... my session posts are a lot of fun to write. They go well. They're intense and funny and passionate and Steve and I have a wonderful top/bottom connection.
However, as in any relationship, sometimes there are off days. Today was one of ours. I have his full permission to write about it. Not because I want to complain or focus on what went wrong. I want to stress how we dealt with it, and moved through it. Because shit happens.
I think we were both a little off our game today; I know I was for sure. I was still feeling a bit droppish (I know that's not a word, but tough), tired, a little snarky and sick of the mild side effects from the antibiotics I've been taking. He had things on his mind as well, and so we spent a long time talking and decompressing a little, as is often our pattern. Then it was time to play.
I love our OTK warm-ups. His hand only, intensity growing slowly, slowwwwwly, from the first pats to full-on flurries of slaps, alternating, covering my cheeks and sweet spots, occasionally dipping down to upper thigh, just to get my attention. And usually, when he's done with his hand, he'll pull me up to hold me for a few minutes, and then we will move on. Either to the ottoman or to my bed, for Round Two with implements.
But today, he wanted to use a couple of implements OTK. That's perfectly fine; I love staying in that position. However, the "boot" paddle wasn't a good choice.
It's too big and unwieldy, and the angle is wrong. A paddle of that type is better for other positions. It felt awkward, but I was already kind of spacey and figured it wouldn't be for too much longer. No big deal.
He had been alternating cheeks, but then he turned the paddle so it would go across both, and it came down. Unfortunately, he misjudged the size of the paddle (or maybe the size of me) and the angle was awkward, so a portion of it hit my tailbone.
It was hard, but not super hard. Once when I went to get my mail, I was wearing socks and I slipped backward, landing sitting hard on the stone steps; that hurt far worse than this. But it was a jarring, painful shock, and I reacted.
Overreacted.
I don't know why I was so upset, but I was. I started crying. He knew it was a bad shot and stopped immediately. I can usually absorb a "stray shot," as John calls them, take a few breaths and then continue. Not today. I was done.
He took me in his arms and tried to calm me down, but I was breathing so hard, I almost hyperventilated. "Deep breaths," he said. "Slow down. You're OK. I'm so sorry. Breathe..." But I was inconsolable. I wept and trembled and wouldn't look at him. The mis-strike had scared me, and all I could think was, "That shouldn't happen! Why did that happen?!" At some point, he said something about his being in a frenzy, and I blurted, "You're not supposed to be in a frenzy! You're the top; you're supposed to be in control and focused!" I knew that hurt his feelings, and I at least the presence of mind to think to myself, "Stop talking. You're being irrational and anything you say right now will come out sounding horrible. Just stop talking." He remained calm and quiet, going to the freezer to get some ice while I hunkered down into the couch, my arms curled up under me and my face buried.
Gently, he iced me, and massaged my feet while the ice soothed. If he asked me questions, I nodded, but didn't speak. He brought me tissues. He stroked my hair, did everything he could to make me feel safe and OK again.
I could go into all kinds of reasoning about why I was this upset, but really, it doesn't matter. I knew somewhere inside that he was suffering way more than I was, but I couldn't seem to break out of the emotional maelstrom I was experiencing. It's hard to explain the emotional state of a bottom, sometimes.
He waited. He didn't push, he didn't prod. He didn't get defensive or angry ("come on, it wasn't that bad, snap out of it"). He stayed with me, quietly, never leaving me except to get the ice and the tissues, letting me go through my process.
"Let's go lie down," he said, holding his hand out to me. I took it and stood, but then I took two steps and my legs, rubbery, sort of folded and I sat back down. So he lifted me into his arms and carried me into the bedroom, placing me gently on the bed and wrapping the comforter around me. Then he held me. I very slowly stopped shaking, stopped crying, my breathing regulated. The discomfort in my tailbone had faded.
"Are you back with me?" he asked. "Yes," I answered.
Now what?
