Little One's Experience
My submissive "Little One" has written a very expressive and personal story of one of our scenes and I thought that you would enjoy it too.
Little One's Experience
I float in a space somewhere between heaven and hell. I want more, but the words will not come to my lips. Even though I move my mouth to speak, nothing comes out. Nobody can hear me or understand me, except for my Whip Master.
He has flogged the flesh on my body until the very breath has been driven from my lungs. Shocking my senses, He has used His Cat O’ Nine Tails on every part of my body including, of all things, my feet. He strikes at them mercilessly and, even though I turn and twist one, then the other into all kinds of various positions, He finds His mark skillfully and easily.
I climb the Lattice Frame to the highest point, pulling my feet up under me, in the vain hope of escaping the fiery tips of His evil whip. Precariously perched upon the wooden frame like a giant bird, the Whip Master will not to be deterred, and begins to flog the parts of my feet which are not protected by the wood itself. As I squat there and shift madly from foot to foot, while attempting to use my body to shield my extremities, tongues of fire lick at the tender skin on the soles of my feet and I realize that there is not a single thing I can do to escape His Will.
I cry out piteously in my new found pain and begin to kick out madly at my tormenter and no, it is not my Daddy that I see as my tormenter, it is the thing He holds in His hands that is the enemy. My efforts however, prove fruitless and I begin, in an endorphin filled haze, to navigate my body down to the lower levels of the frame and yet, even in my retreat, He does not stop His continuing reign of terror upon me.
I drop heavily to floor, panting from the exertion of my flight and gaze in wonder at the image He presents, for surely I think, He must have some small measure of compassion reserved in His heart for His Little Girl. But au contraire! He carefully places the Cat O’ Nine Tails back into His Whip Case and reaches instead for His matched pair of Red and Black Signal Whips with the stiff and heavy braided handles and, with a mere shake of His head which makes the sweat soaked, damp, strawberry, blond curls swing about His face in a most provocative way, and a commanding, directive look from His azure colored eyes, I turn my body to the rack and present my well muscled ass cheeks to Him.
Some tiny part in me seriously questions my sanity and asks, “What are you doing here? This is not a walk in the park or a swim in a tropical ocean. This is real and this is pain personified!”
I acknowledge the voice and am vividly reminded of Paul Atreides “Fear Mantra in Dune”. I deeply identify with it and ride the sweet edge of terror my Whip Master evokes from within me. I allow myself to be carried by the bliss of surrendering to my Daddy, knowing that my ultimate submission is immensely pleasing to Him and that He is in that very moment in the process of fulfilling the exploration of His deepest and darkest desires. The ecstasy of this realization carries me forward and I bend willing to His direction.
Almost instantly, I feel the sensuous touch of my Whip Master’s double handed Florentine Strokes and fold my body over into a forward bend, where my hair falls down and brushes the floor gently and my forearms rest beneath my hair. My being screams aloud for this “Whip Massage” to last forever and my Daddy, who knows my deepest longings, happily obliges, but only for so long as He wishes. As I allow myself to be carried away in the hypnotic trancelike effects of the stinging manipulation of my muscles and skin by the tips of the two Whips, I sense that the strokes are getting heavier and that He is hitting harder. This causes me to draw myself up the rack, hand over hand until I am dancing about and ready to climb the rack again to escape His ministrations.
Elements of time become inconsequential and one minute begins to melt into another. I feel as though I am in a bubble where only I and my Tormentor exist. I suddenly hear the unmistakable crack of His Bull Whip and I am instantly alert, or at least as alert as my almost drug induced state will permit. I have a love hate relationship with His Bull Whip because it carries me further into the outer reaches of my consciousness than any other mechanism He has at His disposal and well He knows this.
The artistic ability my Daddy displays with this particular implement is legendary and I am like a blank canvas ready to be painted with a whole palette of wild and unimaginable colors. He it is that will shape the design and it is He alone that will decide when His masterpiece is complete. And so it is. He begins. The sting and the pain of the Bull Whip is unimaginable and I am brought to my hands and knees before Him on more than several occasions, falling on my face and kissing His boots while begging for His mercy.
