On Friday night I found myself standing naked in front of a glass-top table in a London hotel room, wondering how I would lean over it without freezing my chest and tummy right off. Behind me, my husband was unbuckling his belt.
“Cold,” I complained when my skin touched the icy glass surface.
“I’ll warm you up,” Abel promised with a carnivorous grin, folding the belt into a loop. I’d guessed he might say that.
Why was I about to get a whipping?
The simple answer would be “just because”, or even “why not?” – which in many cases is good enough.
The more extended answer is that we had just returned from a gig by our favourite band Keane.* We had agreed beforehand that for every song they played, I would get two strokes of the belt. Admittedly, Keane – bless their little public school socks – were very generous with their set list, so that in the middle of the concert Abel put his lips to my ear and shouted over the noise of the crowd belting out their favourite songs: “I think I’ll have to use discretion over those strokes!” I would have been the last person to object.
Thus, the glass table in the hotel room, a chair in front of it for me to grip, and Abel’s voice behind me:
“I think twenty is a fair number. You can count them.”
Before we started, I had decided to try and take this whipping as stoically as I could. Normally I don’t bother, but Abel likes spanking motionless sacks of flour stoic people, so I gritted my teeth, and gripped the back of the chair really hard.
I think, my resolve lasted until about the eighth stroke. The pain had been building – not gradually, like with a hand-spanking or even a caning, but in great jumps. It grew manifold with every lash. I remember the eighth one particularly, because my mouth refused to wrap around the count, and when number nine came, I suddenly found myself upright, clutching my behind, with Abel’s arm around me. I honestly don’t remember how I got there.
“Shhh, good girl,” he was saying. “You’re very brave. Come on now, it will be over soon.”
I allowed him to help me back over the desk. Funnily enough, I didn’t object its coolness any more.
It wasn’t over all that soon: each of the following strokes was memorable for its particular little ways of hurting me more. Finally, Abel ended my suffering by delivering the last five strokes so fast that I didn’t have time to freak out about them separately – I just howled the place down from their cumulative effect.
I don’t know if I’m still into being whipped with belts – maybe it’s just that particular belt that should be urgently shredded and recycled. I’m definitely into going to gigs, though.
Being stoic and stuff? Forget it.
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* A special, non-advertised, kill-for-tickets pre-album-launch gig in London’s “Astoria”, which we’d got into because I happened to be online at the moment when the tickets went on sale. (Pats self on back.)
What?! You don’t mean that woven one, do you? Don’t shred and recycle it! Send it to America if you must (well, I guess that’s technically recycling), but don’t kill it! I *like* that belt. I bet I could take 50 with it (if Abel weren’t so squeamish), you big baby. 😉
Now listen, Haron, I’ve been saying it all along, but what you really need to do is have a bonfire with your CANE collection. And soon. Those are seriously dangerous weapons. Girls have been killed with those things. (Or at least felt like that had been.)
Just repeat after me: “Belts = good pain, Canes = agony”
P.S. I can’t believe he whipped you after you secured tickets for that horrible band y’all love. The nerve.
No, Kate, *you*’ve got it backwards.
Canes = bliss.
Belts = must be sent to America so that Abel’s pants fall down. 😛
(You *bet*? Reckless child. It’s your funeral, my dear.)
Wow, you have just reminded me of a completely bizarre dream I had a few nights ago in which, among other things, I discovered him sitting on the floor of an elevator, his hands bound to the handrail with duct tape, and wearing no pants at all! Hmm…
My funeral, eh? Is that a threat or a promise?
Ha!
Observe Abel reading this over my shoulder and grabbing his pants just to make sure they’re not going anywhere.
Kate – I’m thinking you need 50 with the belt for your pleasure… followed by 50 with the cane for mine???
Anyway, that’s the last time I ever get into an elevator with you 😉
PS I do think you should have made it clear when you described my ‘woven’ belt that it’s not made of fabric, but rather of very heavy-duty kangaroo leather. (“Come here and be kangarooed, girl”? Doesn’t quite have the right ring to it, somehow.)
It really turns me on to think of a man who is strong and commanding enough to persuade me to accept his chastisement .
My partner thinks i want pain but i want to submit to him, take it for him.Honer him by allowing him to discipline me. I would love to be cuddled as you describe and be praised for taking whatever was deemed required ,somehow this caring and then the going on undetered to deliver the remaining strokes seems far more powerful and erotic to me.
I know I’m about 5 years late, but I absolutely adore everything about this post. The fact that Abel used a belt, which I rarely read about on your blog, and the “just because” whipping. mmmmhmmmm. Love it!!
Hi, C – thanks for the comment! Being late has the advantage of bringing back lovely memories as I read back through the post!
I wish I was at that particular concert. Great band. Interesting Aftershow party 😉
P.S the only reason I commented even though I’m incredibly late is to bring back the lovely memories for you once again 😉