Castilleja de la Cuesta “Since my demo bottom has a burn on her back, would anyone be willing to help me with this next part?”
Rough’s face stayed forward as his right hand rose up and pointed towards me. My hand was halfway in the air already. Rough knows me well enough.
Thursday was a scattered day. By the time I made it to Rough’s class, I had already figured out my ride plan with Amy, slept in a bit, and made it to the Baekry late for breakfast: blueberry pancakes, freshly sliced peaches and strawberries.
Rough’s backhanding class was the only presentation that caught my eye on Thursday. I made my way to the upper fire pit tent just after my yummy meal.
Rough went over many different techniques for backhanding people. Most memorable of these was his backhanding his demo bottom’s cunt. It took myself and another helpful volunteer to hold his demo bottom’s legs open (with the demo bottom’s consent). To our collective astonishment, (though known by Rough, hence the requested assist) his demo bottom came multiple times just from his abuse of her cunt.
Towards the end of the class, he “asked” for a volunteer to help assist him. His last technique was a backhand strike to the center of the upper back, right where his demo bottom wanted to avoid. I gave a little striptease for my fellow classmates before Rough began his explanation.
As Rough spoke to the class about what he was going to do to me, my anxiety rose. What he was describing included the words “incredibly painful”. I concentrated my gaze on the ground and tried to prepare myself.
Rough did not lie.
As soon as his strike landed, I let out a loud sob. I curled my body inward, lowering part way to the ground. The one strike packed a lot of punch. I took a few deep breaths and was back to standing in about ten seconds, but the spot where he landed throbbed.
“Can I see that from this side?”
A mutual friend of ours wanted a better view of Rough’s technique and, I suspect, another chance to hear me sob. I turned part way, braced myself, and waited. I knew it would be worse because now I knew what to expect. And, in fact, my sob was louder, and I crouched down lower than before. I did not like our friend at that moment.
“Oh, but we didn’t get to see.”
Rough’s class took place in a tent with three benches shaped like a U for people to observe. The right and left benches had had great views. The center bench wanted their turn now.
“Wait. Please. Please Rough, could you just rub my back?”
Instead of rubbing my back, he pulled out his water bottle and poured it down my back. The cool water was soothing for about five seconds. And then the realization set in.
“Shit, now it’s gonna hurt more.”
For those who don’t know, wet skin hurts more when it is struck and than dry skin. Rough gave me about thirty seconds to compose myself. And then the center bench got their view. I sobbed, crouched down, and I think my knee may have even dropped to the ground.
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