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Writer's pictureakinkandaprayer

The riding crop

Updated: Jun 1, 2022

Trigger warning: mention of gun violence, the death of children (school massacres), and masochism in the context of BDSM.

 

Whack! Whack! Whack!


I exhale. “Harder,” I breathe.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!


My ass burns. But I asked for it. The pain is exquisite. I focus on my breath. I let my mind go blank. I’m floating.


Whack! Whack! Whack!


 

I had a really hard time functioning this past week in the wake of the massacre in Uvalde, TX. Turns out a riding crop to the ass was the therapy I never imagined I would need to help me cope.


I wrote most of this piece in the days immediately following the elementary school shooting, and when I came back to it this week I realized just how dark my headspace had been.


I’ve tried to edit out most of my anger and despair and have left only what I think is necessary to capture my mental state at the time. Why I craved the pain, a transference of my emotional and psychological agony into a physical feeling.


Physical pain I can deal with. I’ve given birth to three children, two of them at home and all of them naturally without pain medication. It’s the inner anguish I can’t process.


Babies. That’s all they were. I wanted to keep my own babies home from school the following day, to keep them close, but sent them off just the same. They need the illusion of safety at this tender age.


But I let myself have heaps and heaps of self-care.


Eating a box of cookies. Making a nest of soft blankets and taking a nap. Reading a book I’ve had sitting on my nightstand for weeks. Self-pleasuring. Getting stoned in the middle of the day and watching a comedy special. Ignoring the piles of laundry and dirty countertops and allowing the overwhelming despair and powerlessness I feel to become an ache I will be able to live with.


It shouldn’t be like this. We shouldn’t need to cope with these sorts of things over and over and over.


For me, the grief and despair comes in waves. I’m okay, and then I’m not. PM keeps asking me what’s wrong, which I know comes from a place of concern but which I find infuriating just the same. “You know what’s wrong,” I tell him. He’s better at compartmentalizing than I am, shutting the mental door to the anger and pain in order to function and go about his day.

In the end, I had PM take the riding crop to me. Harder and longer than usual. I needed the physical pain to distract me from the soul pain I was experiencing.


The kids were all asleep for the night, and I, with singular focus, knew what I needed. A form of self-care, I suppose.


I strip out of my clothes and grab my CBD arousal oil, which I’m using more often, btw. I really do think it makes a difference. (See my review on this product, if you’re curious.)


I sit against the headboard and slather that shit all over my nether regions before throwing on a button down shirt, grabbing the crop and heading downstairs. It will take about 15 minutes for the oil to do its thing, so I know I have a little time to prepare.


I come downstairs to find PM watching television. I put the crop down on the coffee table and pull a blanket over, draping it on the couch next to him. He watches me. “It’s a riding crop sort of day,” I say by means of explanation. He doesn’t say anything. He knows I’ve been hurting, but I don’t think he realizes how much I’m in the thick of it. How it’s gnawing at my very soul.


I head to the kitchen, take out the lockbox, and find the blunt I’m looking for. The cannabis strain is Gelato, and I’m in love with it. I often go with edibles in the evenings (which I’ve written about here), but I’ve got specific needs tonight. And I can’t wait the time it would take for the edible to kick it.


Grabbing the lighter I head outside onto our deck. The weather has been warm here, and the nights have been pleasant. I stand in the dark, clad only in my button down shirt, and light up.


The strain is strong. I really only need two puffs, maybe three. I take my hits and stick my head through the siding door. “I’m smoking. Do you want some?” By the time he joins me, I’m finished. My lungs are irritated from the smoke, and I’m coughing. I hand him the blunt as I step back inside.


In just a few minutes I’m already feeling calmer. Like I don’t have any fucks left to give. And I’m feeling the need to indulge in more hedonism, so I grab a bag of cookies and pour myself a glass of milk before sitting down on the couch.


I’ve already scarfed down a couple by the time PM joins me on the couch again. He observes me for a few moments as I enjoy my snack. He puts the comedy special he was watching back on, and we watch together for a few minutes. Well, I’m sort of watching. I lay on my side on the blanket I’ve put down, ass exposed below my shirt, and scoot down so my legs drape over PM’s legs. A clear invitation, as it always is.

He strokes my hip and ass absentmindedly as he continues to watch TV, fingertips occasionally brushing my center. But this isn’t what I need or want just yet.


I need focus. I need pain.


I don’t normally want pain per se. In fact, I’m pretty pain and discomfort adverse. It’s the reason I don’t really exercise and haven’t gotten a tattoo. It’s the reason I skip wearing a bra as often as I can and go barefoot most of the time. It’s why PM knows to throw a soft blanket over my naked torso before he goes down on me. I am what I am, and I like comfy-cozy. *shrugs*


So when PM uses a riding crop on me, I usually prefer a light swat across the buttocks, just a little sting as an attention -grabber. It helps me stay in the moment, in my body and out of my head. I’m able to focus on the pleasurable sensations that he mixes with the stingy swats. I’ve written here in the past on why I normally favor this kind of light crop use.


