Chapter 19

The first kissof the flogger against Mandi's tush made her gasp… and then laugh.

Pure joy came tumbling out of her. That one strike felt like absolutely everything she'd ever needed. It felt like a kiss, a caress, a love letter, all wrapped up in one.

And more than anything else, it quieted her brain.

Her brain was always on, always going, whether that was with anxiety, work or getting all excited about her special interests. But it was exhausting. Tiring.

Mandi was done with overthinking.

Well, maybe not entirely done with overthinking, but in this moment, she couldn't overthink.

Not wasn't overthinking.

Couldn'toverthink.

The sensations of the flogger, the contrast between the soft suppleness of the suede, and the thudding sting of the impact, it all drew her attention to one focused point.

Her physicality.

She couldn't overthink because she couldn't think. She could only feel.

The second strike made her laugh again, and then they fell with varying rhythms and patterns, and she went floating off into the calm delights of subspace. It helped that she couldn't predict the next strike, when or where it would fall, because it meant that she couldn't do anything but give herself over to the sensations.

Her subspace was calm, quiet—despite the sound of the flogger that she technically knew was still there.

Mommy Amelia checked in with her regularly, asking if she was green, occasionally pausing to trace the marks her flogger left behind with her fingers. That made Mandi shudder almost as much as the thud of the suede.

"You're such a good girl," said Mommy Amelia, "taking all of Mommy's flogs."

Mandi giggled, feeling almost drunk on the sensations. "More please, Mommy."

"More?"

"Harder. Please, Mommy."

Mommy Amelia chuckled softly. "You really do like flogs, don't you?"

Giggling spacily, Mandi nodded, which was slightly difficult from her position on all fours, face pressed into the coverlet. "Yes, yes I do!"

"Okay then, here they come!" And Mommy Amelia increased the intensity and speed. It wasn't too fast; it was the ideal speed, allowing Mandi to adjust to the sensations without having to safeword.

At some point, Mandi wasn't entirely certain when the flogging transcended into an out-of-body experience. She was aware of the impact of the strikes, could feel them warming her tush, could feel the laughter bubbling up and the moans that escaped as she got wetter and wetter. But, at the same time, it felt unreal. Like she was floating over her body, watching herself revel in the whole experience. Freed from the confines of her body. No longer locked in a physical state that brought with it so much overwhelm and distress.

Free.

And then she started to cry. Quietly at first, and then more and more, until she could taste the salt on her lips.

She became vaguely aware of the flogs ceasing, of Mommy Amelia placing the flogger on the bed beside her, and then rolling Mandi onto her side and pulling her in close to soothe her.

"It's okay, babygirl. I've got you. Let it all out."

Mandi wasn't entirely certain what she was crying over. Perhaps it was the release of emotion, the build-up of having to be on, having to be perfect every day out there; perhaps it was grief for this side of herself that she'd thought she'd lost.

Perhaps it was simply because for the first time in forever, she felt so looked after, so cherished, so loved, when she'd really managed to convince herself that she wasn't loveable. Not as she was.

All her life, people had thought she was weird, "quirky," too emotional, too enthusiastic, too much.

She hated being too much. Hated this world that punished her for it. Punished her for being neurodiverse in a world designed for neurotypical people. Because for her being neurodiverse meant being hyper-sensitive—to emotions, to sounds, to space. It meant being the odd one out—always. It meant never really belonging.

And the world had told her this for so long, at school, at work, at home, that she'd started to believe it. Her ex had told her that the day they'd broken up. "You're too much," he'd said. "You're too much all of the time." And she'd believed him.

Mandi sobbed harder.

It was only now, here in this moment, she realized she wasn't too much.

The world just hadn't been enough for her.

She shuffled, turned just a smidgeon too quickly to face Mommy Amelia that her boob hit her in the face. It made them both giggle.

"I'm not too much." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"You're not."

And then she kissed Mommy Amelia. Put all her longing and caring and gratitude into that one movement, running her hands through short shorn hair.

"Please," she said, "please, may I taste you, Mommy?"

Mommy Amelia seemed to realize how important this was to her, because she kissed Mandi back so sweetly, cupping Mandi's face in her hands. "Yes, darling girl, of course you may."

She moved down the bed, throwing aside all attempts at being graceful or sexy; she just needed Mommy. Needed Mommy to feel as good as she did, needed Mommy to be overcome with pleasure.

A hand reached out and held hers. "You'll hold my hand, babygirl?"

The open vulnerability on her Mommy's face moved Mandi. "Always, Mommy," she said.

Taking Mommy's trousers off took some doing, and then her unadorned boxers beneath might have felt plain on any other woman, but on Mommy they looked perfect.

Perfect and wet.

Mandi could see Mommy's desire painting the seams, dark fabric turning darker, and she tugged at the waistband. "May I, Mommy? Please?"

Mommy Amelia was blushing, she could see. "Yes, Mandi, petal. Yes, please touch Mommy."

When she ran her finger up from Mommy's opening to her clit, it came back slick.

"Oh," she breathed. "You're so wet."

"That's because of you, darling." Mommy's words sounded strained, and Mandi looked up, worried.

"Are you okay, Mommy? Do you need to yellow?"

"Maybe just for a second," said Mommy Amelia. "I think I need to explain something."