The Power of Letting Go

He opened the door with a big smile. I hid behind my hat and stepped into his flat. The home-made tea was cooking in the kitchen, its scent carrying me instantly to an Indian market with all its hot, damp climate, business, and dirt — although I’ve never even been to that country. I sat at his table, sipping the spicy, hot tea and talking about casual things. I came to flog him, but how was I going to initiate the session? He talked more than usual; his sentences were endless, packed with details. He was nervous. For 10+ years he had been an impact-play top, proudly on the dominant side. He had never once allowed himself to sink into the receiving end of sensation. Until today.

The tea reached a drinkable temperature. It was sweet, but not too sweet — he knew I don’t like overly sugary things. The mix of chilli and ginger pushed the heat up into my nose. It burned, but I liked it. I kept sipping slowly, hoping he would eventually run out of words. “Let’s just let verbality carry away his stress,” I thought.

The washing machine started its centrifuge. It was unbearably loud; dishes were jumping on top of it. He moved them aside carefully, saving them from certain death.

I suggested we move to the living room. Together we prepped the space; I improvised little islands of impact depending on the positions he preferred. He liked my ideas and slowly began giving himself over to the thought of being flogged today.

But the verbosity returned during negotiation. He listed specific instructions, triggers, preferences, past and present experiences, medical history, fears, possible outcomes. We negotiated a lot. He talked a lot. He still wasn’t ready to let go.

Eventually he stood up and decided to stand at the wall.

I gently called him back to the sofa. I don’t believe in “topping from the bottom” — you either let go or you don’t, and he just wasn’t. I gave him a massage with occasional scratching: simple, loving, firm. His facial expression changed; he began to enjoy the moment. I asked for permission at every step — not because I thought he’d want to keep his T-shirt on in front of me after years of friendship, but because I wanted him to hear his own consent.

I finally asked him to return to the wall. He took the agreed position while I warmed him further with my hand, slowly but firmly. His face remained soft; there was no sign he wanted to take control again.

I took out my gentle finger flogger, Artemis and gave him a long, slow encounter with her, using only the flogger’s weight for softness. When I started to flog him, he began adjusting his position and telling me where to hit or avoid, so I switched to a different flogger — the hairy one, most people’s favourite starter. It worked; he eased back into the bliss of receiving. Finger floggers are not everyone’s faviourite sensation, and that is totally okay.

At one point he felt light-headed, so we moved to a half-kneeling position. The moment he rested his head on the pillow, he melted there like a puddle of rainwater — peaceful and happy. I could tell he was starting to get high. I switched to my thuddier floggers, beating to the rhythm of Verdi. When Pavarotti sang more intensely, I flogged him more intensely too. I even brought Artemis back into the game and discovered how to let her full weight and surface land on my person’s back. I loved the new play, the new skill, the sound it made. When I looked at him again, he was gone. He lay on the bed as if nothing else existed but sensation. I checked in; he said he felt fabulous. So I continued.

Different opera, same rhythm, same flogger, same technique. He stayed in that “let-go bliss.” My mind started to wander: Is this enough? Am I enough? Am I good enough to flog someone so experienced? Is this all I can give him? I have so much more technique — I am so much more exciting than this!

A new opera started to play, the intensity increased, and part of me wanted to follow it, but I didn’t. Something whispered that if I had brought him to this place, then what I was doing was enough. So I set my ego aside and stayed with it. Same rhythm, same technique. Exactly what felt right in the moment. After all, the moment wasn’t about me anymore.

We flogged for a long time — longer than I usually do with others. Rhythmic, predictable, nothing wild, nothing surprising. His face stayed smooth; he could have stayed in that bliss for the rest of his life. The difference between us dissolved. I felt like an omnipotent fairy whose sole purpose was to be there for him.

Time was running short, and I wanted to leave space for aftercare, so I suggested we slowly come down. He agreed.

After cooldown he asked me to microwave the remaining tea he’d made. We curled up in bed. He was still high — high for a very long time. And happy. I’d never seen him so genuinely happy before. It was lovely to be in his truly joyful arms. I had made him that happy. He picked the cuddling positions, checking if I felt comfortable. He was in control again.