The cool, smooth handle of the flogger felt heavy in my hands, a tangible symbol of a fear I was about to confront. Weeks ago, Jennifer had placed it in my grip during a workshop, joking that maybe I'd swing it one day. I had laughed nervously then, but the joke felt less like a joke now. Standing in a private room with Jennifer and Victor, the quiet hum of the club a distant memory, I was about to be on the receiving end.
"This is just a taste," Jennifer assured me, her crimson corset a vibrant slash of color against the subdued tones of the room. We had negotiated every detail. Three out of ten in force, ten strokes in total, with a check-in after every two. Victor was there to observe, a silent guardian ready to step in if needed. The negotiation itself had been a calming ritual. I had laid out my limits: no back-of-the-thighs, no sudden increases, no name-calling. My safe words, yellow and red, remained the same. We had discussed aftercare—water, blankets, sitting in silence. The structure of it all, the thoroughness of the conversation, calmed my racing heart and quieted the nervous flutter in my stomach.
"Are you ready?" Victor asked quietly, his voice a steady presence at my side.
I took a deep breath. "Yes."
Jennifer guided me to a padded support, a soft, black surface I could lean into. She placed a hand between my shoulder blades, her touch a grounding presence. "Remember, this is your scene too," she said, her voice a low murmur. "If at any moment you need to stop, you call 'yellow' or 'red.' I will stop."
The first stroke landed softly, more a caress than a blow. The sensation was a surprise—less sharp than I had anticipated, more of a heavy thud that spread a wave of warmth across my shoulders. My breath hitched, but not from pain. Jennifer paused, waiting. "Colour?"
"Green," I said, my voice trembling slightly.
The second stroke came, a touch firmer. Heat bloomed under my skin, radiating outwards. My muscles tensed instinctively, then slowly relaxed, a conscious decision I made in the moment. She waited again. "Colour?"
"Green," I repeated, the word a little steadier this time.
The rhythm built, a slow, deliberate cadence. Thud. Pause. Check-in. With each strike, a wave of warmth washed over me, meeting the cool air of the room. I became acutely aware of my breathing, the tingling of my skin, the thrumming sensation that now lived just beneath the surface. After the sixth stroke, I felt a shift inside me. The initial tension melted away, and my mind, which had been buzzing with apprehension, quieted. A gentle euphoria, like a soft-focus lens, washed over my consciousness. It wasn't the complete dissociation I had heard about, but a profound sense of calm settled deep in my bones. Endorphins, I thought hazily, those incredible chemicals that could transform perceived pain into a deep, pervasive sense of peace. My limbs felt heavy and light all at once, and my eyes fluttered closed.
Jennifer's voice, a lifeline in my altered state, cut through the haze. "Colour?"
"Green," I whispered, almost reluctant to speak for fear of breaking the spell.
She delivered the last two strokes, lighter, like a gentle closing of a chapter. Then she set down the flogger and placed her hand on my back. "We're done," she said softly. "You did wonderfully."
My knees wobbled as I stood. Victor's arm slid around my waist, his presence a steady anchor, and he guided me to a cushioned chair. A blanket appeared around my shoulders, its weight a comfort, and a bottle of water was pressed into my hand. The room seemed brighter now, sounds sharper, colours more vivid. I blinked, my senses recalibrating. Jennifer knelt in front of me, her expression a mix of care and quiet joy. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Floaty," I said, a smile I couldn't contain spreading across my face. "Good. Really good." My voice felt thick, as if I had just woken from a long, peaceful nap.
"Endorphins," Victor murmured, echoing my thoughts. "They can induce a state of euphoria. That's why we go slow and check in. You handled it beautifully. You communicated, and you allowed yourself to feel. That's brave."
Jennifer squeezed my knee. "I'm honoured you trusted me. Thank you for letting me lead your first flogging." She meant it. Here, gratitude flowed both ways. Dominants thanked submissives for their trust as often as submissives thanked Dominants for their care.
We sat together for a while, just drinking water, allowing my body to slowly return to equilibrium. Victor would occasionally ask, "Do you need anything?" and I would shake my head, content to simply bask in the warmth of the blanket and the soft hum that now lived under my skin. The sting on my shoulders had already faded, replaced by a pleasant tingling sensation.
When I finally stood, I felt grounded and expansive at once. The contrast was strange but profound. I hugged Jennifer, a spontaneous gesture that surprised us both. "Thank you," I said again, the words feeling inadequate but necessary.
She hugged back, her embrace firm and sure. "Anytime. And remember, if you ever want more, we renegotiate. If you don't, that's okay too."
Walking home, the night air cool against my skin, I thought about how my perception of pain had shifted. What I had once feared as punitive had become a source of catharsis, a controlled dose of sensation that carried me to a state of profound calm. The key, I realized, wasn't the flogger's weight, or the force of the blows. It was the trust built through negotiation, safe words, and aftercare. In the absence of those, a flogging would be just pain. With them, it became something else entirely—an intimate conversation spoken in strokes and pauses, a journey that left me smiling into the night. It was an exploration of my own limits and an affirmation of the trust I had placed in others. It was an experience that left me feeling more myself than I had felt in a very long time.