Thursday, December 4, 2008

The Beating She Had Been Begging For

I got the beating I had been begging for. The one that had been taking up time consuming my thoughts well before the innuendos leeched out and encircled him. I have no poker face, I should stop trying.

The idea had manifest in my core even before my mind was aware of it: an indefinite longing for pain that I could neither defend nor deny. Some of us ache for cruel affection, like a secret prayer; there is no avoiding the desire. A strange communication can be accessed through experiencing shared pain. Lines tend to blurr between the giver and reciever, it is a dangerous addiction. In my worst days the brutal lust that I crave is terrifying, in my best days it is the same.

Yes, I did get the cruelty I had been yearning for finally. It did not look like the images that had been floating in my head, it was not what I asked for but it turned out to be exactly what I wanted.

In the hope of luring his sadistic aggression, I not-so-casually dropped indiscrete hints about my impure cravings. They were easily interpreted clues that my cruel lover let dance in the air rather than appease me with action. I threw cellophane hints on him as if I were dropping flower petals at his feet. It was insulting really but he seemed to enjoy the play of it all, such silly innocence. Mine was a transparent courtship for specific aggression. I flaunted deliberate delays to irritate him; a lazy departure from my typical attentiveness. I gave impudent contrary answers to his gentle questions. I was just looking to be slapped. And throughout the antics my lover ignored my sweet and hungry overtures.

Perhaps as a consequence of my indirect entreaties he beat the sense out of me… into me?

In my blind quest for violent attention I forgot about the dangers of expectation and the traps of assumptions. I considered my options and some of the ways I wanted it all to play out. With hands crossed over my chest I longed for A clean ass spanking… being bound and gagged for a good flogging… blindfolded and struck with the riding crop until the soles of my feet blister… slapped with the long wooden spoon until the handle splinters into my fleshy thighs… all musings to entertain myself while I waited in want for his violence.

But, I was foiled by my own (mis)calculations and now I will be forced to stand throughout the rest of the day because the bruises on my bottom are much too agonizing to afford me the luxury of sitting. Those are not dark pink welts from a firm hand that caused turgid deformation and a swollen behind. Those are carved incisions, two on each round orb. Still oozing lymph and grains of red blood where the blade pierced initially before slicing a clean cut down each surface.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Get Started

When will we get started?

I have been standing in this corner for too long. Trapped sweat pooling in crevices under the encasement of cellophane wrap and cocooned inside of yards of rope that have been pulled around my chest and arms. Delicious constriction. My palms flattened against the tops of my thighs, free fingertips reaching downward. I separate them slowly; just enough to get away with something but not quite get caught.

His directive from moments ago, “Stay perfectly still,” continues to bounce off the recessed corners of my mind. Three words planted without any explanation of the penalty for infraction or expectation of success. I get nothing for abiding. Personal satisfaction is a false reward.

My feet rooted into the floor from the very moment he released those charily chosen words. Right foot pointed straight ahead towards the wall, left toes angled slightly outward, wrongly imbalanced. I should have been more mindful of my stance, adjusted while I had the opportunity to do so. Unfortunate-me, I anticipated this to be a shorter respite. I have been foiled by my own assumptions; finding a way to muscle through the temptation to make a comfortable adjustment. Stop it, don’t move. Imagine long heavy nails have been drilled through the top center of each foot and into the floor boards fixing me there. Imagine this and then stop thinking about it and stay faultlessly still. Obedience is my specialty.

The top of my forehead in the corner where the walls meet, sucking in the faintest smell of paint and somewhere beyond this door someone is cooking onions. Eyelids opening and closing because I cannot make up my mind. There are more available sensations to smell and hear behind closed eyes. Deprivation of any sense heightens the others, we all know that. With open eyes I make out shadowed movements, fools me to think I am seeing something I do not have permission to see. Eyes open now, watching while I can.
My fingers are the only parts of my body I dare move and even those only slightly, only enough to defy the instructions and still appear to remain frozen. I don’t want to be caught, I just want to test how much I can get away with.

In the empty space that has opened up between us I begin to notice every inch of my body part by part. The hem of my dress brushes against my knees. Air circulates around my thighs and up under my skirt, a welcome cooling on my legs. I have said it before, high heeled shoes make me feel confident, I wear them all the time now, just to sustain my courage.

