{The first part of this story is here.}

I begin with the wooden spoon, tapping lightly at first, then not so lightly, covering all of my bottom, even the sit spots.

I have been given very clear directions: this should be a thorough warm up, but not last too long. When I begin to feel myself relaxing into it, I stop.

The pause is just long enough for me to switch my focus. Still using the wooden spoon, I aim for my sit spots. 1-2-3-4 – that hurts quite a bit. 5-6-7-8 – the more blows I land, the more it hurts – 9-10-11-12 – whew, and now I switch to the other side.

I often wonder what it’s like for my Sir, listening to the audio. Just a long series of sounds – the implement landing, sometimes a sound escapes me, then the count.

Twelve to each side with the wooden spoon aimed at my sit spots is memorable.

The hanger is next. Also directed at my sit spots, although I can’t aim the hangar as well as I can the spoon. Sometimes, it hits my thigh, eliciting some different sounds of pain.

Sometimes, during a spanking, I feel that I am hovering a bit outside my body. It’s not true dissociation, but it has a bit of that flavor. Today is different somehow.

Part of me is fully present as the Enactor of the spanking. This part is sure and confident, moving through the required steps as if this ritual were steeped in tradition – which I guess it is in some ways. She moves smoothly from the hanger to the belt.

The part of me that is being spanked is also very present. Maybe it’s the different sensations, the thwack of the spoon, the slight whishhhh of the hanger, the crack of the belt… Each lands differently, and there isn’t time to really settle into a single sensation.

The tawse is a new level of pain, particularly landing on my already warm and stinging bottom. And yet each blow feels ordained, as if this is exactly how it should be.

I feel a sense of satisfaction as I finish the last set of twelve on the second cheek. Well, the Enactor part of me feels satisfied, the part of me bent over the bed feels relief. Short-lived relief, because I am to do the whole set again. Twelve on each side with the spoon, and then the hanger, both aimed at my sit spots. Twelve more on each side, first with the belt and then with the tawse.

I pause to catch my breath, feel my bottom, which is already quite warm and sore.

And I begin again. The spoon. The hanger. The belt. The tawse. It feels relentless, inescapable.

But this is the ritual, this is what’s needed.

The spoon. The hanger. The belt. The tawse.

When I use the tawse, I am aiming at one cheek at a time. But the tawse is long, it curves around my bottom, smacking my sit spot, or my upper thigh. The Enactor observes this with some satisfaction; my bottom protests.

And when I have finished this second full round, it could be enough. My bottom is sure it’s enough. But my directions are to complete one more round with the tawse. The Enactor doesn’t hesitate. She is serving Sir. Well, all of me is serving Sir, but I feel split – part of me is taking an active role, the other part of me is all submission.

It’s very strange to say this, but there, that active part of me feels like a Priestess, offering this ritual of obedience to my Sir. Although – it is offered to him and not exactly to him at the same time.

Here’s what I think. In a BDSM relationship, there are layers of meaning. There are two people in the relationship, one of whom has a drive to control, to take charge, to lead and command. The other has a drive to accept that leadership, to submit, to offer themselves to that control.

But beyond those two individuals, there is what we call masculine energy and feminine energy alive in us. Not men and women, because we all have some combination of both those energies, and it’s not about gender or sexual orientation. But in a BDSM relationship, this yin and yang of energy can be expressed with one person as Dominant and the other as submissive.

I have one more round with the tawse to do. I have just finished two rounds, My bottom stings and burns and I don’t really want to do it, but it is the next step and I don’t hesitate.

One. Two. Three. Four. The tawse lands firmly, loudly. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. I can hear myself, little noises escaping me, gasps and groans. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. I hope that Sir will be pleased.

Which is funny, because I actually know that he will be pleased, or believe he will be, but in that moment, it is still just an offering.

When I am finished, wrapped in a blanket, feet up, cup of tea beside me, I am still thinking about it. The spanking is something I need, but not just as a spanking. It is a sign of devotion and an expression of my willingness – my need – to submit. And even though it arouses me and fills a need, for me it is an offering for my Sir.

In some way that I don’t understand, it is an offering for him and for masculine energy, for phallic energy in the universe. Somehow, it is a form of cock worship. Not surprising then that my urge at the end of a spanking is to kneel at his feet and please him in that way quite literally.

But that’s not an option for us. For us, this ritual ends quite differently.

{to be continued}