Here is another text I wrote last summer. This is the one I missed most when I still believed they were lost forever. I am very glad I found it. I have reread it and made some small changes but I don't want to edit it and try to make it something it wasn't when I wrote it. It is as it is and now you can read it.
In the evening we went out. The rain had ceased to fall and the mist was tumbling down from the mountain. It was a little chilly, not cold, just a little chilly. It was still a summer evening.
He went out before me, having told me it was time. I took a deep breath and followed him. He stood in front of the door for a little while, looked around and shrugged his shoulders as if to say that he found the air a little cold.
The sun was down but the evening was not yet dark. He turned to me and smiled. I looked at that smile and wondered what it meant. I knew it meant a lot of things. He loved me, I knew that. He wanted me to come with him out in the summer evening. I wondered what he was thinking when he smiled. What thoughts was in his mind as he turned to me, regarded me and waited for me.
I was dressed in a bathrobe and a bathrobe only, save for my flip flops. In my hand I held the knife. I was wrapped in thick towelling but I felt strangely naked in my robe. I was naked underneath my clothes, I always was but this evening it meant something to say that.
The chilly evening air seemed to clash with my pounding heart and my blushing cheeks. I was prepared but yet wholly unprepared. I knew what awaited me but I could not understand it, could not see it. My mind didn't want to think and see.
I looked at him. He walked in front of me and I saw his shoulders move, his feet and legs move. He was strong but not just in his body. He was strong for me. It was not because of his strength I had given myself to him. Not even because I loved him. I was his because I trusted him.
He stopped and pointed to a stand of saplings growing in a bundle. They were slender and supple and would make excellent switches. I knew what that gesture meant. I trembled as I knelt by the stand and reached out my hand, the one holding the knife.
He told me to take a couple of the sturdiest, strongest switches. A rush of blood to my cheeks told me it was not only fear I felt thinking of those switches.
As I cut those switches I felt a strange kind of tingle within me, a kind of arousal, an overwhelming sensation that whispered in my ear of the immense bravery and madness of submitting myself to what lay ahead. And of the trust and grace that was in letting this happen.
I stood up with two sturdy, long and green, very supple and strong switches. They were almost completely smooth, immensely beautiful in their slender grace and power.
Smooth was good, it meant no cutting, no unwanted side effect. Sturdy was more menacing, it meant other things. It meant unbearable. I shivered at the thought.
We walked to the stream. We stood for a while watching the unearthly beauty of the mist dancing in thin veils over its surface. The stream came from the darkness and disappeared into the unknown and on its way it passed by our little cottage.
We stood by the wooden stair that led down to the brown but clear water. I shivered a little because I knew that this was the place. He looked at me. He smiled.
I knew it was going to be unbearable but I was not angry. I was his. I was his to command.
I stepped out of my flip flops and felt how wet the grass was against my bare feet. I stood for a while overcome with the immense beauty of the evening and the fear of those switches. There was in this moment also a strange sense of my own determination, my own devotion and strength. Yes, I was strong. I had my eyes open. And what I saw was him, standing there, waiting for me. I didn't want to let him wait.
I was ready, I stood before him and now I waited. I knew what he would say but it was for him to say, not for me to anticipate, foresee. I waited.
He regarded me, smiled again. Then on his command I opened my robe and let it slip from my shoulders. I felt it caress my back and arms as it left me naked, sensing the cold air against my skin.
Baring myself for him was not easy, not something done without the turmoil of mixed and violent emotions. I never hesitated. That was his strength, to let me bare myself without hesitation.
He pointed to the railing of the stairs, the stairs that led down to the stream. That was a beautiful place for the unbearable, for my strength, for me to stand there, naked, leaning against the railing, looking out over the stream and the mist when he took the sturdy switches to me.
The wood was cold and wet against my lower belly. I was strangely aroused by sensing the hard surface press against my body at that point, at that weak and sensitive part of my body. It was as if the railing was caressing me, touching me with an intimate and arousing touch, that kind of intrusive, humiliating and immensely sensual touch a strong man uses when he will tell a woman he consider her his.
I pressed my lower belly to the railing, straightened my back, took hold of the wood with my hands and leaned forward. I was making myself ready for the unbearable.
He talked to me, told me how beautiful the night was, how immensely magical the evening was. He told me of my beauty and my nakedness and how vulnerable I was and how desirable I was. I was waiting for the unbearable. I didn't want to know how beautiful I was.
It was his call. I was there for him, on his command. I was his and I waited.
When he at last touched me with the slender and powerful switch I knew I was not prepared, I was not ready. I could never be ready. I could not prepare for the unbearable.
I heard the hissing sound of the switch through the air and then I felt it hit me, across my buttocks, my naked and vulnerable buttocks. At last my time had come, my time of strength and devotion.
The world changed. The switch had burned me and the pain was excruciating. It traversed my body and I was no longer me. I was just the pain in my body, the burning mark on my skin.
I was shivering, composed but shocked and still waiting, waiting for the unbearable to continue.
The next time the switch fell on my burning and bared skin I knew how brittle my composure was. I felt tears welling up in my eyes, I felt a flood of crying run through me and become a low moaning sound as it was let out.
The third time, I was crying. I let go of my feelings and cried. It was a relief to cry.
When the switch fell for the fourth time I felt very small and very vulnerable and very exposed. I was angry and wondered why he wanted this for me. I didn't hate him. I should have hated him but I didn't.
Then I wanted it to stop. I desperately wanted it to stop. It was unbearable and I couldn't bear it and I wanted it to stop. It was too painful, too horrible and I couldn't see the meaning of it. I had only my devotion then, only my dedication and the switch made it seem weak.
I am strong. At the core I am strong and I stay were I am. I did stay were I was. The pain was, really, unbearable and he switched me as if he wanted to tell me I wasn't strong. I had fought him, before this I had fought him, to prove he was wrong, but not any more, now I just stayed were I was. My strength was of another kind, not the kind that wanted to brag about itself, it just wanted me to stay were I was.
Then it was over. Then he stopped switching me. I was crying like a baby, no anger, no hate, just pain. Pain and devotion, and strength.
He held me in his arms. He stroked my hair. He caressed me but did not speak. He held me close and he admired me. At that moment I was the one to admire and he knew that. I was proud, not because he admired me but because I was still there.