We call it the cat-o-nine tails whip even though it only has 7 tails but don’t let that fool you and don’t be fooled by its good looks either. The red and black soft braided handle that end in 7 little tails will hand loosely from your hand when you pick it up, lulling you into a false sense of security, with its unthreatening posture. But in the right hands this limp little pretender comes to life, flying through the air and delivering its unique kiss upon your flesh .
I don’t like sting, it is not a sensation that I crave and not one that I can relax into. Sting makes me fight and twist, in a bid to get away. Unlike other impact sensations this is not one my body can find a rhythm in but instead leaps and jerks in response to every cruel blow. No matter how ready I try to make my mind, if I know it is coming, I am unable to find a different physical response to it. My body just reacts and my brain jumps right in and plays along and so the fight starts. The fight between my body and mind and the fight between my body and the sting. My senses overload, my breathing ramps up my heart races, my pulse thumps in my ears. With each strike of the whip my skin seems to become increasingly sensitive. Heat rushes through me, tears prickle at my eyes and between my thighs a different moisture gathers.
A couple of weekends ago the tails got used at an event we attended. The scene above took place pretty much as described. I begged him not to the moment I saw what he was pulling from his bag of tricks and yet he carried on anyway. No, only means no when it isn’t actually ‘no’ that is being said. The absence of that word tells him everything and as a result he whispers into my ear
“But you want it really, you need this as much as I do”
Damn him for being so sure, so in control, so fucking right. I don’t know that I actively want it, but I do need it and I will endure it, because that endurance makes me strong, powerful and turns me on more than I can describe in just words.
At one point the tails wrap, casting their length around my arse and landing their vicious little stings across my hip and the top of my thigh. The resulting marks are bright red welts that stand raised on my flesh and it is this that really holds the key for me because no matter how much my body fights the sensation I will grit my teeth and brace myself for more in a quest to see his handy work tattooed across my skin.
Since then I have nursed those marks, lovingly trailing my fingers over them, cherishing their raised texture for the first day or so and then watching each day as they change from bright angry red to a deeper, more luscious purple. A constant reminder of how I got them, who gave them to me and why….
Because I need it….
That is incredibly hot! I was completely captivated and understood completely. My nemesis is a spikey paddle and as much as I want to take it for him I’m just not strong enough yet but I will be, I’m determined to be!
The way you describe the scene lets it come alive, and the photo is just so hot. How I love marks!
This to me is the misery stick. I just can’t get used to it, but I love the marks.
Wonderfully descriptive . . . I feel the stinging as I read . . . probably wouldn’t have your stamina, but very arousing to imagine!
Xxx – K
Endurance. That is the absolute perfect word for play like this, I think. Not liking the implement but wanting to place yourself in the hands of the person wielding it. For me, this is the Wartenberg and the tawse. (I do like sting but the latter implement makes me want to go and hide in a dark corner!). Great post, as always. And I am 100% with you on the marking. To me, welts and bruises form little maps of love. Jane xxx
I love the second image!