FLOGGING MY EMOTIONS This is not an account of any one single flogging session, but the feelings related below are typical of several of my heavier sessions, and with different guys taking the role of "flogger." ------------------------------------------------------------------------- After days of anticipation I am finally at the appointed place for my flogging. My shirt was removed as ordered. The leather cuffs are on my wrists, attached to chains suspended from the ceiling, with my arms stretched high above my head in a spread eagle fashion. I pull on the chains and realize that I'm not going anywhere soon. There's no escape from getting all that I asked for and possibly more, and I asked for a lot. For days, even weeks, I have longed for this moment with all my heart. My flogger has agreed to inflict more pain on me than I've ever taken before. He's worked me over several times before, and I know his style and he knows what kind of punishment I am capable of taking, as well as my weaknesses. A kind hearted soul, he will not do anything to harm me or push me beyond where I want to go, but I have every confidence he will push my limits real hard, as I have requested. I'm now at my most vulnerable point as I have little control over my emotions. I'm ready for battle, but the real battlefield is not on my back or chest, but in my mind. This emotional ride started about a week ago, when I set a date with my flogger for a session. I could feel the excitement, and a little apprehension building in my stomach as I started to call (or email) my flogger. But once we set a date and time, I felt a sense of peace and extreme happiness in the knowledge that I will definitely be flogged hard and long in a few days. A strange sense of glee and satisfaction came over me as I followed up with an email to suggest more ways to make the session more painful and asked that he push me harder than ever before to take more punishment. Somehow I find it liberating to be able to ask someone to be extra rough on me. Being always eager to please, he readily agreed to be brutal, and I felt very happy to hear that. That night as I lay in bed, I had all I could do to keep from thinking about what I would soon endure. The more painful I imagined the flogging would be, the more excited I got. And the more excited I got, the harder I wanted to be flogged. The only way to get some sleep was to masturbate at the thought and delight of taking such extreme suffering. In the following days, no matter what I was doing, I could feel a great sense of positive excitement over my upcoming punishment and couldn't wait for it to happen. No matter what other activities I was involved in, I could feel a delightful feeling of excitement in my gut. Then about two days before I was to be flogged, I woke up with second thoughts (this often happens about this time). Did I really want to go through with this? What if I have a heart attack during the session? What if my flogger has one? What if I get hurt so bad I have to go to the hospital and they see what's happened? Can I really take all the punishment I've asked for? Will I be man enough? Will I be able to hide my welts and bruises from my sweetheart who doesn't know I'm into this? What if...? What if...? And I played this "What if" game unwillingly for the rest of the day. No matter how many times I have been flogged, I almost always go through this mental tug of war a couple of days in advance. I'd keep convincing myself that this is what I want and that everything will go just fine, but I went to bed feeling not quite convinced. Then, almost like clockwork, the next day I woke up feeling terrific and positive and eager to get flogged. As the countdown continued on the eve of my punishment, I felt increasingly excited and happy and just a little nervous. I knew without a doubt that I wanted what I'm about to get. The image of a cat o' nine tails savagely beating a man's welted back, and mine in particular, kept coming back to my mind's eye. It all seemed so perfect, a symmetry, a sense of belonging like a Norman Rockwell painting. Was a man's back created just so it could be flogged? I'm sure mine was. And by that evening the intensity had built up so much I was on a tremendous high, and I hadn't had anything to drink. For me the several days leading up to a flogging and the days afterward are one big roller coaster ride with many peaks and valleys. But the evening before is usually one of the sweetest moments, and last night I was so excited and psyched up I could burst and I loved every moment. If I could only bottle up and save this delicious, delirious craziness that I was enjoying! But, in that state, I knew a sleeping pill was the only thing that would allow me to get a good night's sleep before I went under the lash. Finally, the day has arrived. I woke up this morning feeling even more positive than yesterday, though not as intensely high as last night. Into a small bag I threw some belongings I'd need -- some antibiotic ointment, a spare T-shirt (the other may get quite bloody), and a real mean cat o'nine tails that will hopefully be used on me today in addition to the whips and cats that my flogger owns. One thing I did not bring was aspirin. Pain is what today's all about and I wanted nothing to interfere with my suffering. Normally I take a train or a bus or both to get to "the place" so I usually have time to