I am getting to know the wall. Several small pellets of extra paint dripped off a saturated brush have dried clinging to the doorframe. No one bothered to wipe the excess and smooth it down while working and now layers upon layers have been reapplied to the uneven streaks. No need for anyone to notice the insignificant history of this wall before this moment.

He knows I am restless, impatient, getting angry with the prolonged waiting so he comes closer to calm me with vigilant equanimity. Find the balance in the imbalance.

I separate the tips of my fingers as much as possible and let tiny pellets of perspiration drip down each digit. No discernable action behind my back, although I feel the air in the room shift gently with his breath. I think I hear the ticking of his wristwatch when his hand comes close tracing the lines of my form without touching my body. Sometimes quietude is louder than any vast and heavy silence.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

who will?

“Who will tie you up while you are away for so long?” The Painter asked, not so sweet but camoflaged in a singsong voice, baiting me to admit my secrets. She said it almost as if it were a joke and not a real question at all. She laughed then and threw her head back. She narrowed her eyes as if she had hit upon the truth unexpectedly, or happy she gambled and won. I did not intend to show so much of myself.

“But, really, my dear, we don’t know anyone in the islands. It is only you, you alone.”
She sighed and shooed a fly away from her face, it had been bothering her all day.

Yes, who indeed will tie me up when I am far away from those I trust? Can I survive life without bondage now that I have learned it is some sort of elixir? I regularly crave to be bound, tightly wound, mazed up and taken down… this is what I am made of. I cannot think about my boundless future too much for fear of remaining dug in to the familiar.

I am going to go away and ruin everything.

He caught me again, teasing him again. I was impatient as usual; dreaming that if I dangled my free hands with fingers floating lightly in the air maybe he would find it unbearable and restrict me, shut me down. I was not going to ask for it; unnecessary anyway, he sniffed out my lustful disposition and choose to extend my struggle rather than giving me what I wanted. Some days asking for it will get me exactly nothing.

I amuse him.

If only he would stop smelling so good, maybe that would calm me down. I get close and his earth-infused pheromones float into my consciousness. I no longer think he purposely tries to overcome me with his scent, taste, gaze; he is just being himself, after all. Still, it is the way his senses coalesce with my own, those lively senses reaching out to find their mates. I am still the same slave to all the sensorial enticements… and the cruelty, I am a foolish slut for cruelty.

Here comes the lockdown. His hand on my teasing neck, the throat that did nothing but remain naked, unresisting and ready. He laughs at how available I am. I try to trick him by running away, but I giggle so he doesn’t believe me. I run anyway and he follows me, stalking after me with heavy, long and slow steps. One to my three quick paces, one to my four. He backs me into a corner, grabs my wrist… hard, so painful I feel it in my thighs. He’s smiling for both of us because I am not.

Friday, April 4, 2008

Derriere Diary - Two

Fourth of July in New York City and the thick smells of sidewalk barbecue are swirling through the streets, and in and out of my bedroom window. The sounds of firecrackers and cherry-bombs echo in the neighborhood. Fireworks will come later, after nightfall, when the trouble-makers come out to play. This neighborhood is filled with rebels.

Certainly, I planned it in advance when I took to bed for an afternoon nap with the violet butt plug and small bottle of lube as my slumber partners. I lay both on the pillow next to my head where they could wait for me while I rested, watching over me like strange sentinels.
I really did crave the nap. I was mid-summer tired from the oppressive, steaming cement heat. I never make the time to nap anymore, claiming I’m too busy to take a break most days. A nice short rest in the lazy afternoon would be good for me, I thought. I arranged it so that when I opened my eyes the small device would gently nudge me awake as night descended over the city. If luck was on my side, I’d be able to see the celebration of red, white and blue lights exploding outside of my bedroom window just as I came into wakefulness again. Ahhh, romance.

Behind closed eyes I lay in the big bed distracted by thoughts of your most recent directive to indoctrinate my own behind twice a week. In your absence you have instructed me with a particular training to initiate intimate contact with the nether regions of my body. This, you said, was a preparatory exercise, I am to be readying myself for you.
I am new to this kind of self-affection, but I am obedient.