I wanted to talk about it, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings any further or make him feel defensive. If I complained or criticized too much, perhaps he'd feel like it was too difficult to please me, that I was too hard on him for what was just an unfortunate accident.
He wanted me to talk, though. "Please, tell me what you're thinking," he said. "I want to hear. I want to know and learn. That scared me. Hurting you scared me."
I took a deep breath. "I want to reach a place with you," I began. "I know we can get to it, but I'm not quite there yet." I paused, then continued. "When I was at the party last weekend, I bottomed to some very experienced players. They used implements. But no matter what they were using, I knew I could sink into the scene, lose all awareness. Because I knew that no matter what they were using, or how many times, each strike would be spot on and perfect. Their aim and skill were that good.
"You and I aren't there yet. I love your hand spankings, and I love our heavier play. But sometimes, with certain implements, there's a part of me that tenses up a little. A part that makes me hold my breath, wondering where the blow will land. And I want to move past that. A little more practice, a little more focus, and I think we can get there."
He was totally OK with that, not at all defensive. He may be a top, but he doesn't have a toppy ego. He can accept, and he can listen. He cares. We will be just fine, and he will keep getting better and better.
And to be fair, I cannot expect him to have the prowess of a Joe or a Strict Dave. Joe lives with Ten, a spanking superstar, and two other spanko women. He gets practice probably every single day. Fineous has been working on perfecting his double flogging technique for years, no doubt. Dave also is one who has gotten regular and constant practice over the years, and a lot of feedback from many bottoms.
Steve said, "You took on a rookie with me, you know." No... he really wasn't. He knew kink. He knew spanking. But I am his first regular spanko play partner. He has come a long way for me, and I love him for that.
So today, there are no videos, and no new pictures. But I want to put up a photo from a couple of months ago, because this is how we left things today. Whole. Reconnected. And I owe a great deal of that to Steve's calm and kind reaction to my reaction/overreaction. He handled me the best any man, any top could have, and I'm grateful.
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One of his favorite phrases is "We're good, huh?"
Oh yes. We're good, huh. Really.
However, as in any relationship, sometimes there are off days. Today was one of ours. I have his full permission to write about it. Not because I want to complain or focus on what went wrong. I want to stress how we dealt with it, and moved through it. Because shit happens.
I think we were both a little off our game today; I know I was for sure. I was still feeling a bit droppish (I know that's not a word, but tough), tired, a little snarky and sick of the mild side effects from the antibiotics I've been taking. He had things on his mind as well, and so we spent a long time talking and decompressing a little, as is often our pattern. Then it was time to play.
I love our OTK warm-ups. His hand only, intensity growing slowly, slowwwwwly, from the first pats to full-on flurries of slaps, alternating, covering my cheeks and sweet spots, occasionally dipping down to upper thigh, just to get my attention. And usually, when he's done with his hand, he'll pull me up to hold me for a few minutes, and then we will move on. Either to the ottoman or to my bed, for Round Two with implements.
But today, he wanted to use a couple of implements OTK. That's perfectly fine; I love staying in that position. However, the "boot" paddle wasn't a good choice.
It's too big and unwieldy, and the angle is wrong. A paddle of that type is better for other positions. It felt awkward, but I was already kind of spacey and figured it wouldn't be for too much longer. No big deal.
He had been alternating cheeks, but then he turned the paddle so it would go across both, and it came down. Unfortunately, he misjudged the size of the paddle (or maybe the size of me) and the angle was awkward, so a portion of it hit my tailbone.
It was hard, but not super hard. Once when I went to get my mail, I was wearing socks and I slipped backward, landing sitting hard on the stone steps; that hurt far worse than this. But it was a jarring, painful shock, and I reacted.
Overreacted.
I don't know why I was so upset, but I was. I started crying. He knew it was a bad shot and stopped immediately. I can usually absorb a "stray shot," as John calls them, take a few breaths and then continue. Not today. I was done.