think about the fate that awaits me. As I looked out the window and watched the towns and villages and backyards roll by, I could envision myself taking the lash and it convinced me even more that I was doing the right thing. I was born for it. It's my destiny! It all felt so right. Since I was a little kid I had this craving to have my shirt removed and my torso brutally tortured. And, now that I've had the good fortune to come under the lash many times, I felt ever so glad that today has come. Many nights I have dreamed of taking a heavy lashing, only to wake up feeling disappointed that my back doesn't hurt. When I arrived here, at the place of my flogging, my emotions took a turn -- a little less excitement and a little more fear. When I met the man who is going to flog me I smiled and shook his hand and said something like, "Nice to see you," but my mind was thinking "Oh yeah?" My senses quickly took in all the surroundings, and even though I've been here several times before, my fear increased. I got a little reprieve though, for my flogger invited me to sit down and relax and watch a flogging video, a nice way to get in the proper mood. This does help. For a while I felt quite at ease. Then the video ended and I could feel myself tensing up. A bathroom break was in order at this point, and when I emerged the scene was setup and ready for me. By now my hairy back and chest had been shaved to make my skin more sensitive to the lash. I was stripped to the waist. My flogger motioned for me to stand under the chains and I felt mixed emotions as he placed the leather cuffs on my wrists. Though this is the most uneasy time of the whole experience for me, there is also something incredibly masculine about being cuffed, chained and submitting to pain. In my heart I know I want this and want it all, but part of me wants no part of it. As he tightened the cuffs and also the chains so I'd be almost stretched tight, I gazed at the chains and then at the cuffs and whips and cats lined up for action and started to wonder, "Why am I here? Whatever possessed me to ask for this?" By now I am about 95% fear and 5% courage. I go through this mental agony every time I get flogged, yet still I want it. At times it feels like a losing battle, but I want in the worst way for my courage to win. It's too late to run now. I'm already shackled and will be in this position for the foreseeable future. And I have commitments to keep -- to my flogger -- and, more importantly, to myself. The first lash will fall in a matter of minutes now, but each second seems like hours, and a million thoughts run through my brain. I pretend to be relaxed and joke with my flogger, but hearing his footsteps behind me has me on edge. He assures me that he's only taking a photo of my unmarked back, but even the click of the camera has me jumping inside, while I remain stoic on the outside. My mind is now wandering to all the places I'd rather be right now, like at the dinner table or safely in bed. Then I think I'd even settle for a trip to the dentist or the tax auditor. Finally, I concede that even those long hours waiting at a miserable shopping mall while my better half makes the rounds -- of every store this side of Calcutta -- even that doesn't seem like such an agonizing place to be at this moment. That may be a stretch, but if all of us men could add to our lifetimes all the hours we spend waiting for women, I swear we'd all live to be 100 easily! And now I'm not sure I'll make it to my next birthday. No, I don't really want to be at the mall, but I sure don't want to be here, either. The sight, the sounds, the smell and the feel of my surroundings all assure me that I am in for a painful struggle. I realize now why some men have chickened out at the last minute or why others might take a lash or two and decide they aren't in the mood for a beating after all. Of course I am always in the mood for this, except at moments like this, when I'm about to get what I've always wanted. I delight myself with the thought that the phone could ring at any moment now, and my flogger's boss, partner or wife will insist that an urgent matter must be attended to immediately in another city. Am I the only one who has felt this way? I'm about to get what I want most in life and now I hope it doesn't happen? Surely others must have felt the way I feel now -- a skydiver, astronaut, a nervous bride or (worse) a nervous groom? Perhaps I'm more like the seaman whose ship is being thrown every which way in a violent storm and the seas are only getting worse, and he's singing "Oh how I wish I wuz in Peoria!" One part of my torment is about to end as my flogger picks up the first whip and moves behind me. He announces what the sentence will be with this whip, and how many lashes, and I answer, "Yes, Sir!" fully knowing that more whips and more punishments will follow. He steps back and swings the whip in the air once or twice. It goes "woosh" like some musical instrument and I know what will follow. Then he pulls back, and I brace myself, and with incredible force the whip lands on my back. Smack! Ouch! Why is it that I keep forgetting what this feels like and now I am surprised that it never feels quite like I expected? I pull myself together and think, "This isn't so bad." Number two comes crashing down on me and it hurts a bit worse, ditto for the 3rd, 4th and so on. But as the lashes accumulate