It's difficult to believe how differently the day progressed from how I expected it to unfold. I was convinced that I could never shake off that all-consuming feeling of shame and the idea of coming out of this thing whole seemed unlikely. I refused to believe that any sort of punishment would relieve the internal pain that I was inflicting upon myself. Instead, I found the experience to be quite powerful and profound.
On Tuesday mornings I usually count down the minutes in anticipation of seeing him. Instead, I sat and watched the minutes tick by with utter dread. I was first to arrive. The room was appropriately unlit, matching the dark mood of its lone occupant. I nervously paced around, trying to settle myself. I sat down and took off my shoes. He enters the door and I quickly turn away. Eye contact is an impossible task. Without a single word he moves the chair to the middle of the floor. I want so badly for him to hug me, yet the sight of him makes me want to cry. Instead of offering his hand to me, he takes me by my wrist and leads me to the chair. He orders me to go across his knee in a low whisper. It seems so cold and foreign, yet I'm grateful to hear his voice. While over his lap I could sense his own week long anticipation finally coming to fruition. A groan left his lips as he lifted my white dress to find my naughty bottom wrapped in white panties- my own strategy to stack the deck in my favor. Yet, he showed his self-restraint by showing me no mercy.
I found myself having to refuse the pleasure of being over his lap. I thought deeply about my sins, understanding there would be no pleasure in this. When he had me bend over, hands on the seat of the chair, I had focus myself to reroute the pleasure from being belted towards a lesson learned. But it was the caning that really brought it home for me- there was no thinking as I counted out my strokes, asking for more. It was as if with each strike I could feel the shame leave my body along with my tears. I counted out twelve strokes before he allowed me to look in the mirror. He asked if I felt like I had enough. I stared down at the floor, shaking my head, no. He had me assume the position over the horse and had me continue counting out my strokes. This time, with each stroke, I swore it would never happen again. After the twentieth stroke, he announced I was done. I followed him into the other room. After he sat down on the couch, he finally extended his hand out to me, which I graciously accepted.
He held me across his lap and in his arms. He told me how much he cared for me and that he would never allow anyone to talk poorly of me, including myself...it was that sort of thing that was corrosive to the soul, and he wouldn't have me damage all the wonder and beauty inside me. The caning hurt, but it was his words that unlocked a flood of tears. He continued to hold me, stroking my hair and trying to lift my chin. I refused and dug my forehead deeper into his shoulder. All I needed was a minute before I felt the weight being lifted off my chest which physically gave me enough room to sit up and look at him for the first time. He kissed the tears that had run down my face until he reached my lips. With that single kiss I felt my energy shift from being the girl who needed to be caned to becoming the good girl once again in his arms.
I came out of this experience feeling closer and more connected to him than ever. The marks on my bottom are a bit more scary looking than I would care for. I suspect that I'm not relishing in their glory because every time I see them, every time a sit down and feel the pain, I'm reminded of how I earned those strokes and a little twinge of embarrassment runs through my body. At the same time, I'm reminded that all is forgiven and balance in my life has one again been achieved.