Dumpster-Dancer

Figure skaters spin faster when they pull in their arms. Whips work the same way. As the lash curls around a naked leg, the tip picks up speed and bites more deeply into the vulnerable inner thigh. Her legs were bound slightly apart to allow space for this. Now the red stripes blended into a solid glow across her entire ass and upper legs. His arm was getting tired . . . and still she would not count any higher. Maybe that had something to do with the vibrator he'd carefully placed. But probably not. She showed no signs of arousal, except when he softened the strokes from time to time.

She has an emotionally difficult life, caregiving a dementia patient. This week had been worse than most. The patient hadn't done anything wrong. She hadn't done anything wrong either. In reality, nothing had happened, neither good nor bad. She just felt . . . something. Maybe frustrated, maybe tense, maybe she just needed more sane conversation without having to repeat herself in an endless circle of inane pleasantries. A few days ago she had snapped in her sweet, gentle way, and had said a sharp word. It was not a mean word, just a slightly sharp tone when answering the same question for the 500th time.

The patient hadn't even noticed her tone, but she knew. And she felt bad about losing patience, then she felt bad about feeling bad about being impatient. That caused her to feel more impatient, and then she felt bad about that too . . . and on . . . and on. This spiral had been going on for a week. Pleasant conversation with her husband helped, but only for a little while. She got the prescription Vitamin B shot. Even that, her “happy shot,” hadn't broken the negative spell.

Actually, the downward spiral had been going on for some time. Maybe weeks, maybe months. These things start imperceptibly for her and build little by little. As her husband had begun to notice, he took more time and care with her. He took her out for a walks, he fucked her almost daily, he mostly brought her to orgasm when she wanted to, he tried massages, he tried reassure her . . . and still she felt anxious and bad about herself. And, as always, she felt bad about feeling bad.

After some weeks in this dark tunnel, her husband went to the store with her to keep her company during her normal routine, and she couldn't even enjoy choosing choice fruits. Everything was just a little off for her.

In the deserted ice cream isle, he whispered. “25 swats when we get home.”

Near the bread he whispered. “We're going to do it different this time.”

By the eggs “I'm going to start feather soft and you can count any stroke you want, not just the hard ones.”

In the check-out line she was smiling and bantering with other customers. As they went out the doors she said “thanks for seeing that I was sad and coming with me . . . and thanks for . . . what you said,” and she gestured back to the ice cream isle.

Home, he told her to piss and get naked, to choose between the riding crop and the paddle, and to wait on the bed while he put the groceries away.

The chores took him probably a half hour. When he walked in on her glorious nakedness, she blurted “the paddle . . . I choose the paddle.”

Choosing the paddle was her way of saying “yes.” It was consent.

Her eyes widened when he hung the paddle on it's hook and pulled the “cat” from his bag. The “cat” is a multi-tailed flogger that he uses so rarely that she'd almost forgotten it.

As promised, he started feather light, just caressing her and massaging her, even stroking her eyelids, ears and toes. She knew the rules and knew she could count any stroke toward the 25, but she didn't count out at all until he took a full hard swat across the bare sole of her foot. After that he lightened up and she didn't count again even as the hits intensified.

Probably an hour of hard hits and massaging strokes passed with still no count. That's when he started using the figure skater spin trick to accelerate the hard plastic tips into the sensitive crack of her ass and inner thighs. Then she had begun counting in earnest . . . but she had stopped at 19 and would not count any higher.

The was no unmarked skin anywhere on her lower ass, and still she would not count. Tired he switched to the locker room “towel snap” trick. A good hard snap drove the 8 plastic beads deep into her already reddened skin. 8 “bee sting” welts popped up . . . and she counted 20, then 21, 22, 23, 24 and finally 25 each to 8 new welts, and always with a few gentler strokes in between that should could have counted if she wanted an out.

Afterward she snuggled into his arms and napped. When she woke she thanked him for the “wonderful massage.” She was surprised when he told he was amazed at how long she had gone without counting. She said she'd hardly felt the pain. She was shocked when she checked her ass in the mirror.

Even a week later her mood was fine. It's hard to say why her mood changed. Maybe she used the pain to drive out whatever demon had been troubling her. Maybe it was the chemicals her body released in response to the pain and injury. Maybe the lashes were like a flashlight that she used to explore the dark parts of her mind and feelings. #exploring_emotions