Feb 10 2014

Zach’s First Beating

He had been craving it for so long. Ever since reading my story, "The Beating", Zach had fantasized about being beaten himself. He'd asked me so many questions and finally proclaimed that it was his 'newest biggest fantasy'. The fantasy scenarios that he offered for our enjoyment regularly included him being beaten until his tears flowed and then being comforted in my arms. Somewhere deep inside of him, Zach believed it would be an effective method of emotional release for himself. He wanted me to beat him until he cried, and wasn't at all sure he could really do it, because it had been years since he'd shed a tear, for many reasons. Nevertheless he was brave enough to try. This is his story.

 

My Beating

So, I tried to wait a bit to sort it all out in my head, but I'm afraid I may mis-remember something since it's been a while, so keep that in mind...

You get out of bed. We have been playing with each other's bodies for quite a while now and I have loved it. But in the back of my mind, this very moment has been lingering.

"I think it's time for your beating," you tell me. I want to laugh nervously, smile, turn over on my stomach and stick my ass in the air for you, but I don't want to give away my enthusiasm. Nor do I want to make the error of assuming what you want from me. In this realm, you are my master. Although we have just met in person for the first time, with that crop in your hand, you can play my body like a fiddle and I know it.

So I bite my lip and respond with a simple "Yes, Ma'am", although I can tell from your face that my eyes betray me and show my enthusiasm. You have me lie on my stomach. My bare ass exposed to you. I try my hardest to get comfortable. The last time I was in this position, you had your tongue buried in my ass. My mind wanders back to how wonderful that felt and I feel myself start to get hard.

THWACK! With the first hit, you send me back to reality. It stings but nothing I can't handle. My mind begins to reel however. Are we beginning? How come I'm not tied up? Is this how it normally goes? We just jump in like this?

Another stroke and now I'm positive that we're starting. You start a speech about how different people like different strokes. Different types of instruments. I try my hardest to focus in on all of it, to clear my mind. I'm having a hard time not analyzing every little thing. My leg is cramping. Did I like the flogger better than the crop? THWACK. Oh fuck yes I did. That crop hurts like a motherfucker. Is it supposed to hurt that much? THWACK.

"You feel that, Zach? That's called 'the sweet spot'." You tell me.

The sweet spot? Fuck that spot, that spot hurts!

THWACK THWACK THWACK

"...and that? That's called 'same damn spot', which means hitting the same spot over and over." I suddenly begin to wonder if this is my cup of tea. I'm sticking with it but a small sliver of doubt is in the back of my head.

You give me a couple more good swats then stop. I feel your hand against my back. That wasn't so bad. I read the article about this. We're taking this in stages. Next time I'll be able to take a bit more. Your hand caresses my ass and back and I love the touch...the attention. You slide a towel in between my spread legs to 'protect the boys', which I'm more than grateful for. But a part of me just wishes that you would play with my boys instead.

Your hand leaves my back and I realize it's time for round two. You ask what sensation I like best. I tell you I like the thudding feeling of the flogger. In honesty I did like it. Especially along my back. Almost felt like a massage.

You lead with that. Now I'm feeling a bit more seasoned. I can do this. I'm not so nervous. My mind starts to drift. I'm even feeling a bit pampered. All this attention just for me. This is when I lose track of time. But most importantly a shift happens inside me. I go from tolerating the pain to needing it, wanting it.

We stop and start again several times. Each time the desire for the pain to continue builds inside of me. You seem to always lead with the flogger, which I'm growing quite fond of. But you always end with that crop. I hated it at first. It stings like a motherfucker but I'm quickly realizing it's a necessary evil. With you at the end of it, you're able to draw something out of me. Something from deep within that I'm not sure what to do with.

Sometime mid-point you have me squirming away from that crop. I wished I was tied up before but now I'm glad I'm not. I shift around and my body tenses.

In the back of my head is your calming voice.

"Relax, baby. ...it's okay."

All my focus is on not tensing up my body. I want to prove to you that I can take this like a man. But every time I relax you hit me with that fucking crop. I focus on my breathing now.

I have never wanted something to stop but continue more in my entire life.

