A moment of bravado from us both, fuelled by the adrenaline and exuberance of amazingly trusting, connecting play: “The court sentences you to be privately whipped.” To the tune of fifty full-strength strokes of my hardest cane, delivered without mercy.
The convict naked, tied tightly in place, being flogged by a gentleman in period dress. ‘Gentleman’? Maybe not even: perhaps too ruthless, too distant, too uncaringly severe for that distinguished description.
With no let-up, once we’ve started. No going easy, if she starts to struggle. No holding back, if the marks ‎start to cut home too severely. ‘When’. Not ‘if’.
No safeword. For her. Or for me.
The date set.
And I cannot help but wonder, slightly daunted, at how it will be, knowing that this requires so much more courage from her than it does from me. At whether I really do have it in me to hurt her so much. To worry whether, in breaking her – as I hope and intend to do – I might damage the trust that we have; make her more reluctant to play; leave her regretful, resentful in the days that follow. Leave her angry and betrayed if, after all that, she doesn’t break.
But our friendship – and our remarkable connection, kink-wise – is too strong for that, I know. I think. I pray…