The Belt

At best, when I read about it in stories it always sounded a bit clichéd and as such, mildly amusing. He strides, the owner of the belt, with the exaggerated strut of a hairy hero. I can feel my eyes roll as I type. Such machismo bores me. It is too cartoon like and too one dimensional to make any impact.

At worst the belt used to remind me of that awful scene from ‘The Godfather’ when Carlo has beaten his terrified wife Connie in the bathroom and slips off his belt before walking towards her as the camera pulls mercifully away leaving us hearing her screams.

Shudder.
That was the opposite of erotic. That kind of scene does not scare me. It makes me feel calm, resolute and ready to defend myself – probably with a lawyer and a restraining order. It is nothing to do with this thing we do.

But then slowly and I am not quite sure how, I started to see the belt differently. I do not know exactly when it happened. It certainly happened without my realising.

I suspect the change in the way I saw the belt came from him, or rather from what I saw of him and what I learned from him.

I never knew before what it was to be taken like this, relentless and loving, every time. He observes me and considers, and quick as a flash he reacts. He spanks me in a way that makes me burn and cr y and feel safe and adored.

His approach is intelligent and considered. There is nothing clumsy about a man like this, nothing thoughtless or ad hoc. His way of being with me transforms me, even in his absence, and I’m comforted and made safe by his ministrations.

I do not know how but the belt has come to symbolise him in my mind. I do not love the belt, far from it. It scares me but only like he scares me. He scares me when he will not let me off when I am in trouble. He scares me in the way that he knows what I think or feel before I do. He scares me in how much I love him and how much he has taught me and changed me in the time I have known him. It feels like he has known me all my life and has just been waiting for me to realise that he is there.

The belt is something worn, always present, a gentleman’s understatement. Worn without additional statement and adornment it tells of a gentleman. There is something smart about it. It is traditional; it speaks of respect and of knowing oneself. Worn in this manner it is not showy, not an exaggerated toy, indeed not a toy at all. There is something utterly masculine about its dark leather and the strong hands that ow n it.

Slipping his belt off is a time of preparation, a time of waiting. I cannot alter his mind, he takes his time, hand steady as he curls it and wraps it. I say this but not once have I dared look. I hide my eyes so that I cannot see him and his actions. Like the first calm, steep ascent on a fairground ride, the buildup starts to undo me. I am sorry already and I can’t speak to tell him so but I know that he knows. I hide my face so he cannot see me. Like a child I think that if I cannot see him that somehow I will become invisible to him. I wait to fade into the pillows underneath me. I never do.

The sound of it is like something from an imagined life, as though I have entered the stories in my mind. The thwack of the leather slapping against my skin wraps around all of me, not just the curves of my bottom. It reminds me of his voice, soft enough to gather me in, deep and even, knowing how to find me and how to reach me.

There is something humiliating in being punished like this, something akin to childishness. The position is a hard one to keep, bent over, away from the dreadful comfort of his body. It is reminiscent of a not-quite schoolgirl or a beloved, errant not-quite adult/child. I am in a vortex of age and identity with this implement. I fall into being a new person as I fall away from the old.

He catches me as I fall. He makes me smile, his belt makes me shake and lower my eyes, but it is his lap I would sit on for comfort.

Would you like another?