After an intense, hard and fast beginning to our cane session last night, M paused briefly to admire his work. Running his warm, brazen palms over the stingy red welts, he leaned back to then trace each with the tip of the cane.
“Do you notice anything,” he asked after he’d done so.
“Was that an M?,” I asked in reply.
“Yep…,” he answered, striking those welts again in the same M pattern, clearly pleased with himself, making the marks darker, more raised.
Pausing again to stroke and squeeze his marks with his hands, he explained that at the start of every session, he whacks an M on both of my cheeks. An M for his initial. His mark, on me. Branded as his. My insides are still smiling.
This morning, as I was sipping my coffee and sitting on a sore bum, daydreaming and replaying last night, all I could think is…I wish his marks never faded away…but that’s not it exactly. I do love to look at them, touch them, feel them against whatever it is they happen to make contact. I guess maybe I simultaneously mourn their loss as I anticipate the new. I just love to have his marks, and I love that process….the old fading away and the invitation for the new (and sometimes the old and new together).