Catharsis

This is, I suppose a post about closure. It's a reflection on my feelings after what happened with The Photographer, and it's also a set of musings about one of my favourite topics: the link between pain and emotions.

It has taken me some time to process and digest my thoughts on this matter, not because I'm at all coy about sharing my views or impressions but rather I didn't feel as if I was in precisely the right state of mind to be able to properly describe what was going on. My thoughts were all over the place, especially the following day. We had agreed that the proper punishment was to be six strokes of the crop, but that this couldn't take place instantly and so we would have to wait until the next evening. This meant that I couldn't really accept the matter as being settled, I wasn't forgiven because I hadn't paid the penance, I was not in a place where I was comfortably and safely his any more. I felt caught in between things. Furthermore the emotional expenditure of the evening, and the realisation of the strength of our bond made me feel jittery, a little worn out and tired. It was similar to the exhaustion you can get after an argument, before making up, where the tension hangs over your day like a cloud. I hate leaving things unfinished, and I really hate the sensation of letting someone down and being unable to make things right there and then.

It was in that somewhat fractured place that I met up with him in the evening to go for a date with Food of Love a couple who had contacted us via our shared profile. I was not really in a sociable mood, to say the least, and was a little slow of the mark with conversations and jokes, this was a little unfortunate because they were both very charming and interesting. They are a master slave couple whose entry into the BDSM world came via swinging, so their outlook was a bit different to ours. We discussed fine food and wine (always a pleasant topic) and also the link between D/s play and sex. Eventually I felt myself calm down and relax into the evening, and I'm certainly looking forward to seeing them again in a more mentally prepared state.

We went home, hand in hand. I felt so close to him, exposed and a little uncertain. There was no doubt in my mind that I'd take the punishment, more than that, I needed to do so. But the fact that I had to be punished made me feel a little sad. Almost as soon as we got indoors I got undressed, bent over across the bed, legs slightly parted, arms spread wide. No collar, no cuffs, no symbol of anything. Just me. The first blow was a little off, softened by falling at a slight angle, but the second cut sharp and true. The crop is a bright pain, flashing into the skin and the brain like a physical firework. I jumped, and partly curled up, an instant reaction to pull away from it. My heart was racing and for a few seconds I didn't think I could do it. But knew I had to. I crawled back into position slowly, the traces of pain still flowing through my flesh. You can't remember pain properly, that's one of the interesting things about it. It only exists in that moment, and then it is gone, you only remember that something hurt, not a full recall in the same way that a smell or sound can be replayed. So each time it is new, unique, and each time you are not prepared. That's why the second blow hurts the most, because by that point you are inside of the pain, and you know what it is like once more, just as you know that there is more to come and that when blows fall upon blows they hurt more.

It felt like forever, but it could only have been a minute, maybe three to allow for the time he spent holding me between blows, stroking my hair and face. Then he held me, whispering how proud he was, how wonderful I was and how happy he was that I had done this, that I was his. As the pain faded, and with it the memory of pain, to be replaced by the warm glow of energised skin, of sensitive touches and the floating sensation of submission, relief, release and happiness. Yes, I am his.