A Return to Form

The first cane stroke after a month away from corporal punishment play was swift and stinging, strangely painful even through the soft black cotton of my leggings. Perhaps it was because I was so unprepared, having only come home for a short lunch break from work, expecting some kisses, some cuddling, and some reheated stroganoff from last night. Sure enough, there were kisses and there was cuddling, and before I left there was even the strogranoff and some French bread, but in between those things were seven canestrokes, three or four tears, and a return to normalcy.

After the first stroke, I held up my right index finger to indicate I wasn't ready for another yet, even as I knelt on the bed with my face pressed into one of Mr. Williams' pillows. I heard him stifly both a laugh and a scolding, but he gave me the moment I needed. I struggled to convince myself to return to position, back arched and bottom out, but I managed it, and the second stroke fell, venomously biting my backside and sending an uncommon wave of nausea through my body.

All my fears from the past month raced to the front of my mind. A series of in-law visits, illnesses, and random life distractions have kept me unspanked since the night we filmed the tawsing. As time passed and I failed even to write about spanking, to view anyone else's spanking, or to read anyone else's writing on the subject, I had begun to wonder if I had lost interest. Even knowing that this has been a passion of mine since the age of four, I couldn't help but wonder if I was on a hiatus from my own fetish, as has happened before, though never after becoming the character I have become in the spanking community. The nausea I was experiencing terrified me. What if I wasn't just briefly disinterested? What if it was something I no longer wanted at the heart of me?

Sometimes my spankings are playful punishments, sometimes erotic segues, sometimes a means of proving to Mr. Williams and the world what I am capable of taking. Today, despite the brevity of the scene, it had come so suddenly out of the safety of a warm embrace on a cold rainy day that I had nothing to connect it to, and so, rather than prove to Mr. Williams that I could take what he was giving, I sought to prove to myself that it was what I wanted. I fought it the whole way through. I couldn't hold position, I wasn't making the sounds I normally make. In fact, I was half silent, half strangely distressed. And then it was over, stray tears only falling with the last stroke.

It wasn't until I'd crawled to the edge of the bed, collapsing my head against Mr. Williams' chest, allowing his arms to hold me tightly that I remembered what it is that I love so much about the experience: I love when it's over. I felt all small and loved and beautiful as he touched my throat and my chin, tilting my face up to his kiss. It may sound trite or overly romantic, but I think I actually melted a bit as his lips pressed to mine. The queasiness was replaced by a knot of passion in the depth of my belly, a heat incurred no way other than this, and there I was, myself again, wrapped in the elated headiness that even a short spanking can bring. I may not have held my position well during the experience, but the caning brought a return to form, a return, if you will, to Abby.

(I do hope this means I return to writing and filming as well, not to mention reading everyone out there! Mr. Williams is actually much better about blog reading and has been keeping me up to date on everyone while I've not been completely myself these past few weeks. Dave--congrats on the new site! Tim--what's up with yours? And to the beautiful wonderful amazing ladies of spanking, models, writers, and writing models alike, I miss you and love you and look forward to writing again with you all soon.)