I turn around and wait for the guiding hand.
Before any tool or implement or hand strikes my back I feel it.
The little caress, the gentle squeeze at my neck, a sweep of my back with the guiding hand.
Warm breath, a whiskery chin, and a low growl at my ear asking if I’m ready.
It is the guiding hand that leads the beating.
My skin, soft and white, his hands rough and tanned, he kneads my shoulders just a bit. His hands have known work and have the skills to execute the plan he has created for me. Calloused, coarse hands that make things; that know how to do things, hands that inspire confidence and brook no quarter.
The dominant hand gets all the credit. It is the dominant hand that administers the strikes, that grasps the tools, that delivers the blows. I appreciate the dominant hand; I appreciate the hurt it rains down on me.
But it is the guiding hand that starts the process, where electricity is first passed between us, where that first tactile connection occurs. The guiding hand sweeps my back, clearing the slate and preparing me for the onslaught. It is the guiding hand that communicates without words and maintains that focused attention between us.
The dominant hand may deliver the beating, but it is the guiding hand that delivers my spirit.
When he is done, I take his fingers into my mouth and taste my sweat on his guiding hand, all of our energies salty and mingled on my tongue. Dominant hand, guiding hand, he has delivered us to exactly where we need to be. I kiss his palms and say, “thank you, Sir.”