He is not moved and, reaching for my hair, gathers it up in His hand and drags me back to the rack, commanding my obedience. He is like a wild creature, with the scent of His prey in His nostrils. I recognize the look as I gaze upon His countenance. I have no recourse. I choose submission and surrender my heart to Him.
I hear the Bull Whip, alternately cracking in the air and hitting my body. I groan aloud and hug the rack, praying for its solace but receiving nothing from it. My strength alone comes from within and Daddy approaches me with an offering of water for my parched lips and dehydrated body. As He holds the bottle for me and pours its life giving liquid down my throat, I experience a profound urge to express my yearning for the taste of my own blood and hold up two fingers before His eyes. In our non-verbal state, we completely and utterly understand one another and I hear Him say, “Okay, Little One. Two more…are you ready?”
Turning to leave me there, immersed in my own journey, He does not really wait for me to answer because He sees into my very soul and the very next thing I hear is another crack of His Whip with the tip of it barely brushing my skin. He says something but I cannot really take what He says into my understanding and before I know it, He hits me harder than He has ever hit me before. I scream aloud, expressing the pain such as a mortally wounded animal might do and once again fall to my knees. Through a red mist, I look up at Him standing there in all His glory, and know instantly that my Whip Master is not yet done with me. I once more crawl up the rack and wait for Him to begin again, which He does without another thought. Yet again, the air is split asunder and the tip tenderly touches my skin at least another three or four times then, suddenly, from out of nowhere and with no warning, my Daddy lays, what seems like, an even harder lash across the other buttock and, quite dramatically and unexpectedly, He is there beside me, enfolding me in His arms, caressing me and pulling me from the rack, all the while whispering to me that I am “perfect, absolutely perfect”. I can scarce believe my ears because all I can think about is that, in my viewpoint, I was a “perfect baby” and that I howled in a manner like I never had before.
Carefully and tenderly, my Whip Master places a pillow under my head and then wraps me up like a giant burrito in His warm, fuzzy blanket and leaves me to float in a warm, crimson haze of bliss where I am supremely peaceful and profoundly blessed to have experienced such exquisite sensations from the hands of a Master.
Little One's Experience
I float in a space somewhere between heaven and hell. I want more, but the words will not come to my lips. Even though I move my mouth to speak, nothing comes out. Nobody can hear me or understand me, except for my Whip Master.
He has flogged the flesh on my body until the very breath has been driven from my lungs. Shocking my senses, He has used His Cat O’ Nine Tails on every part of my body including, of all things, my feet. He strikes at them mercilessly and, even though I turn and twist one, then the other into all kinds of various positions, He finds His mark skillfully and easily.
I climb the Lattice Frame to the highest point, pulling my feet up under me, in the vain hope of escaping the fiery tips of His evil whip. Precariously perched upon the wooden frame like a giant bird, the Whip Master will not to be deterred, and begins to flog the parts of my feet which are not protected by the wood itself. As I squat there and shift madly from foot to foot, while attempting to use my body to shield my extremities, tongues of fire lick at the tender skin on the soles of my feet and I realize that there is not a single thing I can do to escape His Will.
I cry out piteously in my new found pain and begin to kick out madly at my tormenter and no, it is not my Daddy that I see as my tormenter, it is the thing He holds in His hands that is the enemy. My efforts however, prove fruitless and I begin, in an endorphin filled haze, to navigate my body down to the lower levels of the frame and yet, even in my retreat, He does not stop His continuing reign of terror upon me.
I drop heavily to floor, panting from the exertion of my flight and gaze in wonder at the image He presents, for surely I think, He must have some small measure of compassion reserved in His heart for His Little Girl. But au contraire! He carefully places the Cat O’ Nine Tails back into His Whip Case and reaches instead for His matched pair of Red and Black Signal Whips with the stiff and heavy braided handles and, with a mere shake of His head which makes the sweat soaked, damp, strawberry, blond curls swing about His face in a most provocative way, and a commanding, directive look from His azure colored eyes, I turn my body to the rack and present my well muscled ass cheeks to Him.
