Colouring Outside the Lines

When I am spanked, most of what I receive is concentrated on my sweet spot - the centre of each buttock, where the padding is plentiful and the sensation is erotically delicious.

Sometimes the paddle strays beyond this imaginary centre. I call it colouring outside the lines. Sometimes it's a little higher or lower than the regular impact zone. This heightens the sensation for me and, because it's unexpected, it keeps my attention and draws me back if my mind starts to drift off. These out of bounds areas are also quite sensitive because they have not been warmed up, and the resulting jolt of pain adds some spice.

Take, for example, our most recent adventure with the dressage whip. Sometimes I think my husband can read my mind. I had been thinking and writing about that particular implement but he had no way of knowing. Yet that was what he had chosen. In fact, it was all he had chosen. But when I said it would be fine to use later on, after a warmup, he left the room and came back with the bamboo paddle and the wooden shoehorn. Neither one can be considered a lightweight implement in terms of pain, but both are easier on my bottom than the whip.

First he applied the stingy shoehorn, at moderate speed and intensity, to my bare bottom as I bent over the bed. Then the paddle, slower and more methodical, but with harder impact. So far, so good. Then the whip. Oh, no, too soon!

I knew the strokes weren't hard, but they were very stingy. I wished my bottom had had more of a warmup. Ron tends to adjust his speed according to the width of the implement, and the rapid tapping was very tingly indeed.

He switched to the two wooden weapons, and when it was time for the whip again it was a little more bearable. My target zone was warm, reddened, and adjusted to the treatment it was receiving.

The third time it came around, though, the strokes were much harder. That would have been fine, except that the tip was connecting with my right hip. This wrapping outside the comfort zone was initially an irritation, but it soon became an ouchiness I didn't want. I came extremely close to wanting this to end. Telling myself it was probably no worse than the caning I have been longing to experience didn't help.

Ron put down the whip, thank goodness, and applied each of the other paddles to my posterior again. Does it sound odd to say they felt good? Much nicer than the alternative. Then it was the whip's turn, but before I felt it, I heard a whistling swishhhh. Ron was waving the whip through the air, entranced by the sound. I started to laugh at his silliness.

Once more he coloured outside the lines, lower down this time. I knew I would have marks. Clenching the end of the blanket between my teeth, I willed myself to breathe and take it. The laughing helped, as Ron alternately sliced the air and my bottom, describing the sound that it made. I forced myself to remember my brave words about wanting my limits tested. They were being pushed, and I struggled to ignore that inner voice that shouted "Stop!"

Ron must have sensed my struggle, for he uncharacteristically asked "Are you done?" My lightning-fast "Yes!" brought our adventure outside the lines to a close. I wiped the tears from my eyes and hugged him. 

As I write this I do have marks: tiny red ridges along the outside of my right hip that look like long, bony fingers fanning out across the pale skin. I wonder how long they will linger as reminders of our excursion outside the lines.