Spanked -- Rehab Progresses

The knee replacement was three weeks old on Friday. Progress has been good -- everyone we talk with remarks at how very well He is doing; how quickly He is gaining strength and flexibility and mobility. All we could have hoped for and more.

We resumed regular, vanilla sexual activity (with remarkable success and very little difficulty) days less than two weeks after the surgery. Hooray for us! Way better than we expected.

But the knee is stiff and sore and achy and the muscles don't always respond the way He wants them to. He gets tired easily. Nothing is the way it was before, and it certainly isn't "better" yet than it was before the surgery. It will get to that eventually, but it isn't there yet. It has been a damper on His spirit. To make a long story short, we've fucked, but we haven't spanked. He hasn't been up to it -- hasn't been interested, or at least hasn't been interested enough to initiate anything much.

I understand intellectually. Healing and wellness and full recovery takes time. To gain strength from such a major surgery requires more than the simple healing of the visible wound. The required rehabilitation of this knee is grueling and exhausting and, beyond that, emotionally devastating. I know. I am aware and the part of me that is logical and rational and sane and sensible is perfectly clear that it is just going to take time.

But there is the other part of who I am. The part of me that is truly a masochist. That relates through the submission and connection of pain received at the hand of this One... That part of me has waited and held my breath and listened intently for the return of the voice that calls me to be there. To come to Him and be held close and be hurt and allow and accept the hurting. The longer it has been, the harder it has been to feel the connection, to feel wanted, to feel real and alive and here. What I know and what I feel begin to move apart in the absence of this connecting. And knowing that it makes no sense doesn't change the reaction.

So when the time came this morning for a spanking, I was almost afraid to believe it was really real. Not sure He was serious. Tender from feeling alone and lost and cut lose for this span of time... I piled up the pillows and went over them, still with questioning in my eyes and in my heart. Felt the collar and the cuffs... and then the tears and sobs began -- not because I was afraid (although I was, some), but because I'd been so long "alone" without His hand on me in this way that I so need...

He stopped, wondering what brought my tears. I almost couldn't tell Him. The emotion was so deep and so wordless. I'd been so lost without Him. No blame -- just the reality of this passage.

When He knew I was alright and just awash in my feelings, He went after me with intent and intensity. He surely did not spare me because it had been so long. There were paddles and the cane and the leather strap -- welts and blisters and blood drawn and groans and grunts and sweat and cries and sobs. I begged and thanked Him and writhed under His hand. When it was over we made love and I curled into Him, sated and exhausted and home again.

Thank you for my spanking, Sir.

swan

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