It starts soft — almost teasing. The paddle skims across your skin in smooth, sweeping arcs, of the cool, rubber. There’s no threat in the touch, just a curious pressure, like it’s learning the shape of you. It lingers. Tracks your breath. Builds a quiet anticipation that settles low in your belly.
There’s something deceptive in its calm, almost caring touch. Then it lands.

The sting is sudden — a slap that slices through stillness. It doesn’t need force to speak. Even a gentle swing snaps sharply against your skin, bright and biting. The flat rubber surface delivers its message clearly: fast, sharp, and hard to ignore.

Another strike — was that five or six? How many more will there be? The sharp slap lands again, and again, each one blooming across your skin. That burn. That radiating warmth. The paddle leaves… you invite the next arrival.

The thud is sudden — thick, heavy, blunt. It doesn't sing across your skin like the others. It drops into you. All at once the familiarity is gone. That bright sting you were welcoming is replaced with something deeper, slower — a sensation that sinks. The edge of the paddle does not curve to match your body, it presses in to you. It doesn’t just strike — it stops you. It grounds you. 

You’re never sure what’s coming next. Sting or thud. Light or heavy.
Every swing is a question, every answer felt.