The violet latex device glared at me from the pillow, like a single unblinking eye, waiting patiently for me to take notice. Sleep was quickly reduced to a lesser priority and my thighs rubbed restlessly together under the covers. I surrendered quickly in the sweet summer afternoon with the sun still high in the sky and dabs of sweat beading off my skin. I spent no time at all teasing myself into arousal when I lubed the plaything promptly and positioned it along the split of my ass.
On my stomach with both knees spread and kneeling so that my shoulders and head rested on the bed and my ass tilted high up in the air. One hand pinched my hard nipple between two fingers while the other pushed the latex rod deeper into my core. I imagined you seated at the side of the bed watching me, hovering over me, eyes cloudy with craving, encouraging me to go at myself. The very thought of being witnessed aroused me so much I felt my own slick juice drip onto my curious fingers.

This new masturbatory tool is impossible to resist. I can not stop the furious hands rubbing against my own sex as if they are not my hands at all but someone else’s, some impassioned person coming to get me. I try to pause and take time in the pleasure. Still myself like a statue to gather my composure and dominate myself with deprivation but I am weak and lustful and fail miserably at self-torture.
My fingers are impatient, like my heart. They grind and rub and search and slide along the slick silky shaved slits and folds of my sex, coaxing satisfaction from my body in long exhaled sighs.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Asking For It - Part Three

The bruises have been upsetting me today. Latticed patterns have emerged out of the funny short streaks. The deep violet was so much more charming than this mass of reddish-purple. The formerly innocent hollows have now turned into jaundiced pale green-yellow circles that change color and shape all the time. Today, I do not like the marks as much, though I have gotten used to wearing them, they are no longer beautiful to me. The slightest touch still stings but it no longer gives me pause as I move about my day knowing that underneath my clothes I have been battered. You were not available to see them at their pinnacle. You missed witnessing the best part of them, when they were still gorgeous and fresh and uniquely mine; before I got used to them, before they turned into massive absurd flaws that I have to hide from judgment. I have stopped nursing the marks and now I am waiting for them to heal which is taking an excruciatingly long time. I cannot remember just when the swelling went down, or when they became stunningly angry.

With every breath I am reminded of my imprisonment by the dark ropes that constrict around my chest. He is leaning against a wall directly in front of me waiting for my response.
After a prolonged silence he says, “You know, if you don’t tell me what you want, you won’t get it. And I’ll be just as happy to watch you remain tied to that chair all day long.”
He takes a few steps towards me so that his shins lean against my bent knees. My eyes stare at the swelling in his pants. He places two fingers underneath my chin and tilts my head up to face him. I want to bottom-out with my eyes cast downward but he will not let me.
“You are in a rare position. Anything you ask will be honored, you need only ask for it.” He raises that compassionate smile from behind an otherwise inscrutable expression for only a few fleeting seconds and my heart opens wide when he finishes his thought.
“And you must ask for what you want.”
It takes all of my strength to form the words that follow.
“I want you to take this cane and use it to beat me painfully.”
“Yes, and?”
“I want you to introduce me to suffering beyond what I think I am capable of enduring.”
“Is there more?”
“And I want you to be cruel beyond what you think you are capable of being.”
The last request seemed to take him by surprise.

The bruises are trying to seep down my legs and into my feet. It might be an illusion but I think they have stretched closer to my knees overnight. They are definitely fading now as the yellow bleeds into the purple bleeds into the red bleeds into the blue making the whole mass the dull color of dusty dry dirt. I notice now how I resist their disappearance. Yesterday I was angry at their meanness and today I feel as if they are retreating because I do not appreciate their significance enough. It is still true that the area suffering the most sensation is what used to be the unmarked centers. I no longer cringe when I touch the darker bruises but sharp pains still sear though me when I poke at the lighter, now grayish middles. You managed to plot your brutality so that the recovery keeps bringing me back to you despite your absence. Visible suffering slowly disappears to reveal insidious sensation hiding in the most conspicuous places; and the less distinctly marked skin conceals deeper pain.

He gently lifts the cane from my lap.
“Do you need a gag?” He asks.
“No.” I answer.
“I will gag you if you decide to scream out.” He warns.
I have stopped using words.

