As it typifies the power exchange, routine typically fills an important, guiding role in a dominant's repertoire. It habitualizes certain behaviors that over time serve to condition the submissive to a set way. The structure that comes inherent in routine can also reduce the number of liabilities should something go wrong in a scene by finetuning each party's response to eachother. Regimental cycles build trust, they can put the focus on the human spirits involved in the wicked dance, rather than on the steps that make up the tango.
For a while now, my girl and i have developed a routine of commemorating the end of a long work week with some manner of flogging. It is usually an aperitif to our evening's social feast, mostly occurring soon after we arrive home from our singular commutes. It allows us to reconnect, to slip into our comfort zones and to reinitiate a very important routine. This past Friday, i'd told her earlier that day that i'd like to at some point in the upcoming weekend give our clothespin zipper a try, which i knew very well would provide her mind with a solid item to obsess over for most of the day. When she arrived home to find the hairbrush and bamboo cane laid out on the bed, she very quickly dispensed of any thought of the aforementioned zipper.
My girl has a love/hate relationship to getting swat. There is no such duality with her emotions regarding the cane. She categorically, unhesitatingly loathes it. She says there is no warmth to it, that there is no human connection behind it's bolt of searing pain across her buttocks. In many ways, she's right. I cannot feel how hot her flesh is through the rod, nor can she feel my own warmth as blood rushes to the surface of my hand. That instrument seeks only to play a painful symphony across her skin.
Once she removed all of her clothing, i positioned her, as routine dictates, at the end of the bed. I lifted the wide, wooden hairbrush into my hands and painted each cheek of her ass with a stroke of the bristly, black teeth. First, up and down, abrading her flesh until a faint pink hue began to blossom. Then gradually, after a steady acceleration, my mouth moistened with saliva, and all i wanted to do was to ruddy those round presents. I slashed her flesh with the brush, over and over, alternating cheeks. They glowed, excited, every blood vessel raced to the surface to investigate the source of this sudden friction. I grabbed the bamboo rod, touching the tip to her stomach, i guided the position of her ass outward and up. I applied it to her behind and rested it there for a few seconds. Looking to her face, i saw the grimace that indicated she felt the presence of her least favorite implement positioned to do its most harm. In my head, i conjured a number (nine) of strokes, but did not share this with her. Rather, i simply retracted the switch from her ass, then cut through the air with a lightning strike upon her backside.
She sucked in gulps of air, bouncing her palms upon the black, scrolling metal footboard. I waited. After a few moments, she resumed position, and i swung hard again, splashing a ribbon of pain across her two cheeks. She winced, shooting her eyes back at me in dread and misery. For a moment, i thought she might begin to cry. I was not showing any mercy. I was slashing her buttocks with intense force, and each blow she received, my heart and stomach filled with this pleasurable, warm pride. She asked, very simply,"How many more?"
"If you ask me again, i will add another stroke. Is that understood?"
She turned from me, preparing for the next unknown number of blows. I switched to my backhand for the next two strikes, noticing my precision was not nearly as dead-on as my forehand. I could see the flesh raising in response to this attack, and anticipated the panoply of bruises that would emerge over the next hours and days. I asked her to count down the final three blows. But rather than enjoy the full spectacle of this battering, my mind was occupied with other labors. I realized i'd made the earlier transaction of applying a zipper to her body at some point in the weekend. And here i was, waylaying into her body with such tremendous force, that it might appear to be "piling it on" were i to proceed with my original plans.
If i went forward, as my initial appetites had commanded, i would need to take into account the discoloration of her butt cheeks as an indication of her overall ability to endure more. I'd made a choice to go for gusto with the cane, which meant i may have to forfeit my desire to later apply the clothespin zipper. I knew, ultimately, that i would need to let an examination of the corporeal damage decide, not my ego.
*this continues on here