III. I, Whipping Top

We met on America Online. It was several months after the Singletails workshop. Months that I had filled with practice. I was the terror of the plant world, with all of the shrubbery I was whipping. A friend of mine in Pennsylvania has a macadam driveway lined by a yew hedge. The hedge and the driveway were perfect for practice. I became a frequent houseguest.

At home, I had acquired a St. Andrew’s Cross, and there I had lashed a big teddy-bear wearing an old patterned tee shirt. I could point out a spot, throw the whip, and watch the fabric jump and pucker right where I wanted it.

My AOL guy lived in Fort Lauderdale, a place I was visiting every chance I got. Must be something in the water down there: it’s a town of 1.5 million with six leather bars. He was a Top, too, with flogging and singletails heading his list of favorite activities. We had a lot to talk about. He told me that from time to time, he liked to get flogged, and asked if I would accommodate him. I readily agreed.

I flew down, unloaded my stuff at the guesthouse where I was staying, and then drove over to his house. After a light dinner, we spent time in his backyard throwing whips together. To my surprise, his style was pretty monochrome: he would throw a signal whip in the same way that kids in the gym locker room snap towels at each other. I went through my throws, showing off just a little.

Before I flogged him, he announced he had a special surprise. He had invited a boy of his to join us later in the evening. “So save yourself when you’re flogging me, because he’s a really hot muscular boy, and I think you’ll enjoy working him.” (Fort Lauderdale, the City of Hot Muscle Boys on Tap.) After a flogging scene that was very successful for both of us, he said, “The boy is probably here. I told him to let himself in, strip, and remain on his knees in the living room until we come and get him.”

And there he was. A beautiful boy. We hooded and leashed him, and lead him into the garage play-space, where we put him in stocks. I set about flogging my second back of the evening. Everybody was having a good time, when my host took me aside and said sotto voce, “He would really like it if you whipped him. He loves getting whipped.”

I was stunned. At this point, I had whipped Yew, Rhododendron, Oak, English Ivy, Forsythia, and my teddy-bear, but never a man. In fact, a few weeks earlier I had dinner with A. from the Singletails workshop. My purpose in meeting up with him was to ask, “How will I know when I’m ready?”

A. had kindly offered to coach me through my first scene. He would see what he could do about securing a bottom, and the three of us would play. That sounded ideal. Having A. there would make it all right. But A. wasn’t there in the garage in Fort Lauderdale. Just this guy, the hot boy in the stocks, my whips, and me.

“Well, I’ve never whipped anyone before. I only learned how to throw a few months ago…” I explained. “What are you talking about?” he said, “You’re a lot more accomplished than I am, and I whip this guy all the time.”

I took a minute and collected myself. I approached the boy, and gently stroked his back, red from my work with the floggers and cat. I leaned in close, and said to him in a whisper, “I’d like to try out my signal whip on your back, boy, on that beautiful back of yours. Yours will be the first back I’ve whipped, boy. You remember the safe word we talked about? Use that safe word and that will be my last stroke. You want to proceed, boy?”

Without a pause, he gave an eager, “Yes, Sir! I want to give my back to you, Sir!”

I stood well back, so he was out of range by a few feet. I began throwing my whip. Even though I was cracking twenty-four inches or more away from his back, he would jump at every crack. Slowly, slowly I moved closer. Now, I was cracking right over the skin. I could see the puff of air from the crack moving the drops of sweat on his back. His sounds were low and guttural, a good sign. (The higher the pitch, the less fun the bottom is having.)

Then I moved forward a half an inch, aiming for a spot square between his shoulder blades, and threw. He moaned long and low. I backed up for a few cracks, and then connected again. And again, and again.

I saw the blood. I gasped. He was bleeding. I was making him bleed. Blood is so sacred. This was sublime. I paused, moved in close, blowing on his back, covered with welts and cuts. “How’s it going, boy?” I asked.

“Please don’t stop, Sir,” he said. I continued. He was howling, singing. “Oh. Yes. Sir! Fucking! Yes! Sir!”

I felt like I was possessed by a demon. Only in a really, really good way. I stopped when I couldn’t take any more. It was just so intense, so moving. I felt like I would explode. I slowed my rhythm, then stopped. I approached the boy, who was heaving.

“You are strong and brave. You are a warrior. Warrior strength. There is power in you. Nothing can hurt you now. You are beautiful. You are golden.”

“Yes, Sir,” he sighed.

I cleaned him up and released him from the stocks. Then, the three of us sat out back sipping Amaretto as the sky turned from orange to crimson to indigo. The boy had this huge, goofy grin on his face. He was flying.

I called him the next day. He said his back felt great, and asked when I would be back down in Fort Lauderdale.