He wields the cane in sharp, quick movements; hitting my left thigh with fast, bullet-like taps, starting close to the top of my leg and working his way down to my knee. The cane strikes the inside of my thigh dangerously close to my sex for such fast motion which I worry might spin out of control and slice my most delicate skin. Silently I remind myself that I have placed my trust in him. My cheeks are burning, they must be flushed red now. His face has darkened and his eyes have grown impossibly wide.
I cannot look at my legs. I have that same feeling I get when an injection is about to be inserted into my arm, I want to look but the sight of it makes me dizzy and causes the pain to worsen in anticipation. Like the needle, I think I feel the piercing sting before it is in me. I keep my eyes fixed on his beautiful-mean face.
He strikes me over and over with that knotty bamboo cane, applying measured pressure in slaps that come too fast to count. He does not slow down or rest, he does not take the time to breathe; he just continues to hit me unceasingly. The repetition helps me concentrate and as my focus narrows to him and the cane the quick snapping of the weapon across my thighs becomes easier to tolerate. Not just easier, this beating is becoming pleasurable the more I am able to withstand it. I have either expanded my tolerance for pain or his application of it has diminished. It is like this for several minutes and I am growing comfortable with my capacity to endure. Then, without any warning he issues a slap that cuts into my flesh and sends stars shooting across my eyelids.
The pain is powerful and now he brings it ferociously. He was only warming me up with the short slaps. I must face my naïveté once again.

His face is now revealing his undisguised passions. He is not doing this for me, he is finding a grotesque pleasure in this savagery. He is lying when he says he does not enjoy bringing the pain. His face reads contentment mixed with cruelty stirred by pleasure.
A single whimper hysterically slips from my mouth compelling him to remind me of the gag and even a blindfold if I continue to make noise. This is not playtime and enacting my distress is not going to influence a sympathetic change to my situation. He cannot control the attempts my body makes to take flight but he can limit the offensive outbursts. Relaxing the beating however, is not in the offing.
He was not lying when he offered to honor whatever request I made and now he will see to the expansion of my experience, whether I end up liking it or not. I asked for it when I was in my right mind. This is no longer my right mind. Nor is it his.

The beating is wild now, like machine gun fire up and down my thigh. He is still working on the left leg. He has not even begun on the right but the shift is coming; he will have at it before he is done. My eyes are watering now. A less confident sadist would back down. A less confident masochist might quit too.
He is finding a rhythm and he likes it. My skin is turning bright, brilliant red, one big mass of stinging red, enflamed flesh. Sweat is running from his brow into his eyes. His face has gone flush, a slightly lighter shade of cherry than he is pulling out of my skin.
Now he mixes hard forceful strikes into the cacophony of easy taps and as I watch him carefully through the fisheye lens of tear-filled eyes I cannot anticipate the force of each strike by his stance or the lift of the cane in his hand. I refuse to betray the extraordinary pain with jerking body movements and unrestrained sounds of agony. I can take it, I keep telling myself until the pain is too much and then my mantra distorts.
“Suffering is an illusion. Suffering is an illusion…” The words echo in my head and instead of resisting the pain now I am absorbing it.

He switches to the right leg, finally, at just the moment I was about to break and scream out. Is he trying to teach me a lesson about resilience? No, now he means to see how far he can take it before he cannot dole out this punishment any more. He is challenging himself.
Unlike his method for starting on my left leg, there is no warm preparation on my right thigh and the very first strikes are so forceful that purple marks break out of my skin instantly. The moments of gradually rousing the red skin are long gone; this beating is about doing damage. This beating is relentless.

He is breathing heavily and moving around me gracefully, like a dancer. Even caught on this chair I am dancing with him, attached to him, inside of him. I see how my fortitude coaxes his aggression and this knowledge makes me even more committed to withstanding this torture. And it is torture. Torture the likes of which people sometimes use to coerce confessions from prisoners. On a different body, on a different face this would be evil damaging torture from which its victim would never recover.