But tonight is different. Despair threatens to swallow me whole. I need something to help me relax. An orgasm will do it, but I know I’m not anywhere near the headspace I need to be in in order for that to happen. It’s going to take some work to get me there. And instinctually I know that physical pain will help.


After a few minutes of PM’s sensual stroking, I grab another cookie. He’s still watching the television and doesn’t seem ready or in the mood to proceed with my plans. The weed has left me pleasantly numb, but I want more. I stare at him, willing him to feel my need.


Finally, he glances my way, and I’m done with subtlety, with waiting. “Are you going to crop me sometime tonight?” I ask. I try for a playful tone, but I suspect all I’m achieving is desperate.


He laughs. “I wasn’t sure what you had going on over there,” nodding in the direction of my food. He swats my ass playfully with his hand. “You bring out the crop and then start stuffing your face with cookies.”

I shrug. “I needed a snack,” I reply.


Truth is, I need a hell of a lot more than a snack. I need our passports and a handful of plane tickets to get my family the fuck out of a country that cares more about unfettered access to guns than the fact that our children are literally getting slaughtered. We’ve talked about moving abroad in the past, of PM looking for an international position at an English-speaking congregation somewhere in Europe. It’s never been as tempting as it is this week.


PM narrows his eyes and looks me over. “Are you ready then?” I nod my head.


I‘m on my back now, still wearing my button down but otherwise unclothed, legs splayed wantonly. I start to flip over, but PM stops me with a hand on my hip.

He takes the riding crop from the coffee table and runs the tongue down the center of my chest and then back up again. He swirls it around one of my nipples before sliding it up to stroke my cheek. I close my eyes and try to focus on the soothing movements. He gives my breasts more attention, circles my navel a few times before dipping the tongue between my legs.


I gasp and squirm. It’s lovely, but I want more. I need more. My eyes are still closed when I feel his fingers run down my center, dip into my folds, and then slide back up to my clit. I’m slippery and sensitive from the oil. He slides a finger into my core and pumps lightly as he brushes my clit with his thumb.

Again, the pleasure is wonderful. And my hips flex up to meet his movements. But I know I’m not going to make any real progress toward my peak until I deal with this ache in my chest. The weed has tempered it a bit, but it’s still there, lurking, threatening to flip some psychological switch. And I’ve cried enough tears for today.


I’ve found myself wondering why this murder of school children has affected me more deeply than the others. Here in the US we’ve already seen 27 school shootings with injuries or deaths this year alone. So far in 2022, we’ve had over 200 mass shootings. Why am I drowning this time?


When Sandy Hook happened in 2012, I was only a few months pregnant with One. The Connecticut elementary school massacre left 26 dead. I remember weeping and thinking what kind of sick place am I bringing this child into? But the pain, the idea of this type of loss, was still an intellectual exercise. We hadn‘t held our own babies yet. We hadn’t yet kissed them goodbye before watching them disappear into their school building.



Uvalde is the deadliest elementary school shooting that we’ve had since Sandy Hook. Babies. They were just babies. And it’s something we can do something about without infringing on anyone’s bodily autonomy. It’s infuriating that the same individuals, the same groups, who howl about the unborn and would force a woman to use her body against her will, would never dream of taking away people’s firearms (or even making it difficult to have them in the first place). Owning firearms is not a fundamental human right.


And that’s just it. It’s a perfect storm here in my soul this week. Of photos of children so like my own who will never again hug their parents and grandparents and siblings. Of survivors, of families and friends who will forever deal with the trauma that they have suffered. Of feeling powerless in a country full of people who care more for their guns than the safety of our most precious possessions. Nothing will change. And I want to burn it all to the motherfucking ground.



All of these thoughts are still swirling in my head as PM moves the crop in unhurried circles across my torso and up and down my thighs.



When he finally flips me over, I take a deep cleansing breath, willing my body to relax.


Whack! Whack! Whack!


 

I lay there boneless when we’re finally done. I briefly wonder whether PM is going to want to fuck now, but I feel the soft caress of a blanket that he pulls over me. ”Thank you,” I sigh as he kisses my forehead.

The cropping has left me limp, sinking into the sofa, and my climax has ripped, not only a scream from my lips, but something dark from my soul. I can finally sleep.


Do what you need to do to take care of yourself. Grieve. Eat a box of cookies. Take a breath. Because now it’s time to fight. (I’ve included some links below to nonprofits that can help direct our pain into action.)



Until next time, stay kinky 😉


 

The statistics are clear. States with strong gun safety laws have less gun violence. But even if your state has strong laws, it doesn’t make one immune to the effects of gun violence. A neighboring state with weak gun policies provides a pipeline for guns to enter your state and into the hands of unstable individuals. We’re all in this together. And right now, as gun sales have surged to an all time high during the pandemic, we’re all sinking together. See where your state stands on its gun laws here.


To educate yourself on the causes of gun violence and how evidence-based gun safety policies can affect real change, see Everytown Research and Policy.


To find out what you can do to help make change happen, see the action plans provided by Everytown. See also Sandy Hook Promise, a nonprofit whose mission is “to end school shootings and create a culture change that prevents violence and other harmful acts that hurt children.”


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