Spanked by the spoon

I was not at all cooperative.

I knew it was coming. It was a good 11 days ago, as I was home sick with that miserable cold and telling the sadist that he'd have to postpone his much anticipated visit, that he said:

"While you're making breakfast locate a long wooden spoon and have it nearby when I visit next."

It sounds almost casual... except those were the only words in that particular message.

As of today, he still hadn't used it. Even last Sunday, when he was here for such a beautifully long time, and we made so much progress in my training, and the spoon was lying out there on the bedstand with the flogger and the cane and the 2 glasses of water and assorted other necessaries, it remained lying there unused. As did the flogger and the cane.

But not today.
It did not go unused today.

I knew what it was for.
He had told me.
He taught me a new position
and he told me what the position was for
and he told me what the spoon was for.

He would be spanking my pussy.
With the spoon.

He has a thing about spanking my pussy.
Spanking it.
Flogging it.

Running the heavy chain between my labia and then jerking it up so it nestles in deep and wedges into my pussy and leaves no doubt as to who owns my pussy and every other part of me. Plus he likes to get me aroused first, so that my clit swells and blushes and becomes an easier target. Easier to hit and - with all the nerve ends firing - easier to hurt.

Among the reasons he had me shave my pussy was so that he could see it get all red and swollen. Focus in on the target. See the physical manifestations of my pain.

I do not submit very well to having my pussy spanked.

It occurred to me today that my reactions are rather like how my eyes blink as something approaches them. It is an automatic protective response. Whether or not it is warranted. And whether or not it is appropriate. I was at the optometrist and he really wanted me to keep my eye open as he performed a special test and I just couldn't do it.

The fiend protects me.
He really doesn't strike that hard.

When t.o.m. was here, and the fiend had him hold me back against him, restraining my arms so the sadist could flog my tits, I was terrified at the thought of him damaging my breasts. But in the end, he landed the falls above and below my breasts, and I suffered more from the fear than anything else. It didn't matter, though. It got him the reaction he wanted.

He says I am different after he hurts me.
He's right.
I know.
I can feel it myself.

And when I sent my post-visit report, I had to admit that when he doesn't hurt me, it feels as if something was missing. The pain, the tears, the struggle, the yielding, the knowledge that he is hurting me even more, sometimes, than the pain itself... all these things strip away layers of defense, as if removing my skin with a carrot peeler until you can see and touch and devour the blood soaked tissues beneath.

All that from a very modest amount of pain. I imagine his masochist slave laughing at my reaction. I was down on my forearms and knees before the fiend's chair, legs spread for stability and easy access, back arched as far as I could and then a little more, as I heard him take the spoon off the bedstand and felt him reach under me and then

OW!

He smacked my pussy with the underside of the spoon.
The broad, solid, underside of the bowl.
It stung.
It hurt.
It did hurt.
But really, not all that much.
Not as much as some of the times he has caned me.
I think it was the idea of it,
the idea of his beating my pussy,
that made it feel more painful than it actually was.

Really, I'm so embarrassed. I was such a baby about it. I screamed and closed my legs and then opened them again and he spanked my pussy again and I was rocking back and forth from one knee to another and he brought the spoon up again smack against my poor pussy and I screamed and collapsed and he brought the spoon down on my buttocks, first one cheek and then the other and I got back up onto my knees and he swatted my pussy again and then I was down and curled on my side and crying and pleading and begging him to stop and he spanked my bottom again and I don't think it went on much longer than that if at all but I can't remember.

It did keep hurting.
My poor pussy hurt.
It stung.
And after he was gone
I looked in the mirror
and there were the marks of the spoon on my bottom
and my pussy looked red
and later I sat on the toilet
and took out my little mirror
and brought it close under my poor beaten cunt
and it was red.
Distinctly red.
And it hurt.

And yet as I keep obsessing about it for the ensuing hours, I keep wishing he were here. And that I was back in the position and he had the spoon in his hand and that he was giving me another chance to suffer, to yield, to take the gift of the pain he had planned.

A gift to me because hurting me makes him feel the things he needs to feel. A gift to me because making him feel good, making him happy, is what I live for. A gift to me because the pain brings us closer together. A gift to me because I demonstrate that pleasing him, suffering for him, obeying him, being his good girl means far more to me than my own physical condition.

And a gift to me because I know that he knows how much I can truly handle, and to be protected by a sadist from his own worst desires is a phenomenal gift which I shouldn't reject by squirming away from the torture. I must repay his protection with my trust.

I will learn to accept.
I will train myself to yield.
I will swim in the joy of our ties to each other.

I will force myself to be a very, very good girl
and give him the obedience he deserves
along with the love
he always has had.