He took me in his arms and tried to calm me down, but I was breathing so hard, I almost hyperventilated. "Deep breaths," he said. "Slow down. You're OK. I'm so sorry. Breathe..." But I was inconsolable. I wept and trembled and wouldn't look at him. The mis-strike had scared me, and all I could think was, "That shouldn't happen! Why did that happen?!" At some point, he said something about his being in a frenzy, and I blurted, "You're not supposed to be in a frenzy! You're the top; you're supposed to be in control and focused!" I knew that hurt his feelings, and I at least the presence of mind to think to myself, "Stop talking. You're being irrational and anything you say right now will come out sounding horrible. Just stop talking." He remained calm and quiet, going to the freezer to get some ice while I hunkered down into the couch, my arms curled up under me and my face buried.
Gently, he iced me, and massaged my feet while the ice soothed. If he asked me questions, I nodded, but didn't speak. He brought me tissues. He stroked my hair, did everything he could to make me feel safe and OK again.
I could go into all kinds of reasoning about why I was this upset, but really, it doesn't matter. I knew somewhere inside that he was suffering way more than I was, but I couldn't seem to break out of the emotional maelstrom I was experiencing. It's hard to explain the emotional state of a bottom, sometimes.
He waited. He didn't push, he didn't prod. He didn't get defensive or angry ("come on, it wasn't that bad, snap out of it"). He stayed with me, quietly, never leaving me except to get the ice and the tissues, letting me go through my process.
"Let's go lie down," he said, holding his hand out to me. I took it and stood, but then I took two steps and my legs, rubbery, sort of folded and I sat back down. So he lifted me into his arms and carried me into the bedroom, placing me gently on the bed and wrapping the comforter around me. Then he held me. I very slowly stopped shaking, stopped crying, my breathing regulated. The discomfort in my tailbone had faded.
"Are you back with me?" he asked. "Yes," I answered.
Now what?
I wanted to talk about it, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings any further or make him feel defensive. If I complained or criticized too much, perhaps he'd feel like it was too difficult to please me, that I was too hard on him for what was just an unfortunate accident.
He wanted me to talk, though. "Please, tell me what you're thinking," he said. "I want to hear. I want to know and learn. That scared me. Hurting you scared me."
I took a deep breath. "I want to reach a place with you," I began. "I know we can get to it, but I'm not quite there yet." I paused, then continued. "When I was at the party last weekend, I bottomed to some very experienced players. They used implements. But no matter what they were using, I knew I could sink into the scene, lose all awareness. Because I knew that no matter what they were using, or how many times, each strike would be spot on and perfect. Their aim and skill were that good.
"You and I aren't there yet. I love your hand spankings, and I love our heavier play. But sometimes, with certain implements, there's a part of me that tenses up a little. A part that makes me hold my breath, wondering where the blow will land. And I want to move past that. A little more practice, a little more focus, and I think we can get there."
He was totally OK with that, not at all defensive. He may be a top, but he doesn't have a toppy ego. He can accept, and he can listen. He cares. We will be just fine, and he will keep getting better and better.
And to be fair, I cannot expect him to have the prowess of a Joe or a Strict Dave. Joe lives with Ten, a spanking superstar, and two other spanko women. He gets practice probably every single day. Fineous has been working on perfecting his double flogging technique for years, no doubt. Dave also is one who has gotten regular and constant practice over the years, and a lot of feedback from many bottoms.
Steve said, "You took on a rookie with me, you know." No... he really wasn't. He knew kink. He knew spanking. But I am his first regular spanko play partner. He has come a long way for me, and I love him for that.
So today, there are no videos, and no new pictures. But I want to put up a photo from a couple of months ago, because this is how we left things today. Whole. Reconnected. And I owe a great deal of that to Steve's calm and kind reaction to my reaction/overreaction. He handled me the best any man, any top could have, and I'm grateful.
One of his favorite phrases is "We're good, huh?"
Oh yes. We're good, huh. Really.