"Let Freedom Sting"

Sometimes the greatest discoveries are right under your nose. All you had to do was open your eyes. We were out on a horseback riding tour when I “discovered” it. After about an hour I took a break to sit by the ocean while SugarAnne, who grew up riding, opted to ride bareback in the ocean.

When she came out of the ocean she was talking about the chaffing that would occur. For some reason SugarAnne made the mistake of wearing short-shorts for this journey. And the riding apparently began to irritate her thighs. I had cargo trunks under my cargo shorts and, like the gentleman I am, I offered my outer shorts to her.

I don’t know why I never noticed it before but that’s when I “discovered” it. I hadn’t given it any thought in regard to our vacation but there it was. Right there, under my nose. Under my belly button, as it were. I reached down to my waist to unbuckle my belt and there - WAIT! Wait just a cotton picking minute now! Unbuckle my b-b-belt?! I “discovered” that I had brought more than “these hands”.

SugarAnne looked at me. I looked at her. We both looked down at the belt now released from its sheathe of waist loops. I looked back at her and with a mischievous smile and a gleam in my eye. Her rebuttal was a look that said, “Oh no you don’t!” I slowly doubled the belt over. I folded the bottom third up creating a handle for “these hands”. A rush of adrenaline ran through me like a 5-hour energy shot. I began to slap, with a playful rhythm, my open palm with the looped end of the belt. The tour guides didn’t know that it wasn’t just a tease.

Needless to say, I used the belt at the first opportunity. And frankly, I think I was a bit intimidated by the thing. Over the next 3 1/2 days I would apply it to her booty with not more than a tickle – although she would likely disagree – during spankings with “these hands”. But it would become instrumental – quite literally – in the second monumental moment of our vacation.

One day an unholy trinity of hormones, issues from home invading my “crack”berry and – get this – SugarAnne’s desire to smoke weed, had her crawling the walls. It’s probably been 20 years since she last smoked a joint. But in Jamaica it is readily available and she was quite challenged by the temptation of enterprising Jamaicans milling about right outside our resort.

She was having one of those Romans 7 struggles, where you can’t make yourself do the thing that’s good for you, and you can’t stop yourself from doing the thing that’s bad for you. You know, that feeling you get when you’re on a strict diet and the smell of chocolate is wafting through the air tempting your nostrils to follow the scent. She was really struggling. In fact, she was certain that she was going to fall.

She looked at me with wilted disposition tangled in a web of desperation. And with a plea that was reminiscent of that classic scene from the 1958 movie “The Fly”, she said, “’Help me. Help me’. I need for you to help me.” I asked her what I could do. Here it is ladies and gentlemen – that monumental moment. She looked around, locked eyes on what she was looking for and bent down to the floor to pick up the belt. She stood. It was like Lady Liberty handing me the torch of freedom. I accepted this offer of monumental proportions and had her lie face down on the bed with her behind propped up by a pile of pillows.

SugarAnne, who is quite wise, can be masterfully subtle sometimes. Perhaps she was just saying, “Be a man motherfucker.” She can also be artfully cunning sometimes. Perhaps she wanted to test the waters to see if she could take the punishment – IF she did fall. But characteristically, she is genuinely sincere. (I found out later that she was actually being artfully cunning!). I slowly walked to the most advantageous position doubling the belt over as I eyed my target. I folded the bottom third of the belt up, creating a handle for “these hands”. I sternly slapped my open palm with the looped end of the belt. That 5-hour energy shot of adrenaline rushed over me and I proceeded to give SugarAnne the “therapy” she needed. The “therapy” she requested. I torched that ass to high levels of squirming and wiggling. When she protested and resisted and tried to rise up, I firmly placed my hands between her shoulder blades, pushed her back down and thrashed some more all the while dispensing a relatively lengthy soliloquy about the dangers of marijuana and cigarettes.

I lit that ass up! I whomped and walloped over and over. I’m telling you, if she’d’ve farted, flames would’ve came out! I left her crimson, with a “hot spot” clover in the middle of her right cheek. For days she would reach back subconsciously give it a soothing rub: the universal sign of the spanko. Awww, how cute is that! I would give no more spankings for the rest of vacation. Poking the “hot spot” was all that was necessary to buy her attention, to guide her direction, to “use” her deliciously.

It would take the rest of vacation for me to wrap my mind around what had happened, what it meant and where we go from there in “this thing we do”. One thing is certain. She’ll probably never ask for “therapy” again so, going forward, it’s my job to see when she needs for me to let freedom sting.