Waiting

Waiting.

I've always thought that I'm patient. I can queue like the best of British, I rarely yell at small children and I always sort my skittles into colour order.

I am not a patient sub.

Resilient? I think so.

Good? Well, sometimes.

Bratty? Oh definitely!

But waiting breaks me.

I've not said anything out loud, not yet, but whenever I'm waiting an internal monologue of curses and frustrations try really hard to cover the silence. Well, the absence of hitting noises and squeals and yelps and moans.

Last night, I waited a lot. I think Sensei knows that I'm not patient, that the lack of action pulls my nerves to a tense, frayed string and I'm pretty certain he feeds on that.

Slight Sadist that he is.

I waited, just leaning hands flat, arms straight, bent over the end of a black, shiny massage table. Legs straight, head bowed forward, bottom stuck out.

I knew what was coming, what was promised. But nothing happened and I wondered a million things. I imagined the first explosion of pain, could I take it?

A question, a reprieve and then whipping lashes (Thank you Phoenix) that warmed me up. And the action was ecstatic. Yes, it was happening.

And then I waited.

He told me what was going to happen. I've been hit with the kendo canes before (my butt broke one once) so I knew what was coming next. I was ready, prepared and scared half to death because of the waiting.

I could take the strikes, I enjoyed the strikes. Sensei hits with a force that feels like it's slicing through me, it vibrates through my whole body, shakes me to my core and leaves me breathless.

I do not fear the Kendos but I hate the waiting.

Being the glutton for punishment I am, when Sensei was discussing his technique with Phoenix, I volunteered to take a few more hits. Because, contrary to popular opinion, I am a very good girl.

There was no silence this time as I waited. No, I could hear every word of Sensei's explanation of stance, the number of different strikes (four if I remember correctly) and their names. And the skills one needs to remember when striking. Breathing, and yelling and such.

All the time he's teaching, I'm bent over my friend Massage table and waiting.

Every time I thought he'd stop speaking to hit me, he continued. I was a boiling mass of nervous energy before he got half way through his spiel and it took all my strength not to just yell out and demand to be hit.

Yes, I know that wouldn't end well for me but have I mentioned I'm not a patient sub?

The hits were hard, especially over existing marks and developing bruises but oh, what a relief from the waiting.

And the double teamed whipping was glorious, no waiting at all. If Sensei wasn't striking, Phoenix was and sometimes they were hitting at the same time. I was in my element. Pain, sting, slash, spike, burn and blissed out Victoria.

I'm still not 100% sure why I said yes to being hit with the Kendo canes a third time. My arse was hot, tight and beautifully marked already but I could sit with only minor discomfort. Clearly I like pain. Clearly, I find it difficult to say no to mean, gorgeous Doms. It's a real weakness of mine.

So more waiting and more hits. More noises. More pain. Screams this time as well as yelps and gasps and curses. Even a 'Flaming Nora' at one point. I know Sensei doesn't approve of bad language when he's hitting you.

And Phoenix had to remind me of the word 'Yellow' because, as he said, Sensei hits so hard it makes Victoria forget the colours of the rainbow. Too right.

Even though I called for the breaks, the time to take breath and recover from the heat, sting and thud in my butt, I still didn't like them. No doubt I needed them, I was close to broken on a couple of hits and I needed to gather my breath, dance about and howl for a while to release the tensed up pain.

But the 'what ifs' and the space to think was horrid. I had to decide if I could take more instead of just taking more. I had the opportunity to think about how much it fucking hurt the last time Sensei hit me just there.

In his very favourite spot and wondered what would happen if he hit me there again. Would I cry? I was close.

I could take the hits, even the prod with the ends (slight sadist, really, really, Sensei?) in my most pummeled parts, I delight in the pain, in my screams, in my guttural moans.

It's the waiting that breaks me.