the pain increases dramatically. I am less fearful now, and the pain is taking the place of fear. I've survived the pre-flogging jitters, and now, for better or worse, I can focus on the pain, which is my reason for being here. Not only is the whip stinging on my back, but it is penetrating inside. Still, I am determined to take this. After the 10th I am having my doubts (I knew from experience this was coming). I'm not sure I can take much more of this, but I'll do my best to hang in there. My flogger must have been working out as he is thrashing me really forcefully, and strangely, I feel grateful that he is hitting me so hard. I was hoping he would. There comes a point in most of my floggings, the heavier ones anyway, when I meet my "moment of truth." It's after about 25-30 or sometimes more lashes when the pain becomes totally unbearable and I just can't take another lash. Almost involuntarily my mouth wants to yell "Stop" or "Red" and I am twisting and contorting inside. I grit my teeth and figuratively bite my tongue and pray that I can ride this out. This is what it's all about, and I'll soon find out if I'm a man or a boy. I live for this moment, and if I look my ever-increasing torture in the face and can embrace it, and welcome it, this is not only a home run, but to me is more like wining the World Series. As the lashes continue to fall the pain passes the point of being unbearable to where it's so bad that my emotions turn into a kaleidoscope of colors and contradictions. I didn't even notice, but somehow all fear has slipped away from me as I am so totally consumed with dealing with the pain. It seems as if I have reached a certain plateau. As it gets worse, I start to feel like I can take it, because I WILL take it no matter how bad. Passing this point is almost like magic. The very lashes that I hate, I also love. But when will this ordeal be over? I writhe in pain as each new lash comes down on my bruises, yet I feel grateful for what's happening to me even as I detest it. Another lash wraps around my side and digs into my flesh with extra force and this breaks my silence as a scream escapes from my mouth. This must be the response my flogger has been waiting for, as he wraps me again, even harder. Now, when the whip wraps around the side (or shoulder) from the back, the whip takes on a far greater force and it can really dig in and/or bruise the area it wraps to. I almost want to compliment him on doing me so much pain, but a garbled scream echoes instead. I can't wait for all this to end at the same time I don't want it to stop. Periodically he does stop, to take a photo of the damage, or hold a cup to my lips so I can drink water. But those pauses seem to hurt me even more. In a strange way the continuing blows on my back fall into a rhythm that I somehow take comfort in. Sure enough, as the flogging resumes, the pain shocks me almost to death, yet I think I can deal with it easier than the pauses. As the routine continues, a kind of boredom sets in along with the agony and I am just waiting for it to stop. I can see images of errant sailors, shirtless, tied to the gratings, with blood running down their backs. Cats are swung with such force that they almost knock the guys over, and I wonder if they loved what was being inflicted on them even as they hated it? Did they misbehave just so they could be flogged? A fog lifts and I can see that one of those under the lash is really me. The lashes keep coming and I have no place to hide from them. Oh, why did the Navy ever abolish flogging? Guess that's why I never enlisted. I would have joined in a heartbeat if I knew I'd get flogged. Eventually the prescribed number of lashes are completed. Now that wasn't so bad, or was it so bad that it was good? Four or five minutes go by while more photos are taken and a new whip or cat is picked up and the sentence is pronounced. I'm hurting terribly and pain is shooting all over my back, arms, shoulders and sides. I made it this far. So far so good, I think. I also know that each whip or cat will be much more severe than the previous one. This is has been previously agreed to by both of us. The second whip lands on my already bruised back and it doesn't hurt like the first one did, but it hurts in a different way even more. As a couple more lashes mount, I can feel this one is much harder to take. From the way it's cutting me I know I am bleeding and it's horrible, yet wonderful when it hits the bruises left by the previous whip. I don't think I can take a whole lot of this one. How will I quit? I start to think of the man who is flogging me. Is he enjoying inflicting such suffering on me? I honestly hope so, and I hope his strength and stamina hold out 'till we are finished with every lash with all the whips. He must be pleased to torture me like this and to see me suffering, yet taking it all. And that thought makes me suddenly feel happy. If in my great torment I am giving him pleasure, then it is my good pleasure to suffer for his amusement, and ultimately for my own pleasure. Even more unbearable pain comes and it gets even worse as it radiates from my back through my whole body. He's hitting me so hard the impact almost knocks the wind out of me, and it's so intense that I can almost taste the whip in my mouth. But the more I want to quit, the more determined I am to stick it out and take it like a man. After a while