I recently lost a dear companion. One who shared my passions for 17 years. We travelled together across Europe, the Americas, Asia and and the pacific. We shared lovers and adventures. We were parted by oceans and deserts then tearfully reunited.
But my precious is gone forever. Cast aside in the heat of the moment in favour of enticing new play things, then snatched away from the party, perhaps an admirer. Vanishing without a trace.
It is clear that we will never again play together. So now I want to tell you the story of my departed beloved.
Let me tell you about my first flogger.
It was not love at first sight. In fact, when I first laid eyed on it I thought it quite ordinary and somewhat crass. Medium length, A curved wooden handle, solid metal studs encircling untreated leather straps. Not a fearsome work of art.
I wouldn’t have picked it my self.
But I did do my best to look grateful and impressed. After all, it was a gift from my mentor, Mistress SH. Presented in her brash Dutch manner as ‘a little thing I could practice with’.
Being in my late teens at the time, I didn’t realise that this nondescript object was a badge of honour. A recognition that I passed my apprenticeship period with flying colours. That Mistress SH, one of the Netherlands’ most respected Dominatrixes, judged that I have what it takes to follow in her boot steps.
I do now. And I love her and miss it all the better.
And it was a fine instrument Mistress SH presented me with. My new flogger had perfect balance. And with the years of use, it became an extension of my body. It almost seemed to anticipate my movements and fly by the power of my will alone. When it connected with the living flesh, I could feel it in my core.
It could be used gently, flicking the tips, stroking, or strangling, the leather sneaking about on anticipating or unsuspecting limbs. And then, stroke by stroke, gather momentum and power until, tearing through the air with a mighty roar, it would raise stunning red welts where it landed. Impact, bite, devour the skin. Vicious, yet loving, and always intimately accurate.
The wooden handle was shaped to fit in both orifices. When inserted all the way in, the studs would press against rectums and cunts exactly where it caused the victim to erupt.
It easily folded up to fit in a hand bag. A boot. Hang from a belt. When I travelled light, my flogger would be the first thing I packed.
We went everywhere together. To leathers bars and play parties, 5 star hotels, dark alee ways, the opera, camping trips, dungeons, cruises, abandoned factories, hospital visits, galleries, botanical gardens and cheap motels. On one memorable occasion, we played on a tropical beach together.
It was irreplaceable. And I will miss it forever.
But the hard fact is: I now seek a new perfect flogger.