The more I seem to take it the harder he strikes me. I will endure it obediently, silently…
I am immovable. I am determined to take whatever he is donating. The words reverberate in my head, “Suffering is an illusion.” He continues to draw contusions from my body.
Sweat is pouring down his brow and the darkening marks are acclimating to my skin. The abandoned left thigh is stippled with broken capillaries and purple streaks where the cane met the flesh again and again. My right leg is ignited with pain.
It is almost as if I can feel his cruelty and he can feel my agony. I no longer read the stinging slap of the rod on my skin, even as each blow is so sharp that it draws a fresh design out of my flesh. I have surrendered ownership of my body so that we may exchange suffering and know compassion. Each excruciating strike opens my heart even wider.
Without ceremony he puts one final caning into my legs. There was no indication that he would stop but in an instant he is done. He kneels down next to me and lets the cane fall to the floor. He places one hand lightly over my wounded thigh and the torrid heat from the brilliant flowering marks absorbs into his palm. He is gazing into my crying eyes.

The bruises and marks have faded considerably. They are still clearly visible but they seem less angry. They look like greenish-yellowing, purplish-brown blotches, hardly attractive, though compelling enough to activate the imagination. Certain areas faded where I was sure the skin would never give up its adopted purple discoloration. Other spots held on to their appearance though I really thought they would have evaporated early on. The latticed stripes are still apparent here and there, but you have to look carefully to find them. It is now nearly two weeks since you put them on my body and it will be another week at least before they are gone completely. The most curious thing today is the strange and noticeable distortion of the muscles, or tendons, or veins, or blood running underneath the skin on the softly substantial parts of my thighs. When I press my fingers to my flesh I feel distinct anomalies in the form under the skin. A rippling of sorts, as if the mass underneath has valleys and hills and currents running through it. It is an unusual, even alarming malformation that I pray will mend itself. One day soon I will wake up and check for my bruises but they will be gone and I will spend the rest of that day mourning their disappearance and wishing you would find it in your heart to come and dotingly beat me again.

I am still secured to the chair and he is resting his head on the torn and broken skin of my lap. The red hot burn of my flesh seeps into his cheek.
“Say something brave.” I urge him.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Asking For It - Part Two

The bruises and the pain are both enhanced today. This morning the design has changed radically, the purple color has darkened and the red spots have grown so that they bleed into each other forming small red clouds over the purple sky of flesh. The dozens of distinct lines have darkened as well. Under the purple masses deeper violet streaks stripe my inner thighs. Next to the horizontal slivers that were so prevalent yesterday there are now long vertical stripes (four on my left thigh and three on my right) traveling from the bottom to the top of the bruises. The marked areas span eight inches long on each leg. I think you would like the vibrant mosaic you painted onto my flesh, it is unique and unpredictable. My thighs, wrapped in tightly stretched skin are swollen, bulging and deformed. My legs rub together and chafe as I walk. I think I will be carrying the inflamed sensation throughout today, and perhaps tomorrow. This suffering is like a scalding burn, it gets worse before it gets better.

We began negotiating this particular ordeal of copious pain over dinner during a cheery reunion after too much time apart. It was well before the preparations for sleep, still wide awake and feeding each other with catch up stories. The recent separation illuminated how much we had missed each other. There was that slightly uneasy anticipation that makes it hard to stay focused, like being on a first date. After arriving he held me in his arms for an extra long time.
There was talk of it even then, in our first hours back together, casually, as we ate our supper and while the wine loosened us. It was circuitous, hypothetical talk about extreme pain and suffering that never quite referred to me or to him. I never said that I was courting pain or tempting him to bring it to me. He never said that he desired the experience or that he was feeling that sadistic side of himself conspicuously bubbling to the surface. In fact, he implied the opposite.
“I wonder where my limits are.” I contemplated.
“Would you like to find out?” He asked, inferring that it was all my choice and that his interest in my interest in being beaten was somehow out of a charitable generosity and not self-gratification. That is how he works it to keep his conscience clean; he makes me ask for it. He offered to beat me if I made it known that I wanted it.
For himself, he declared, “I can take it or leave it.” He added, “Now tying you, that arouses me endlessly.”
I did not deliberate long. I could have (but, did not) note that he seems to harbor a hidden thirst for beating me. I have seen the craving in his eyes when his desire escalates and dirty suggestive talk collides with opportunity. A notorious smile etches out of his face when he raises the cane high above my paralyzed body pausing threateningly in the air before…. but, I am getting ahead of myself again.
At this point, over dinner he was still surveying the territory as he inquired about my lascivious eagerness. I was indeed in the mood for pain and he could smell it.
“In the past, in the history of my life, I don’t remember fantasizing about violence.”
“Hmmm, so this is an acquired desire?” He asked.
“No, it feels like it comes from deep inside of me. Arousal from being beaten feels like a buried hunger.”
He laughed out of amusement, I laughed out of insecurity.
“Is it terrible to want pain?” I asked him. “It seems to me that it’s a little deranged.”
“How does it feel?” He asked, carefully stacking perfect bites of food onto his fork in predetermined order.
“Vulnerable.” I said and the word lingered in the air for a long time.
He did not mind my silence. Then suddenly, perhaps incited from consuming half a bottle of wine, I fell to pieces weeping while sitting unbound on a chair at the kitchen table with my legs folded under my hips. He did not reach out to embrace me while I cried big tears from raccoon eyes. He did not try to alleviate my pain with his comforting arms. The more I cried the harder it was to tolerate him watching me. When I could not take it any longer and rose to clear the table in a paltry effort to deflect emotion, he interfered.
“Sit again. Tell me, what’s causing your tears?”
“I am so afraid of love.” I sobbed, meaning, I think, to say something else, something more specific.