boredom sets in again as I "get used to" this whip, if such a thing is possible. My ride continues with hurt and despair, hope and glee, self doubt and self confidence. When all lashes with this whip are administered to completion, I can't imagine that any other whip could possibly be more excruciating than this one. But after another pause I am proven wrong. The next whip is far more violent, and the one after that is even more so. After all, I wanted it this way, and I want even now. At some point, I would guess after I'd taken 100 lashes or so, I go through another change and reach another plateau. I start to realize that this -- such incredible pain and torment -- is what I came here for. While I am hating the pain no less, I start to feel like I am in control. It's this hurting like hell that I have wanted after all. I need to be here. This is where I belong. For the first time I begin to believe that I can take it. I still hate it. Damn, I hate it, but I feel more in control than at the dentist or shopping mall. In fact I now feel more in control of my destiny than at any other time. It gets even worse, yet, as I gain control. I feel like I am now bigger than my impulse to scream "Red." And, as much as I hate the lashes I know I definitely want to finish - yes every last stroke. Damn, it hurts, and by the way, please don't go easy on me! The last weapon to be used is almost always a cat o' nine tails of one sort or another, and I know by now that it will inflict the worst pain of all. If I can make it through this I am home free, I think. Smack! Crash! Yoweee! The cat lives up to its legend and with the first lash, I am in the most excruciating pain, and just hoping that I can hang on, while wanting to take every last lash with all my heart. Now I may be totally crazy, but I have wanted this and craved all this and that's what I'm getting. My flogger comments on the mangled state of my back, or am I just imagining that he did? I am not certain of anything anymore, but in the back of my mind I just hope the railroad doesn't go on strike before I get home. Life is becoming a blur and it's hard to tell what is pain and what is pleasure. Or are they one and the same? I don't know why I am holding up so well under such torment which gets worse by the second, yet I feel I will make it. Blood, bruises, welts and cuts as all just fine with me. I wouldn't have it any other way. There's no letup, and each lash only reduces me even more to just a pile of rubble. My tightly stretched arms are killing me, and so are my feet! I want to be set loose from my shackles immediately, almost as much as I want this to continue. Almost before I realize what's going on, it dawns on me that I have only 10 lashes to go! With the finish line in sight, the remaining lashes can't go by fast enough. So close, but so far, as they say. And I start to wonder if I am going to miss this horrible thing crashing down on my back, when it stops. I have a feeling I will. I know I will. And I wish I had the guts to ask him to do another round. Forty, fifty, even another hundred lashes would be music to my ears. That is if I live to see the finish line with this evil cat. O, just let this be over! My heart wants to yell out "Harder, please" as my tongue wants to yell "Enough already." After what seems like an agonizing eternity, the last stroke arrives, and as is his custom, he swings it extra hard. Suddenly, it's quiet and I feel a sense of relief. Finally I have a chance to notice that my back is ablaze with unbelievable pain. Am I insane, a fool, or just the luckiest guy on earth? Proud I am to have endured all that we agreed to. He puts down the cat, keeping all whips separate from each other so the blood on one doesn't contaminate another. My flogger steps behind me and I don't know for sure what he's doing, but I realize he's picking up his camera to document the injuries. With each click and each flash, I instinctively brace for another lash to land on my back, but it doesn't happen. Why am I so jumpy? I should know the difference between a whip and a camera, right? But my body reacts anyway. I can hear my flogger step away, possibly to another place. I just want to be let down from this miserable position I am in. But no hurry. Next week will do. Maybe I should be forced to remain in this painful position, so I'll be ready for another flogging tomorrow, and so on? No, I can't bear the thought of that, or can I? A strange thrill passes through my body. As I wait for him to return, part of me hopes that he doesn't come back with another whip. But what if he does? Will I be grateful? I think I know the answer, it's just hard to admit it. He returns with no whips in his hands and I feel relieved yet disappointed. Instead he has a cloth covered with alcohol and he wipes the blood off my back and sides. Oh! If I was hurting badly up to now, the sting of the alcohol only makes it worse. And what about those poor souls in the Navy, who got salt water thrown on their bloodied backs? How did they stand it? Pass the salt, please! I forgot to bring my own. Now that he's wiped some of the blood away, he takes some more photos and they can show what really happened. I hope no fireman or police officer has to enter this place right away, or it would be declared a disaster area. My body would be considered a disaster area! If only I would ask my flogger, he would gladly start