Skip to main content

Flogging Flogging

It is more than what it is.

It seems a very simple thing, a physical transaction. The arm moves and the falls strike the skin. The leather or suede or whatever material they are made from patters in a tiny storm and draw themselves along the body, leaving their evidence as they travel. Slide off and the arm pulls them back. Then through the air to strike again.

It seems almost as nothing. Simplicity itself.

It can be, of course. But it can be more.

It can be transcendent. It can be meditative.

Which sounds like nonsense, until you experience it.

When I began, it was all I could do to, with minimal competence, to land the falls on the beautiful expanse of skin before me. All I could do to accomplish what is so simple. And so, the raw, physical act was all there could be.

But somewhere it became more, much more. One day it was different.

It is something in the rhythm, perhaps. Or maybe more.

Because, for me, and those I have shared it with, it creates a place in isolation. A universe in itself for the two locked in the act. The arm swings and that is the least of it. And all of it.

I choose the place where it strikes. How hard or soft. How long it lingers before it is pulled away. I choose the sensation that it will produce, the experience.

And, in that, and in the timekeeping of the strokes, and in the shared time and space and the sight and the sound, I connect.

All of myself is focused on the experience, and on the sensation, what is given to the person I am with. There is no world outside the space of two that we form. All of me is consumed by the act of creating the experience, and there is nothing else.

And from the ones who receive, I have reports of just the same. As I focus on the action, and the world vanishes, they focus on the rain of pain and pleasure and emotion that comes and goes in waves. We meet at the ends of the falls and we are joined.

I do not know why. Why flogging, and not something else? Maybe it is personal. But if it is, the charge of it spans the space and reaches the one who receives. Because it is, though personal, also communion.

I write these words, and they seem foolish. They seem unable to capture the fragile thing within what seems a brutal act. Maybe it cannot be captured. I don't know. It seems beyond my usually overabundant words.

Maybe that is because the act is wordless and the place and the calm and the space and the people thus joined are all in an unspoken, unnamed, almost unconscious world.

The arm swings and the falls connect. Again and again, uncountable times, which I always count.

Maybe it's just me. But I seem to be able to share it. And what I share feels like so much more than what it appears to be.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Desk Chair

When he walked into the cube, he knew that Jamal had been rolled again. The product manager, again, had managed to extract some kind of work from him that was not in the schedule, not on the radar, not in budget, not supposed to be done.

He didn't even have to say anything. It was clear from his face.

"Jama"l, he said, "how many time have I told you. You CANNOT agree to anything. You DO NOT OWN YOU TIME. I OWN YOUR TIME."

Jamal explained that it was just a minor tweak, and that he would do it after hours, on his own time.

"No, Jamal. Not OK. What did she ask you to do?"

It was just a little tweak to the UI. Hardly worth mentioning. Wouldn't take long.

He began to go over, again, how there was an entire QA, documentation and delivery universe to be considered, and how these things always expand, and how staying until midnight means crappy work the next day.

It was the stuff he'd been saying often enough that it rolled from his mouth effortlessl…

REALLY sorrrrry!

“I’m so, so sorry”, she said.

His face was unmoved. He did not look angry, just, hard.

“I’m SO sorry, she said again.”

He walked forward, and he was very close. He didn't seem like a big guy, but this close, he seemed to loom over her.

“Sorry”, she said, very quietly.

“So you say”, he said.

Then his hand was behind her head, stroking.

It slid to her breast, and he began to feel it, gently, finding the nipple with his index finger. She froze, not knowing what to do. She was trying to say something, but no words were coming. ‘I’ll need a FULL apology”, he said.

She was trembling. The hand moved and she could feel it inside her skirt, rubbing her panties. Up, and a finger on the waistband. All while staring directly into her eyes.

“I don't have time for the full apology at present”, he said. His hand slid into her panties, and deliberately to her pussy.

“But I'll expect it this evening. Come to my home at 7:00.”

She gasped when the finger made its way inside her. She also noticed, surpris…

Teeth and Hands

“Will you help me out of this dress?”, she asked, not quite needing help, though the dress was a bit difficult, but yet wanting to surrender it to him, to have her nakedness be the work of his hands.

His hands were nice, she thought. And she liked the way they felt.

He began to unfasten the rather complex closure of the dress, and her heart ran a bit faster. No one knew where this would go, but here her dress was coming off, the work of those hands.

She got a sense for a moment as he worked the clasps that he'd very much rather be tearing it off, making a rag of the dress she had spent so much time selecting for this night, but he patiently did as he'd been asked, and the dress fell, intact, to the cool stone under her feet.

A little gasp escaped him, and she realized that he liked what he saw.

His hands were resting on her shoulders, and they were silent, still for a moment. The next thing was obvious, but she suddenly felt shy about asking, so she did not speak. And then his hand…