Some tiny part in me seriously questions my sanity and asks, “What are you doing here? This is not a walk in the park or a swim in a tropical ocean. This is real and this is pain personified!”
I acknowledge the voice and am vividly reminded of Paul Atreides “Fear Mantra in Dune”. I deeply identify with it and ride the sweet edge of terror my Whip Master evokes from within me. I allow myself to be carried by the bliss of surrendering to my Daddy, knowing that my ultimate submission is immensely pleasing to Him and that He is in that very moment in the process of fulfilling the exploration of His deepest and darkest desires. The ecstasy of this realization carries me forward and I bend willing to His direction.
Almost instantly, I feel the sensuous touch of my Whip Master’s double handed Florentine Strokes and fold my body over into a forward bend, where my hair falls down and brushes the floor gently and my forearms rest beneath my hair. My being screams aloud for this “Whip Massage” to last forever and my Daddy, who knows my deepest longings, happily obliges, but only for so long as He wishes. As I allow myself to be carried away in the hypnotic trancelike effects of the stinging manipulation of my muscles and skin by the tips of the two Whips, I sense that the strokes are getting heavier and that He is hitting harder. This causes me to draw myself up the rack, hand over hand until I am dancing about and ready to climb the rack again to escape His ministrations.
Elements of time become inconsequential and one minute begins to melt into another. I feel as though I am in a bubble where only I and my Tormentor exist. I suddenly hear the unmistakable crack of His Bull Whip and I am instantly alert, or at least as alert as my almost drug induced state will permit. I have a love hate relationship with His Bull Whip because it carries me further into the outer reaches of my consciousness than any other mechanism He has at His disposal and well He knows this.
The artistic ability my Daddy displays with this particular implement is legendary and I am like a blank canvas ready to be painted with a whole palette of wild and unimaginable colors. He it is that will shape the design and it is He alone that will decide when His masterpiece is complete. And so it is. He begins. The sting and the pain of the Bull Whip is unimaginable and I am brought to my hands and knees before Him on more than several occasions, falling on my face and kissing His boots while begging for His mercy.
He is not moved and, reaching for my hair, gathers it up in His hand and drags me back to the rack, commanding my obedience. He is like a wild creature, with the scent of His prey in His nostrils. I recognize the look as I gaze upon His countenance. I have no recourse. I choose submission and surrender my heart to Him.
I hear the Bull Whip, alternately cracking in the air and hitting my body. I groan aloud and hug the rack, praying for its solace but receiving nothing from it. My strength alone comes from within and Daddy approaches me with an offering of water for my parched lips and dehydrated body. As He holds the bottle for me and pours its life giving liquid down my throat, I experience a profound urge to express my yearning for the taste of my own blood and hold up two fingers before His eyes. In our non-verbal state, we completely and utterly understand one another and I hear Him say, “Okay, Little One. Two more…are you ready?”
Turning to leave me there, immersed in my own journey, He does not really wait for me to answer because He sees into my very soul and the very next thing I hear is another crack of His Whip with the tip of it barely brushing my skin. He says something but I cannot really take what He says into my understanding and before I know it, He hits me harder than He has ever hit me before. I scream aloud, expressing the pain such as a mortally wounded animal might do and once again fall to my knees. Through a red mist, I look up at Him standing there in all His glory, and know instantly that my Whip Master is not yet done with me. I once more crawl up the rack and wait for Him to begin again, which He does without another thought. Yet again, the air is split asunder and the tip tenderly touches my skin at least another three or four times then, suddenly, from out of nowhere and with no warning, my Daddy lays, what seems like, an even harder lash across the other buttock and, quite dramatically and unexpectedly, He is there beside me, enfolding me in His arms, caressing me and pulling me from the rack, all the while whispering to me that I am “perfect, absolutely perfect”. I can scarce believe my ears because all I can think about is that, in my viewpoint, I was a “perfect baby” and that I howled in a manner like I never had before.
Carefully and tenderly, my Whip Master places a pillow under my head and then wraps me up like a giant burrito in His warm, fuzzy blanket and leaves me to float in a warm, crimson haze of bliss where I am supremely peaceful and profoundly blessed to have experienced such exquisite sensations from the hands of a Master.
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