The veil of protection I have worn my entire life melted away the more he wanted to know me. Wrapped in his compassionate gaze my ribs bent inside my chest to make room for my heart as it expanded with love. The fine veil that keeps my vulnerability scarcely guarded fell away and I cried out the pain from a lifetime of holding my deepest demons at bay from the rest of the world.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” he said.
“There is this wall that I have kept up to prevent myself from being hurt. I have been keeping myself secluded in plain sight and have felt so alone and unknown.”
“I can feel the weight of your struggle to keep it all together,” he said. “You do not need that protection any more. Are you ready now to give it up?”

Soon he took me to bed where he made slow vanilla love to me. Without bondage, without cruelty, just soft and sentimental lovemaking, except for those last few minutes of impassioned fucking when he lost himself in my sex and nearly split me in two with the fervent, thrusting force of his wild hips.
Exhausted, done… it took all of his energy to tie me for sleep last night.

The bruises are bizarrely arresting. The orange-red has become blood-red and the purple gradations range from deep violet along the inner softest parts of my thighs to an innocent, lovely lilac dotting the fringes. The streaks have formed clearly now, they are short, distinct red lines. They look as if they are about to bleed, as if the blood is being held inside by just one gossamer layer of skin. What fascinates me the most is the great, clean hole that has formed in the middle of each large colorful mass. It is almost as if you missed those spots. On each leg there is one unblemished circle, they are the shape of fists, deep wells enclosed by fiery rings of anger. The center is the color of my natural flesh, unmarred and clear. In your madness could you have missed those spots? No, you couldn’t possibly have neglected those areas; that is not like you at all. Each deep hole is over two inches in diameter; I have measured them with my ruler. The aperture on the right leg is slightly lower and wider and considerably more painful. The bruises do not match in color, size or shape. Just looking at them one can see that you were easier on my left leg than you were on the right. Both legs are still swollen, though less so than yesterday. And now the pain is much more prevalent on the inside, almost as if the pain itself is clinging with sharp claws to the underside of my skin.

He is investigating my constitution each time he encourages me to reveal my boundaries and undisclosed desires. He is probing to discover my fragility. He notes my interests and stows them away in his mind to use when he disarms me later. He will butcher my fantasies when he manifests them into reality. He will expand upon the deviant fascinations that I make up and take them far away from my romantic notions. The rope tied to contain my body, the one I have begged for, will have some sort of added trial. Like when he ties a noose around my neck and traps the loose ends between the frame of a window and its pane, forcing me to balance on the tips of my toes and frustrate my breathing. I must gasp for air while he waits a fair distance from me, keeping an eye out, I suppose, for possible damage or authentic distress. He will take my simple curiosity about pain and introduce me to the very edge of my limits of endurance. He is good like that, it is one of his best techniques.

