Sunday, October 28, 2007

I'd like to issue a correction

I am weary of posting on topics just to publish new material, to fill the midnight veil of my site's background. I do not plop myself in front of this digital Dictaphone to offer empty words that may at best serve as entertaining and at worse negatively influence someone. Because i take my responsibility as someone who presents themselves as thriving in a domestic power exchange, i look to this journal as a portal for me to examine, explore, alter and parody my sexuality as it is expressed in my life. Therefore, i take each post i scribe as a serious and meaningful exercise.

In thinking about what i'd hoped to expound on next, i scanned a list of commenced but as-of-yet unfinished posts and their subject matter. There were other tomes and veins of thought from which i'd hoped to extract their rich materials, but i felt an urge to write about one topic i'd written about several times before. But as i said above, i'd rather not just scribble a play-by-play of a session with my girl for the sole sake of tantalizing those who might wander by to read a "hot tale of over-the-knee action". If indeed there has been flagrant flaunting with no real purpose, i offer my sincere apology to you the reader. I expect you come to these pages with the hopes that i do more with the interesting anatomy than just label the individual parts. I want to accomplish something with my words. I want to leave a product hanging from the walls of my web journal. I want to create, to craft, to transform.

This last thought sat in my head for a few days, while i simultaneously reconstructed a recent evening.

I'd arrived home from work before my girl, which is not a common experience. This allowed me to mentally take over the space of our home, pushing my ravenously dominant-charged psyche into every nook and cranny. You've all seen this, while visiting the zoo, heading to the big cat cages. The feral felines trapped in their lair pace - back and forth - waiting for their next meal. By the time this gentle lamb entered through our front vestibule, i'd worked up an historic hunger.

We de-processed eachother of our individual days. I listened to her gripe about meaningless firing ranges and overpaid incompetence. She nodded and tilted her head as i wove a brief tale about rumors (yet again) of downsizing. But, none of this paid into the eventual events of the evening. I'd decided early in the day where i needed to focus my energy, and from our exchange, my sensors detected in her undertones, in her breath, in the way she looked at me that it was time. She was in need of a correction.

I'd narrowed down to one from a list of over a dozen implements that i'd use to mark her backside. Cutting off the generous conversation, i presented her with two options:

"Option A, which involves more swats. And Option B, which involves harder swats."

I will not feel comfortable if my presentation of my girl leads to the general consensus that she requires frequent and stern intervention. Quite the contrary. She asserts herself with both talent and flair throughout her day in ways that are both just and accurate. Streaming through my mind growing up as i formulated the material i would use in a long-term relationship was the simple image of the man taking his woman over his knee. I am not responding to specific transgressions she commits, thus making my lap the court and my hand the gavel of justice. She requires occasional corporal refinement as much as i require the ability to carry it out. Simple as that.

"Option B."

She was not aware nor is she made aware of what i will use to strike her backside. I instructed her to lie herself down on the couch, panties removed, skirt lifted above her hips, and her unmarked buttocks pointed up into the air. I watched as she arranged herself, touched, moved by this pageant of such playful pomp. I then told her i'd return in a few minutes. I went to the closet in the hallway and grabbed one of an assortment of orphaned wire hangers, collected from numerous trips to the dry cleaners. I bent one side of the frame, pulling the two metal pieces into eachother to make a handle. I walked back to the front room where the suspense had built in the air, like so many students crowded around a bulletin board awaiting the test results as they are finally posted.

Standing over her splayed body, i lifted the metallic flogger over my head, eyeing the creamy, white mounds pointed up at me. I thrashed my arm through the air, stinging her flesh with a swipe of the hanger. I held the utensil against her skin. She'd turned her head up towards me, looking to see what it was that had bit into her. When i pulled the hanger off her skin, i could tell she identified what i'd used just by the immediate expansion of her eyelids caused by the shock and anticipation of what option she'd chosen. A deep flipper-shaped auburn outline glowed up from her ass.

"That's one."

"How many more?"

"If you ask, i'll make sure to pad the number."

