The Spanking Writers

This morning I was steeling myself for two vanilla weeks: I was flying off for a stay with my parents in Kiev.* The taxi was due at 4:14 am, the alarm was set for 3:45.

There was a birch rod next to the bed - still more or less functional after our scene last week.

Last night Abel said that he would birch me just before I left, but this morning, seeing me on edge with flying nerves,** he offered to scrap it.

“No, I want a birching,” I said.

I didn’t want the pain, I never do, but I needed the intimate connection we develop through the pain, and I needed some stripes to take onto the plane with me.

I lay over the pillows he stacked in the middle of the bed, and clutched the covers. The strokes were sharp, precise, and each one hurt more than I can easily cope with, but that was what I needed this morning.

I got twelve in all: a mass of red in the middle of my cheeks, runaway twig marks on the edges.

We kissed, and held each other, and then I left.

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*Of course, my time there won’t be completely devoid of kink, because

a) my dear friend t’Larien is there, and he’s kinky as they come
b) I’m actually going for the science fiction convention Eurocon. Writers are sick bastards on the whole.

** Hate flying; hate flying anywhere without him.