aftermath

Well, we did it.

We got home at 2am last night, after an extremely uncomfortable plane journey, landing in the UK in freezing fog at midnight and having to get a chilly night train to London. At 10am this morning I was in the office, where I'm currently doing part-time contract work. I ache all over, and desperately want to just curl up under a duvet. Preferably without putting any weight on my bottom.

Two long days of punishment, incorporating the famous whipping machine, falaka, breast whipping and much more back whipping than I'm used to, and culminating in the hardest cold caning of my life. 35 strokes, the last three of which were the infamous "very hard" option, which is in no way an exaggeration. My bottom is a delightfully gruesome sight, particularly the bloody welt from the last stroke which landed a clear inch above the rest, and was possibly the hardest stroke of all.





I'm already a bit obsessed with the marks, and sneak a peak in the bathroom mirror every time I go to the loo to see how the bruises are developing. I'm hard to mark these days, and these bruises are reminding me pleasantly of the result of my first few hard play sessions, back when Tom and I had just met.

Immediately after filming my bottom was red and pink and purple, with huge, solid slabs of bruise starting to swell under the skin. I was shocked when I caught sight of it in the mirror a couple of hours later at the dramatic black and blue colours that were starting to cover my entire ass. I ran back into the bedroom and got Amy to take another photo:



They were even more impressive this morning, the blacks and purples blossoming outwards to cover my entire cheeks, leaving a strange pale patch in the centre of each.

For the four hours of travelling the discomfort wasn't even sexy. I was shattered, and as the dopamine crash started to hit I felt like I was falling apart. Tears welled up for no reason, my hands were shaking and I desperately wanted a cuddle. I was amazed at Amy's composure, how calmly she was coping when surely she was hurting just as much as I was. I felt like one massive bruise, and had to restrain myself from continually whinging about it.

I still haven't had enough sleep, and today the dull ache in my backside is still not sexy, but I'm too tired to be annoyed about it. I'm focussing on work and looking forward to seeing Tom tonight for some slightly belated aftercare.

It's strange. The caning itself was an extreme, amazing experience. I felt pushed absolutely to my limits as an actress and a masochist. I can't remember ever screaming that intensely before. There was no space for moderating my responses; I got myself into character and from there it was pretty much completely involuntary. And at the time, it wasn't erotic. Not in the way the breast whipping the day before had been erotic, twisting my hips and pressing my thighs together to try to disguise my arousal. I didn't even think to notice whether or not I was wet after the caning. The experience transcended lust.

And yet ... even though the dull ache as I sit is more exhausting than erotic, even though I'm still short of sleep after the last two days and desperately looking forward to the weekend, even though I'm distracted by work ... when my memory flicks back to the caning, which I haven't really started to emotionally process yet, my body responds with an involuntary flicker of heat. I may not have been aroused at the time, but the whole experience of it was sexually charged, if only because of how frightened I was, and the memory of it is definitely hot. I imagine that as I achieve more distance from the event I'll find the memories even hotter. If anything, the continued dull pain of the bruising is inhibiting my arousal rather than contributing to it.

I was almost sick with nerves beforehand. I sent Tom a worried text, asking for reassurance, and he replied with this:

You will be fine: not only are you professional, you are also a horny wench :) I love you, and will be very proud of you. *cuddles*

I am very lucky to have someone who knows me that well, who knows exactly what to say to calm me and strengthen my resolve. As I was fastened to the caning block a part of my brain focussed on Tom, on what he would think when he watched the film, whether he'd be proud of how I took it. I very much wanted him to be, and holding that in mind helped more than I can say.