I landed 20 more blows, striping the once snowy slopes with iron sled marks, sliding down both hillsides. This experience went differently than when i usually employ rigid instruments. The wire was slightly flimsy, and when it landed on her skin it absorbed more of the blow than a cane or bamboo does. So, while i was inflicting a great deal of force upon her epidermis, i too was incurring this force to my hand and wrist. By the end of twenty, the hanger had imprinted a bruise the shape of the handle onto my palm.

Being left with a hand that could not perform normally for three days following made me think about this drive to correct. While i do expend a great deal of energy and focus to impart the most brilliant and well-laid slashes on her body, there have been and will be times where the end result of a flagellated tattoo loses its priority.

I've got a wonderful relationship with someone who responds to my needs, dances where i lead her, and takes the brunt of my insatiable appetite. Unfortunately, i can sometimes overlook that, which is something i am constantly trying to correct.


oatmeal girl said...

very cute.

actually, i leave this comment with some trepidation, based on the roars of protest that erupt from the academician whenever i dare to brand him with that label.

by the way, for some reason when you referred to "a product hanging from the walls of my web journal", my image was of the pre-internet usage of the word "web". i felt a little internal shiver, because to me this blog feels like a snare. you draw me in, trap me, and then slowly transform my perceptions of what is beyond my limits.

i hope your hands don't suffer from too much typing the way you suffered from administering the correction by hanger.

jayne said...


i appreciate the skill with which you craft each posting. It is the qualtiy and breadth of interest that keeps me coming back time and time again. Although i enjoy reading of times between you and your girl, it is the peak into a dominants thinking that is the real treasure for me.

bailey said...

While considering the offhand comment by 'oatmeal girl,' I had to wonder... did your hands suffer at all from the "correction by hanger"?

I can't help but think that might be a good thing. Just a bit.

But perhaps there's a more constant sufferance for you in the experience. That is, by being aware of what your girl chooses to endure for you, perhaps you really do suffer, worrying about her limits and yours.

I think you must, really.

In fact, I wonder if there's any other way to know the depth and reality of a 24/7 power exchange, unless one experiences both sides of the void...

I abhor the idea myself (to be a submissive embarking on role reversal) but I can't help but wonder at how far outside our comfort zone we should go, to genuinely appreciate the other side of the exchange.

oatmeal girl said...

the man who owns and loves me wants me to cane him, so he'll know what it feels like. what he is subjecting me to. he dripped hot wax on himself so he knows how much it can hurt. he smacked his thigh with the belt. and he practiced his knots by binding his own ankles together.

i don't know how i will bring myself to cane him. as a way to punish me in our mostly long distance relationship, he sometimes has me cane the pillow which i have been ordered to position at the end of the bed. this upsets me horribly, and i'm distraught and sobbing by the time i manage to bring down the last, hardest stroke - which always takes a number of tries. it's not that i'm experiencing myself as being caned - it's the action of caning someone/thing else which i just can't handle.

giving him the experience of the pain will be a test of my obedience which i will have to struggle to pass.

Deity said...

there was one commenter not too long ago that had left an excerpt from a poem about a spider and a fly in reference to these pages. it's good to know i ressemble one of my favorite creatures.

i'll keep this in mind, because i feel i've only touched on 205 of the topics that interest me.

this comment just requires some serious attention and thought.

i agree. i think it is a good thing. i have never fully gotten over the issue that a component of violence and harm plays into our dynamic. in order to attain the comfort level and peace in the face of these concerns, identifying moments of my own restraint and suffering helps.

i've said before that i will most often try on me first what i attempt on others.

him wanting you to cane him sets of my "switch" alarms, but i could be wrong. i've never had an impulse to hand any girl the same cane i flogged her with.

oatmeal girl said...

turn off your switch alarm. he has said in so many words that he most definitely is not one. i suspect that one whack will be enough of an experience for him. i think that aside from his wish to protect me from too much harm even as he does very much want to hurt me, there is an extra measure of something that he feels from the physical knowledge of what he is subjecting me to.

of course he'll never get the whole story, because my own experience of it goes way beyond just the pain. it's the act of submission, the desire to please him, the ritual of punishment, which all combine to make our sessions so rich and fulfilling and intimate for us.

{milla} said...

I totally disagree it sets off switch alarms. People are different, that's all. It's totally valid for him to want to feel what he's asking her to take. In fact it's a good idea if they are both learning. Switch alarms. Bah.