My shoulders get stiff and I move my hands down to my sides. You're giving it to me good, now. I clutch the sheets for support and with my right hand, I get a fist full of the panties I was wearing earlier. Immediately it's like a security blanket. I feel safer. You bought those for ME. To comfort me. To allow me to express myself. I'm hit with a flood of emotions. You have gone above and beyond to take care of me. I feel loved.

You take the panties out of my hand. At first I'm crushed. Holding onto those I could have taken anything you dished out. But they are gone. You caress them across my sore ass.

"Do you know what this is?"

"They're my panties, Ma'am." And although I wish I had my security blanket, your act reminds me that you're in control. What you give, you can take away, and I like that.

You start in with the flogging again. There is another shift in my mind set. Now I want more. I find I'm talking to myself. I can tell you're swinging harder than ever before but I want even more.

With every stroke, I'm whispering to myself...more...just fucking hit me. FUCKING HIT ME. I'm practically screaming it in my head. But I'm a bit too scared to ask.

I actually think about everything I have been through, all the pain I have endured in my life and yet, you have me scared. I like it. I'm facing it. I'm being tested.

You switch to the crop and I'm immediately glad I didn't speak aloud. I'm squirming and trying to escape the pain.

"Just five more." You count down, and it's oddly comforting. Almost like taking medicine. You know exactly what I need and let me know how much I have to suffer before relief comes. This time the pain is almost primal. I think of nothing else but trying to stay calm.

You pause for longer this time. My squirming must have alarmed you. I want to tell you to continue but I find it hard to speak. I'm out of breath and my mind is swirling in a way I have never experienced. I'm starting to focus on nothing but here and now. You and me. I'm enjoying your touch and just relaxing. But my body is screaming for more. I need more. If I could muster the words I'd tell you to start hitting me and never stop.

Finally I gather myself enough to spit out one word.

"...more...."

I feel bad for not being polite about it but I find that you have reduced me to a more primal state. There are skeletons in my closet that need to get out and you're taking an ax to the door. I can't even tell you what skeletons or what closet they're in.

You lead with the crop this time. Its sting immediately puts me over the edge and I'm grasping for anything. Everything. With each blow, I can no longer maintain my composure. I'm yelping, crying out, yet still trying my hardest to relax.

"You remember your safe words, right?" I hear your voice but my mind draws a blank. You repeat them for me.

"Yellow for slow down and red for stop."

I don't even contemplate using them but I'm glad to know they are there. You're still using just the crop and it's become something I love to hate. Its handler is drawing something out from me that I have never felt before.

You stop for the last time. I've completely lost track of time. I'm trying my hardest now to not hyperventilate. Composure be damned, I just want to survive this.

When you start again and I feel the sting that's becoming so familiar, I shift and cry out. The pain is blinding and I grasp for anything. I get two fistfuls of pillows and bring them into my chest. Every swat you give me makes me recoil in pain.

This is the best pain I have ever felt in my entire life. I feel so many emotions with each blow that I can't decipher them. Looking back, I'd say that what I was feeling was your love pass through me from the end of your crop. Several more good swats and I'm broken. I try to cry out and choke on my breath. I'm clutching the pillows like they are the last human I'll ever be able to touch.

I don't want this feeling to ever end. Never have I felt so connected, yet so alone. Connected, in that I am sharing this moment with you. You brought me here to this place. Alone, in that I am facing probably the scariest thing I could face. My own emotions.

I don't want you to stop. I want you to keep beating me through my tears. But you do stop, which I quickly conclude is for the best. This is your battlefield. Where your skill set lies. And I am some poor injured schmuck. You are here helping me to navigate my own personal mine fields.

Then it is over and you hold me as I continuously fight back tears. Not that I want to. I just don't know how to do anything else but that. I lay there hugging that damn pillow like if I let it go, I will never be able to return. I will lose my hardness, my manhood. It is the last wall that is keeping me safe from completely falling apart.

And that is a fantastically scary moment.

I can't speak for some time. You hold me close and I manage to say two words so softly I'm not sure if you hear them.

"...thank you."

"You're welcome." Your words are soft in my ear.

I lost a part of me then. I'm not sure what part, but I did. And I want to lose more. Or maybe it's better to say, you took a part of me. For that hour you held up all the barriers I have and held onto them just long enough for me to feel something I haven't felt in a long, long time. Acceptance.

Thank you, Ma'am.

 

 ©Ruby Ryder

 

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