On this morning he wakes me early by untying and retying my wrists. He pushes me down onto my stomach and mounts me from behind. He fucks me until savagely exploding onto my back and ass. He does this without releasing my neck from the rope which is laced to the headboard and without stripping the tape from my lips. It is morning and he is aggressive. My body is strong though, and has surpassed the pain. Tolerance of pain is the only thing I control and I am mastering my endurance and ability.
He rudely rips the tape from my lips before collapsing and falling asleep for a few minutes. My skin feels tight, especially where last night’s tears have dried on my cheeks. When I wake again, I notice there is a knot of rope pressing hard on the back of my neck in the depression where spine meets with skull. I open my eyes and he is already awake, he has been watching me.
“Are you ready to be undone?” He asks.
I am thirsty and hungry and my skin smells of sweat and dried semen.
He unties me completely and leads me into the bath.

The bruises have become ugly now. The right leg is much worse than the left in every way imaginable. On the right thigh the colors are darker and have more range of color. The sensation on the left is less pronounced. In comparison, the bruises and marks on my left thigh look insignificant but taken alone they are still mean enough. The right thigh tingles sometimes when I walk and always when I bend and always when I place my hands on my lap which I do deliberately, particularly when I need to remember my own abilities. Two sets of vertical tracks have mysteriously appeared overnight, I had not anticipated these unusual formations. Each set runs along the insides of my thighs from the bottom of the bruised area to the top. The longer of which (on the right, of course) is six inches, the left is just short of that. A dozen or so smaller lines dart horizontally along each bruise. They are actually slightly raised up from the skin. The little lines are so precisely spaced and identical that it is clear you were paying attention to the outcome when you went clipping me with that dangerous old cane. They are bright red and angle in from the front and tops of my thighs to lower thigh where they have moved closer to the inside. The long vertical tracks are the ones that are most livid now having just been born from under the already esteemed marks. The deep, natural colored circles have also transformed, they have grown more discrete, they are like protected areas surrounded by all that darkness and angry slashes that give the illusion of bloody cuts. The circles look painless but when I touch them there is more sensation than on the deepest violet colored blossoms.

I struggle through eating my breakfast because a prophesy of extreme pain now hangs in the air causing me to lose concentration for minor tasks. The morning conversation has been light and playful, perhaps owing to the purging of sadness last night. When I am not suffering he has a desire to repair that. He finishes every bit of food on his plate and even eats my leftover slice of toast. He can wait to be satisfied. I do not find it so easy to be patient.
After breakfast, we take a walk to feel the crisp autumn air on our skin. We laugh at how seldom we need to leave the house, preferring instead to stay indoors with the rope and the torture and the undistracted conversation. I tease him that he only wants to spend time with me in our sexual escapades.
“I am joking…. mostly,” I say.
He takes a sharp left and steers me back toward the apartment immediately.

Inside again, he tells me to take off all of my clothes.
He is the same as he often is, presumptuous, carefree and laughing easily when the mood strikes him. I must watch him very carefully to see his poetic transformation into serious meanness. I am easily diverted by his overwhelming domination which commands all of my attention. I must remind myself to stay focused on him if I want to observe his evolution; despite the distracting obstacles he introduces, I must keep myself sharp.
He sits me on a straight backed chair that he has brought into the living room and positioned so that the warm rays of the sun shine through the window and onto my thighs. He attaches my knees and feet first to the legs of the chair. Then he confines my arms, chest and stomach to the wooden chair seat and back by winding hundreds of feet of rope around my body. He uses the darker hemp with the tight, itchy braid. This is the hemp that smells of the earth and leaves patterns imprinted onto my skin that do not disappear for many hours afterwards. He is working hard. I cannot tell if the sweat that is forming on the back of his neck is from effort or illicit excitement. The light expression on his face during breakfast is mutating into a stony dark grin as he pulls rope and more rope around my form. He stops, smiles and unbuttons his white shirt, strips it from his body and drapes it over the back of the sofa. He does this after resting a bamboo cane on my lap so that I can contemplate my future.
My body is heavy with the weight of hundreds of feet of rope. Terror, suffering and unspeakable pain are closing in on me. He will teach me about having expectations. I am embarrassingly aroused. And although my sex is screaming out to him, he does not reach his hand down to feel the dampness between my slightly parted legs.
When he has finished securing me, he leans his face in very close to mine, so close that his breath blows along my skin as his words enter my consciousness, sexy, as I like it, better than that, better than I wish for.
His mouth and nose graze along my body and the tiny hairs on my skin rise to meet his breath. He could take a bite out of my neck or my shoulder or just as easily place velvety kisses all along my flesh. Instead all I notice is the sound and the feel of the light air whispering from his mouth.
“Now, what is it that you want?” He asks, deep voiced and serious.
I remain silent, hoping that he will not force me to say the words and claim responsibility. He seems surprised by my resistance. He takes a step back from me and cocks his head to the side…

