Daddy-Land: Physical Therapy

Now I’m not really sure why but it seems ever since I came out of the closet so-to-speak about my freak-life there seem to be more frequent incidents, or perhaps I just notice them more. Now that I think about it, I am sure I’ve forgotten way more than I even remember. Hearkening back to my teenage years, the first time my mother frankly questioned the abundance of bruises, scratches and clear bite marks on my neck and back was one of the more awkward moments of my youth.

Now one could easily envision the sub taking the brunt of the damage since they are on the receiving end of strikes, but while I don’t quite have as many marks to show, being the dom leaves one susceptible to a wide variety of sex-related injuries. Everything from burst capillaries, strains, sprains, fractures, tears, to the ever present friction burns. I recall one time having to halfheartedly explain away some second-degree burns in a most sensitive area to my family doctor during an annual physical.

I still find yet novel ways to incur the wrath of the exuberance with which I get down. During one particularly steamy session in the depths of an unseasonably warm summer in Canada(boo climate change), I could feel beads of sweat continually running one by one into one of my ears until it was literally full. It took about 3 weeks until my hearing returned to full capacity. I alternated between talking too loudly and then too softly to compensate,  neither of which are particularly useful for dirty-talking. I could literally go on and on about my sex-injuries to the point where I pleaded with my wife for the establishment of a formal disabled-list(having a headache though is not grounds for claiming disabled status).

So I’ll just skip ahead to my most current injury, of course though, Daddy has reached a certain age where if he were playing any other professional sport he would qualify for grizzled-veteran status. Daddy is the type of player who will play-through pain, lacing them up through whatever aches and pains almost never invoking the disabled list. The kind of leader who will sacrifice his body for the good of the team. It was during one such epic session that Daddy put forth a herculean-effort in order to assist his team-mate.

I’ll spare you all the most colourful details, but I will say that I was making a vigorous and repetitive thrusting motion at near maximum-effort with my arm for far longer than I should have. For northwards of an hour the sounds that could have been heard were my groans of exertion and pleading two-word commands, “don’t-stop”, “keep-going”, “right-there”, my gasps of pain and hers of pleasure, and I thought I was supposed to be the dom here…Almost immediately I felt some pretty severe pain in my shoulders and back, if I moved my neck to the side there was blinding streams pulsing in all directions, it’s not the sort of pain that I get off on.

I strained some muscles is all, but my stubborn refusal to take any time off from our strict daily play schedule just compounded the problem to the point where a cascade of muscles covering both sides of the back and front of my upper torso became distorted and unruly. I tried my regular routine of stretching and heat therapy but this was becoming a problem that I needed to seek professional help for. My wife had been raving about her new massage therapist after I had been interrogating her about a bruise on her back that I knew I hadn’t made. This woman’s firm hands could be just what I needed, so my wife made the arrangements.

So it was early on Sunday morning, after a typical lengthy Saturday-night session and a pre-dawn eye-opener that a stiff and groggy daddy found himself sitting next to a zen garden with a cutesy waterfall in the lobby of the generic spa.  I briefly identified the areas where the pain was and was shortly stripped to the waist and face down on the table. My grunts of pain were obvious, as she got to work, I casually dismissed the therapists concern with a statement about being able to take a lot of pain. It only took a couple of minutes before she asked the obvious question of how I incurred this injury. I was somehow totally unprepared to answer what should have been an easily anticipated  question; I sputtered, coughed and giggled; even if my vow to my goddess would allow me to be dishonest, I couldn’t even think of a suitable lie. After what seemed like far too long I weakly managed an ‘I’d rather not say’, when pressed further I said it was ‘a repetitive-stress injury’ though there seemed to be a knowing catch to her voice as she let the matter drop respectfully.

The rest of the hour proceeded without further incident, although I had to consciously focus on not consciously focusing on the mix of pain and pleasure that could easily cross-over into territory I didn’t need to get into. I tried to avoid thinking about how my wife had essentially paid an inordinately strong woman to inflict severe pain on me for my own good, I just went into pure stoic-sage meditation mode repeating the mantra, “think unsexy thoughts”…

After I arrived home I was about to take a hot shower and I was trying to convince myself that I probably got away with my evasion of the injury question, I mean who would just assume a sex injury. As I turned around to climb into the shower I caught a glimpse of the reflection of my back in the mirror, plain-as-day along the centre-of-my-back were three neatly spaced scratch marks, about a day old from the looks of them. I guess I probably didn’t get away with much…

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