Switching at Spring Break

Time passed. In time we came to know that our friendship was far more than friendship. One special night in September, 2001, The Heretic and I looked at each other and finally acknowledged the truth – between us there was love.

That earth shaking news created some work to do. Two couples had a lot of shifting to do. As we worked through the issues and emotions of becoming a polyamorous quad, and of moving half of us 1200 miles across the country so we could all live real-time together, we also worked to find ways to spend as much time as possible together in whatever configurations we could manage. One of those efforts led to me spending one joyous spring vacation with The Heretic and T. For The Heretic and I, it became a sort of honeymoon. It also became the occasion for my first, and so far only, switching.

The Heretic has very definite ideas about switching, and a good deal of technical knowledge and expertise. I knew of His passion for this particular esoteric realm of SM play, and I wanted to please Him. Still, as terrified as I’d been of the cane, switches were in a whole other realm of terror.

He took some pity on me. I didn’t have to hunt for my switches by myself. He went with me and helped me select them. We took them home together and He helped me scrub them clean and soak them in warm water in the bathtub. I watched Him as He relished my growing anxiety as the day wore on. Eventually, He took me to Him, undressed me, took me over His knee and gave me a warm up spanking which stunned me in its severity. My butt was on fire and we had not even “begun.” If that was the warm up, how would I ever survive the main event? As He fastened me onto His spanking bench I fought back my panic. I don’t really fit well on the spanking bench to start with – I’m too tall, actually. It is built for little, petite ladies and I’m much too tall. Switching, however, requires restraint, so onto the bench I went.

And it began. White fire. Shriek and run. Impossible! Get away! Anyway you can… Every stroke was pure agony and absolute terror and misery. I begged. I sobbed. I fought like a wild thing against the bonds and the bench and the floor and gravity. He just kept on. I lifted the bench from the floor and set it down on my hand. Eventually I ripped the leather straps loose from their fastenings into the wood. They’ve never been the same. I didn’t get loose, actually, but I tried mightily, with every fiber of my being. There was not one ounce of me that wanted to stay there; that would have stayed there if I could have done otherwise. I have no idea how long it lasted; no idea how it ended; no idea how He felt about it or what He thought of me after it was over. I don’t think He ever told me any of that and I’ve never asked. On a few occasions since, I’ve faced the threat of a switching and it has never failed to reduce me to complete, abject, utter terror. I don’t doubt that someday I will have to go back to the bench for another encounter with a switch. No doubt at all.

swan