Tennis, Anyone?

This week, we are exploring a paddle. A table tennis paddle, to be exact.

Sir and I were out grocery shopping in one of those huge pan-opti-mega-marts, and wandered through the sporting goods and toys section.

A lovely/interesting/not particularly surprising side-effect of BDSM is the creativity it inspires. Walking through shops is always a wonderland of items that can be adapted for perverted fun. This time, I saw it. A silly, little, innocent paddle, with nubbed sides. Red rubber on one side, black rubber on the other. I picked it up, and flippantly showed it to Sir. He laughed, and picked up the paddle. We had a brief conversation about the joys of new toys and new eyes to see new toys, and he put the paddle into the trolley.

We were still in the midst of crop week, so there was time to anticipate and dread the power of the paddle. I picked it up one afternoon and thwacked my upper thigh.

Ouch.

We started paddle week a couple of days ago. The paddle covers a larger area, and creates a lot of surface sting. I had thought that it would discolour my skin more, but my ass seems to resist marking. I wonder why?

The night before last, for maintenance, Sir had me count out loud how many times he hit me. Sixty, He did four sets of ten, then a big set of 20. It was excruciating. And exciting.

Last night, Sir was tired and decided to go for intensity over number. Sir had me count to 42 by threes. It was difficult, ye gods and little fishes, but I managed with minimal yelling and complaining.

Most people fight the pain at first, I’m no exception. And I have not yet figured out the threshold where my short-term pain coping mechanisms fail and I start to simply go with it. But it is brilliant when I get there.

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