Maybe it was just yesterday that I watched myself in the mirror while getting spanked. Maybe it was months ago, but the memory of what I saw remains.
I watched his arm swing with a mild detachment, as if I were a bystander instead of an active participant, as if the reddening bottom that dipped in and then swelled out with each impact was not my own.
The angle was such that I saw the woman clearly: she was bent over the foot of the bed, her arms outstretched and battling to remain that way; her bottom shifted as her legs jogged off the belt’s effect; her breasts had swung free from the tank top she wore. I was embarrassed for her.
She was staring back with a hungry interest.
And even though the belt was used with significant force, enough to lift her with each blow, the spanker remained in cool control. Before his arm swung, I saw him simultaneously measuring the effect of the last stroke while calculating the exact placement of the next. His hand would move over her bottom in admiration of her and his work, paying homage to these moments of surrender.
And then he looked up and saw me watching, nodding in acknowledgment before his lips set again in concentration, broken with a twitch at the corners as if in enjoyment. He did not mind the audience. This was not a time to hide.
But then the intensity grew and I had to grant them privacy to finish. She began to moan and turned away from me to focus on the building crescendo. I could not watch them anymore.
I left them there — he abandoning the leather belt in favor of his hand while she lifted her bottom to greet it.
These are things not needed on film. These things will be remembered.