Intensity: Severe (for more on intensity, see Fiction)
You asked, “Suppose we had met, years ago in high school, what then?”
You wondered, “If we had met then, and were still together now, would we STILL be in the process of determining just how hard a spanking I really could take?”
That’s not quite the right question, my dear. You can take any spanking I care to give you, that is the rule we live by. The real question is, with all those years to practice, would we have found, not the hardest spanking, but the perfect spanking?
There are many wonderful spankings
We know there are many wonderful spankings. Where to begin? At 7 am on a Tuesday there are the 20 vigorous smacks of the sorority paddle over your pantied bottom, bent over the couch, just before you walk out the door to go to the bank, enough so that your bottom hurts all day at work, spreading soreness and desire up from your punished buttocks. On a weekend afternoon there are the 100 wristy whacks with the small paddle as you squirm over my knee in the back yard of our vacation cottage. Those whacks hurt you, too, enough that it takes time for the fire to die down before my fingers can stroke you to heaven.
But these encounters, while wonderful, are not serious efforts to find the perfect spanking. Think of the perfect spanking as a mountain whose conquest requires time, effort, patience, and a willingness to dream. We can’t do it in a rush, or in the midst of everyday troubles. Let us choose a day, then, when we (well rested, relaxed and affectionate) can pass the time in search of the perfect spanking.
We pause at the base camp
Before the spanking begins, we pause. This is the base camp, ahead lies the ascent and (if all goes well) the eventual push toward the top. We look around, see the vistas of sky and cloud and glacier, and our everyday lives recede. We are simply here, just you and me, and all is ready for your spanking . . . your punishment. We know this will be a gripping experience, that there will be no other thought in the world but this spanking that we share. Other lovers’ intimacy of touch and smell pales in comparison with our intimacy in pain. I hold you close, stroking your cheek, and promise that this is a spanking you will remember for the rest of your life. I ask if you are ready. You nod, your gaze downcast.
The pain is the critical part, of course. In ordinary spankings the pain can rush forward, helter-skelter, for the journey is more like a walk in the hills than an ascent to the summit and one path is as good as the next. In today’s spanking, though, the pain cannot be random, it must be exquisitely modulated. The perfect spanking is not unbelievably painful at every moment, for that cannot be long sustained, and a perfect spanking must be prolonged. In addition, the sensation of a perfect spanking is a fiery stinging, not a heavy hitting; the hitting would turn you black and blue within minutes, and my goal is to punish you much, much longer. I do not want the vulnerability of your muscles to limit the fulfillment of my desire. I need to explode the limits, not of your flesh, but of your soul.
Pain summoned with care
It all begins, then, with pain summoned with great care. The perfect spanking is finely crafted to keep you at a level of pain that is beyond your endurance for a very long time indeed. You are desperate for it to stop; this desperation lasts so long you no longer remember what it was like before the burning in your bottom reached this crescendo-plateau. You want it to stop with such sincerity that you are willing to give or do or promise anything to make it stop, and you tell me so over and over, as I continue to apply the paddle to your bottom with stroke after well-placed stroke. Each stroke brings heavier sobbing and renewed pleas, and you are frantic with pain.
Your desperation is my ecstasy. At these times I truly know your ass, broiled, as I paddle you beyond the limits of any wet dream, urging your bottom on with sharp stinging smacks that torment you and force you to renewed writhing even after you should be void of strength, to renewed cries even after you should be too hoarse to speak, to renewed hurting that will not permit numbness but demands sustained pain on and through and in your flaming bottom.
I praise you, encourage you, tell you that you are wonderful, that I am proud of you. I add that I am going to hurt your bottom more because hurting your bottom brings me such joy. You tell me you can’t stand any more, but I know that you can and you will, and I continue to bring the paddle down, again and again, on your flaming buttocks.
In the end you no longer see the room and you hear my voice only indistinctly. I know you well, know how to apply scalding heat from the paddle to each part of your feminine bottom. Your existence consists solely of your bottom thrust into the oven with the burning sensations flooding all around and through it, the cleft between your cheeks also in flames, and tongues of liquid fire sharply penetrating your anus and tonguing up into your vulva.
But what do I really know? Afterward you have told me that it is wonderful and awful. I am content simply to conclude that one wonderful makes up for one awful, but in truth I do not really understand. In my mind this is pure punishment; I hear your cries, see your tormented bottom thrashing up and down, feel your flesh burn hotter and hotter. My joy derives from your anguish, and anguish is the sensation this spanking brings you . . . or is it so simple?
What else have you felt? I sense there must be more, yet you remain a mystery to me, for there are some things in a woman’s experience that show men to be simple fools. At times I am dimly aware of the complexity of your response, the subtle way pleasure may be concealed even within the pain, the way your bucking backside expresses sensations other than simple agony. At these moments I glimpse behind your façade. The curtains of pain are drawn apart, and your pure sexuality, radiating more heat than flowing lava, is revealed.
That you can find pleasure at these moments baffles me, but I do not hesitate to grant that pleasure to you freely. For that is the paradox: although I spank you to gratify me, although I find joy in your suffering, yet I would surrender my orgasm for yours without hesitation, for your pleasure is as essential as your punishment. I would rather have you painfully howling, writhing, and climaxing than experience, myself, any orgasm on the face of the earth. I cannot say why this is so, it simply is.
That everyday refrain, “we came at the same time,” is left far behind, transmuted now so that you play the parts of both lovers. In this drama, your flesh, impelled by my relentless hand, moves, so that both elements, the pain and the pleasure, together within you, peak simultaneously. Far from the spotlight, I play a minor role, almost a spectator, watching your pain and pleasure, so intermingled that both join, rise, and then soar together. You stun me, awe me, move me.
Copyright (c) 2001 by Doc Tsai
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