I honestly hadn't given the subject too much thought before i decided to write about it. Of course, as is my way, i sought to cram it into the "transformation" mold which is the baseline for all my thinking, leading me to break the process of swatting my girl down into metamorphic stages.
She'll walk by me. She'll be leaning on the counter of the bathroom vanity. She'll be fishing a dish out of the cupboard to use in the preparation of a meal. I'm overcome. That tasty, curvaceous ass points up at me. I can't help myself. There are times i find myself foolish for wanting to smack it, but i wade through that mire. At any moment, when no warning has been given, she can expect an immediate snap on her behind.
I've had a particularly stressful day. The affairs i battled with at the office somehow remained with me even after i've left them, clinging to my starched shirts and attache. I need a release. She herself comes home from a long day of thwarting the idiocy of her superiors, expending grave amounts of energy coddling them and repeating instructions she'd never meant to repeat. She needs a release. When i recognize this i make a very quick and calculated decision.
Do i want her standing or over my knee?
If she stands, i usually pull out a number of devices. Leather straps. Plastic vines. Rubber cat-o-nine tails. Mini flogger. I'm not swatting her to impress pain upon her, i'm looking for release, for both of us. This finely balanced dance consists of correcting her posture - whether with my hand or my voice - knowing where to hit and how hard, and listening to, watching her breathing and muscle contortions. I do not want to push her at this point.
If she goes over my knee, i offer only my hand. Nothing stands in the way between my angel and i. Our flesh smacks into each other, dazzlingly attempting to become one on each stroke. Strangely, my sense of hearing ceases. No sound penetrates my ears. I sacrifice every dialogue for the sensation of touch. The heat that flashes up from her skin into my palm; the moisture that builds between target and implement; The feathery touch of my fingertips over her jostled backside. All of it arrives through the contact of skin against skin.
This position takes on a decidedly disciplinary role, which must only be employed under appropriate circumstances. I will not abuse this.
Usually, i present her with a number, thus starting the negotiation.
Not knowing how hard i'll apply those strokes, nor with what device, she attempts to barter with her pride as her chief consigliore. She'll always aim to take more than even i know she can handle. I approach the atmosphere patiently, establishing the mood for this bludgeoning with a calculated pause. By the end of it, she will have marks cresting across her skin that will last hours, or weeks.
In order to create the deepest and most dramatic coloration, you must draw the blood vessels to the surface of the skin. This is accomplished by priming the flesh. I take either my hand (which she prefers) or a flat side and business side of a wooden hair brush (which she loathes - SERIOUSLY loathes) and smack repeatedly, until her buttocks glow a brilliant crimson. Once the sanguinary pageant explodes across her rump, it is time to bring out the serious weaponry.
Bamboo cane. Fiberglass threads. Coat hanger. Tips of my fingers.
Each munition accomplishes a unique display of graffiti. I love the long, thin slashes of the cane and fiberglass threads. The purple crescent stamped by the coat hanger receives an endless amount of awe during the healing process. I get a high from the pock marks my fingertips leave as i whip them - just so - across the surface of her flesh.
All of this, i review with great care and interest over the next few days. I enjoy witnessing the evolution that occurs in the epidermal from the pinpoint stripes to the spread-out archipelagos. While i'm away from her, i think of the subtle winces that she gives when sitting on the tender and violated surface, and it fills me with an inarticulated satisfaction. Eventually, my marks will fade, leaving behind no legacy of her trials. No matter, this business will resume again.
Because of this, nearly every day, i want to scream jubilantly into the air that i have someone in my life who presents me a canvas upon which i can draw my macabre and wicked expressions.