do something similar to “thigh turkeys” — one hard swat on each cheek, straight away. I thought, OK. It will be measured, it will be slow. I’ll be prepared. I can do this.
“Let’s take a before picture,” he suggested, so here’s that:
“Ready?” he said. I took a deep breath. “Yes.”
Oh, @#$%ing ouch.
But of course, it didn’t end with just two swats. Hardly. He alternated the sides, striking with the wooden side as well as the tread side. Because the paddle was thin, it didn’t feel thuddy like those heavy frat paddles I hate, but man, did it sting and burn. He didn’t do too much of it, going back to his hand for a while, then picking it up again for brief periods. That’s all he used — his hand and the Boot Camp. That was enough. I was literally biting the pillow at the end. But again, I welcomed it. I needed it.
He got a little artistic with a Sharpie, too:
And here I am, messy haired and blissful, with my beautiful flowers:
Thank you, my wonderful top. Thank you for the emotional balance you bring to me, for the firm hand and the loving heart. For putting up with the yo-yo that is a spanking bottom sometimes. For having what’s best for me at the center of all you do.
For not going away.