This entry is part 4 of 12 in the series Kink of the Week

Excluding rope, my very first BDSM toy purchase was a riding crop.  I’m not going to be shy in telling you that I bought my first riding crop something more than 25 years ago.  I know it ages me pretty strongly, but so does the grey in my beard.

More than my share of more standard sex toys like dildos and vibrators came home, and then went away, over that quarter of a century.  I’m tempted to say that legions of dildos and vibes have come and gone, but that’d probably be at least a minor exaggeration.  Still, I’ve gone through more than my share.

Funny thing is, I still have the riding crop.  I still use it too.  From one perspective, I could claim it’s been my most valuable BDSM toy.  As I’ve already pointed out, it’s by far my longest lived impact toy.  And, if I remember correctly, it cost me something like $10.  That’s not a bad price for a toy.  Thinking like a business, figuring it’s initial cost out against it’s current 25 year lifespan, the riding crop cost me one-tenth of a penny per day that I’ve owned it.  For all the fun it’s created, I can’t think of anything even close to being such a bargain.

That 25 year old riding crop was in a scene in 1991 that helped shape the course of who I am today.  It was a a scene where I realized who I truly am, and what really drives me.

What drives me isn’t money, because money’s only good to buy things.  It’s not the people who were in that fateful scene either.  One’s now an ex-wife, BlissfulTorment, she was my submissive for 15 years.  It’s been 5 years since I’ve seen or talked to that one, obviously she’s no longer relevant.  The other lady in that night’s fateful scene is still a friend, we still even use the word “love” to sign our correspondence, despite the fact that it’s been more than a decade since we last spoke in person.  I even anticipate that she’ll be joining us here at Joy of Kink as an additional author and reviewer.  Great friend, wonderful woman, we exchange wonderful emails two or three times a week, but hardly a driving force in my life these days.

No it was more than the people I was with that night.  The revelation was like a coming home.  It was about me, and me alone.  That one night, with that crop in my hands, I knew who I was.

My friend and I double teamed my ex-wife that night.  We spanked Bliss, slapping her ass with our hands.  We  whipped her with a short flogger made from latigo leather.  We used a leather strap, a hairbrush, a wooden ruler, and, we beat her butt with a riding crop.  Of them all, the riding crop was the best.  The scene lasted for hours.  It was, without a doubt, the strongest working over I’ve ever given an ass before this last year.  The color of Blissy’s butt was incredible that night.  Her ass actually reminded me of a bed of coals, glowing red and radiating heat.

It was over the glow of that fire we lit in her ass that night, that I had my revelations.

I am a dominant.

I am a sadist.

I struggled with those terms for the longest time.  White male dominance and white male privilege were things to be fought against, not embraced.  I was a political activist fighting for equality, justice, and democracy.  And while BDSM has little or nothing to do with justice, from a male dominant perspective, it’s certainly the polar opposite of democracy and equality.

I rule the roost in my home.  When she addresses me, my slave calls me “Sir” or “Master” in the most respectful tone.  She addresses me as Sir even especially when we are alone.  I direct Serafina’s actions in all ways and control her sexuality as if it belongs to me.  I choose her clothing, order her food when we eat out, and at the end of the night, I tell Serafina when to cum too.  She wouldn’t even dream of having an orgasm without my permission.

It was standing there with a riding crop in my hands, over the lady lifeguard and personal trainer who was bound to my ottoman.  It was striking her with that crop, hearing her grunt and groan, but also feeling her get wetter and wetter.  It was the heat, the glow, the power . . . the passion, the desire, and the power (again) that seduced me.  I actually fell in love with who I was that night.  For perhaps the first time in my life, I actually was ready to embrace the whole man.

I wasn’t striking her ass because I was a son trying to please his parents.  Quite the opposite.  I wasn’t striking her ass because it was one of my pet political causes.  It was (once again) the opposite of what was expected of me.  And it was fucking glorious!  It was real, it was right, and it was me!

I can’t say I’ve never struggled again with being a sadist since that time, that would be untrue.  There are times, still to this day, where I wonder why I need this outlet, why I have to be the admittedly difficult man that I am.  I only know the good Lord made me this way for a reason.  If it’s hard for some folks to embrace a sadist, hard to understand why they have the need to hurt others, imagine what it’s like to have the need yourself . . .

This is my riding crop reminisce for today, and for posterity (not to mention posteriors!)  It was only with a riding crop in my hand that I learned to embrace who I am, to love the sadist at my core.

riding crop reminisce

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Today’s riding crop reminisce is in response to a prompt from Kink of Week.  Click on the icon to find out who’s discussing riding crops this week.

Kink of the Week

The Joy of Kink is also joining Molly’s Daily Kiss in posting at least one image every day on our blog for the entire month of February – the February Photo Fest!
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