Stock-ing stuffer, get it? Because I am stuffed into the stocks! Still dorky after all these years.
We had a delicious first time playing with the stocks. Mr. W built a pillory that allowed us to place the main piece at three different heights (for standing, kneeling on the floor, and lying on a bench at mid-height). We were both overwhelmed with the sexiness of the thing, having both grown-up with fantasies of punished village women of imagined yore, their plump buttocks whipped on the town square for all the world to see, unable to cover their backsides or their faces due to the restraint of the stockades. And yet, Mr. W also made safety and my emotional comfort his first precaution. Much as we both wanted him to thrash my backside and leave me trembling, we played slowly and mostly lightly, ensuring more vicious sessions to come.
The flogger warmed my bottom, back, and thighs as I stood restrained at both wrists and the neck. This was followed by the strap on just my cheeks, bottom to top. He released me then and I allowed myself to fall to my knees, but we skipped the stocks at that height and moved to mid-height and the bench. The bench has been with us throughout our life together as well as our visible spanking life - it features in both Introducing Abby and The Breaking Point, the first and last of the Naughty Abby videos. It was "on set" for Please Not My Hands, right next to the front door and the chair where I received my tawse strokes, and I remember how hard we made love on it after the cameras were off.
Now, I lay upon my belly, legs angled to the ground and resting on my tiptoes, wrists and neck constrained. My hair hung in my face, leaving me feeling hidden and anonymous. From head to toe, I was all too aware of my exposition and it was easy to invite dread into the scene, but Mr. W tickled that same head to toe route with the tips of the flogger, just light wiggles against my body. The hair against my cheeks matched his tickling and my skin lit up, every cell open to sensation.
Just as I was welcoming the teases of leather upon my skin, the deerhide was traded for rattan. The cane cut deep with a thud. A welt rose so quickly that Mr. W's index finger was admiring its width before I caught my breath from the stroke. On to the next stroke and I began to cry. The strokes felt so deep, even though you can see from the photographic evidence that they were just right for easier play. We are still learning what it is like to play with my new shape, with the muscles of new size, with their exposure where there was once layers of thicker flesh. I am still learning what punishment on my new parts feels like. Liquid from both nose and eyes flowed to the carpet and to a support beam that ran across the base of the pillory.
Mr. W set the cane down and stroked my hair, then gently told me to hold on. He returned with tissues and held them to my eyes and nose. Although I was capable of releasing my arms, when he held the tissue to my nose and told me to blow, I blew, fully in his care and control. It was my favorite moment of the scene. It was so intimate, even more-so than the exposure, whipping, and caning of my ass.
We continued with a short caning. I wanted beautiful marks and he gave them to me in just the right proportion. It was just enough that afterwards, as I straddled and rode him on the couch, I whispered, "Next time. More vicious. I want it hard." Hands on my hips, he agreed. "I wanted you to feel comfortable this time. So next time I can beat you terribly." All the good muscles clenched around him. "Yes please," I whispered. Then just, "Yes, yes, yes..."