another round of lashes on my bloody and badly bruised back. In my heart I know I can take more, so I want more. I managed to take all this, after all, so I could take quite a bit more. But I have a hard time asking for more torture when I am in terrible pain. Why do I want more? I don't really know. Then he loosens the chains and cuffs that held me in place, and upright. Almost unstable, I stumble from the place that has held me, rejoicing on the one hand, but on the other, I feel something is missing now that my arms are free. I'm thrilled that I survived all of this and feel very glad that I came. My jeans and the floor are dry so I must have maintained control of my bodily functions despite all that I went through. With the help of two mirrors, I get to survey the carnage firsthand. I like what I see, and my back looks horribly wonderful, though some might faint at the sight. I feel proud and happy and hurting all over. Yes, I was drawn to this place like a duck is drawn to water. And I am even more drawn to the lash. It is the brutality of such a flogging that makes me love it so. I'm in my element, as farfetched as it seems. (In some sessions, at this point he would say, "Now turn around so I can chain you up and whip your chest!" And, yes, I would willingly, no, gladly, submit, and a whole new set of rounds would begin with multiple whips and the artist would perform his magic on my chest just as he did my back) And it's all over, but for the pain. Then there's the matter of the photographs and the transferring digital images from computer to CD and all the like. I can't put on a T-shirt for a while. The blood needs to dry, after the antibiotic is applied. Now, in spite of the burning pain (or maybe because of it), I feel great! Never better, in fact. After some time talking and photo editing and such, I know it's time to leave. I hate putting on a shirt. As much as I'd love to walk down a busy street proudly showing my medals and trophies, I know that not everyone understands. I compliment my host on doing such a fine job on me, and thank him for being so hard on me, and I tell him, truthfully, that it was a totally beautiful experience! I like to be hurting like this. However, I've had enough for one day and I can't imagine when I'll want to get as injured as much as I did today, but something tells me I will crave it before long. As he escorts me toward the train or bus, we talk about how this session went and what we could do to make the next one more intense, longer and more painful. Finally at the station, almost without thinking, I find myself blurting out, "I could have taken a whole lot more, you know." The ride home is very painful. I have a second T-shirt over the original because of the blood, and I wish I was shirtless, but I don't want to be a conversation piece. I arrive home a very happy man. Happy I did it, and happy it's over, and happy to have found someone kind enough to inflict the level of pain I want. Sleep is difficult, and it's hard to find a comfortable position, and every now and then I am jolted awake by the pain as I turn, and I feel extremely happy to hurt like this. It brings back happy memories. The next day I wake in great pain, but I start doing the things I should have done yesterday, and every movement reminds me of what I endured, but I don't mind at all. The pain is my friend, like a fine wine. By evening euphoria sets in from yesterday's flogging and I am soon high as a kite. It's a different high from two nights earlier and hard to compare. Perhaps it's like a "runner's high" or one that other athletes get after a heavy workout. But it is truly wonderful, and it lasts for several days, along with my welts and bruises and cuts. Standing in front of the mirror, with a hand held one as well, I can view the artwork on my back. I gaze admiringly and appreciatively. Running my fingers over the welts, feels wonderful. I keep wanting to feel them. There is something I love about being marked up this way. I made a point of asking for plenty of bruises and wraps and I was not disappointed. The idea of taking so much pain is really exciting to me now and it's not long before I am thinking about and longing for another session. In fact two or three days after the lash, I want it almost desperately. Thinking about how we can increase the severity next time really excites me. By about 8 days after my session, I can see the marks are visibly fading, and by the 10th, they are no longer obvious, but I can still find traces of them as I know where to look and what I am looking for. The craters in my sides (from the wraps) look no worse than what I get from allergies. I could go swimming at this point and nobody would know. But it is enough that I know what happened. And I know full well, that I sure love the lash. I love welts, wraps, bruises, blood and the works. Harder, please! Photos of some of my flogging sessions are in the photo album "jsnaw" of the Yahoo group mcpf. A direct link to them is: http://photos.groups.yahoo.com/group/mcpf/lst?.dir=/jnsaw/ Many more photos are in my profile photo album at: http://f1.pg.photos.yahoo.com/ph/jeans_noshirt_and_whipped/my_photos Narratives of other sessions and other thoughts I have about flogging and whipping can be found in the files directory at: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/mcpf/files/jnsaw/ Sincerely, jeans_noshirt_and_whipped