saddle sore

I cycled everywhere when I was at uni. I had a crappy old second hand bike, and I tore around town like a hooligan with no helmet and no respect for cars. It was brilliant. I always used to boggle at my fellow students who chose to walk everywhere. How on earth did they put up with such a massive waste of time? As an undergraduate I was, of course, even more disorganised and tardy than I am now - and I tried to cram about a year's worth of activity into every term. I couldn't bear the idea of wasting two hours a day walking to and from lectures and the library. So I biked.

When I moved to London, I left my tatty old student bike behind. It was barely rideable by that point, and I figured no-one sensible would want to cycle in London. Since then, I've realised that lots of people cycle in London. It's taken me a while to get round to it, but last week I cycled home for the first time in nearly three years.

I have missed cycling. I knew I'd missed it, but I'd forgotten quite how much I love it. I'm working hard at the moment and am pretty tired most of the time, but cycling the 5 miles to work and back is giving me more energy, not less. When I get home on my bike, I get in the front door buzzing and cheerful. No more the soul-destroying, expensive, over-crowded rush-hour tube for me! I can cut through the park on my way to work in the mornings, enjoying the golden spring sunshine tinting every leaf and surrendering myself to the March wind as it roars over the crest of the hill. So I'm back on a bike, and I couldn't be happier.

The downside of throwing myself so enthusiastically into my new hobby is, of course, that my bum isn't used to it. I may be resilient when it comes to the cane, but saddle bruises are something else entirely. I've been wincing as I sit at my desk every morning this week, and not from having too much fun the night before. The soreness is in that awkward place at the top of the inner thigh, as if I'd been the victim of a particularly focussed caning in the nappy position. And for the last couple of days my entire lower body has ached and ached, as my gluts and thighs slowly adjust to the unaccustomed exercise.

It's not the first time I've experienced bike-related soreness. During my afore-mentioned student cycling years, I started getting the train down to London semi-regularly to see Tom. The first few scenes were mind-blowing, a whole new world of discovery for me. I'd never played this hard before, and never with a mature Dom rather than a teenaged boyfriend. My young bottom was unused to such treatment and it was more or less permanently in a state for the first few months.

That first weekend, I'd cycled to the train station. At Tom's house, caught up in a strange and exciting new world, it never occurred to me that I would have to cycle home again. Not until I got off the train on Sunday evening, unlocked my bike from the bike racks, and swung myself up onto it. Winced. Then laughed aloud at my own foolishness, and dismounted for long enough that I could text Tom and share my silly, woeful plight.

Then I wobbled laboriously home, sucking in my breath at every jolt in the road, and grinning to myself at the reminder of the fun we'd had. After that, I walked or got the bus to the train station.

Last night, I was spanked for the first time since getting bike-happy a week last Monday. I was begging for it, but my butt had been aching all day, and I was unusually sensitive. D. took advantage of my vulnerability to start out with three or four shockingly hard smacks. Unfair! The stinging pain felt good, though. And the feather-light caresses that followed made me gasp.

I fell asleep with my bottom glowing, both from the spanking and the exercise. We didn't play hard enough to leave bruises, but my ass is still adjusting to my new commute, so I'm glad to be spared a thrashing on top of the existing throb. I suspect my luck won't last, though. I daresay I'll experience the joys of cycling on tender cheeks again before too long.