Saturday, March 22, 2008

Asking For It - Part One

The bruises are freshly bright pink with red welts rising up out of the flesh. They look nothing like they will look in a few hours when they begin to settle into my thighs. They are only moments old, still blooming on my skin and have not found their full form or color yet. Several reddish-purple rays are coming up where you violated my body with more aggressive strikes. The tattered skin is sultry hot. Hot like summer sunburned.

We negotiated the scene over breakfast.
“The pain will be abundant.” He said, as he buttered his toast.
All of a sudden I did not want to finish my coffee. I had no taste left for juice, but I ate the omelet he had prepared. The detached tone in his voice unnerved me; the calmer he behaved the more hostile he would turn out to be. A mysterious, maybe even dangerous shift was creeping in to disturb the playful mood of morning.

This story really begins before the half-eaten breakfast, before declining a second cup of coffee, before even waking that morning curled up in his arms with my wrists and elbows tied neatly together by a single twenty-five foot length of soft cotton rope.
He spooned me so closely that night as we slept, somewhat tighter than usual and quite lovingly, in his way. He had twisted a long length of that same white rope around my feet, in between my toes, under my soles and heels and around both ankles to unite them together. Wrapped into a charming little package, he boxed me without mobility. Stilled for sleep, he called it.
He pulled me into the arc that he made with his long, lean body so that my back was flush up against his torso and stomach. He bent his knees into my legs and nestled his sex in the warm, welcoming cavern where the bottom of my ass curves into the tops of my thighs. His heart beat against my back until my heart learned the cadence and echoed the same rhythm into his chest. Nothing separated us. We like it like that, rubbing bodies up against each other as we sleep eager to commingle our dreams.
He laced one piece of gentle white rope around my neck and tied it to the headboard so that my face craned unnaturally upwards though my head still rested on the pillow. A single piece of soft white surgical tape sealed over my lips caught hopeful breaths as they tried to escape.

These items, the spongy tape and the soft rope, are tools of his benevolent cruelty. The devices and his use of them in specific times serve to keep me sufficiently restrained without endangering me excessively. I am fully confined, even with some discernible discomfort smoldering in my limbs. But, the danger is minimal, and the pain insignificant so he can rest without having to monitor my breathing and safety every moment. For my part, I have gotten used to the simmering pain and can sleep through the suffering for hours, literally hours, there is a certain small pride we take in this unnatural feat.

As I dozed off fully compromised his right arm fell asleep under my body. I could feel his skin chilling the way skin does when numbness begins to set in. I am familiar with the cooling temperature of numbing limbs. The tips of fingers and toes grow cold and lose sensation and the skillful skin pushes feeling along up the arms until it reaches a part of the body that has not numbed yet. When the fingers and toes have fallen asleep the experience of touch is delayed until the skin carries sensation to the next excitable area.
The last thought I had before falling sound asleep was my surprise that he had not readjusted his body to minimize the pain that must have been building in his arm and I wondered if he would sleep with it trapped like that throughout the night.
His left arm was draped over my chest and his forearm rested along my ribs and breasts. His palm pressed lightly against my throat.
“Good night, my sweet” He whispered. Or maybe I dreamt that he spoke before he fell asleep snoring quietly into my ear.

The bruises have diffused and the creeping pain is inescapable. Violet-blue lines have formed in precise horizontal rows down along the insides of my thighs. They seem to be perfectly spaced though I do not remember you being so meticulous when you gave them to me. In my memory you were in a vicious frenzy as you circled around my immobilized body beating only the upper halves of my legs with your thin bamboo cane. My thighs are inflated and severely misshapen from the violation. The puffed areas are clearly visible when I am naked. It is not so easy to tell over clothes because stockings hold the swelling together, but a tight skirt pulled over my thighs seems inexplicably irregular if one looks very close. And then there is the heat seething from my legs. Not a warming glow, rather it is a distinct steam-like heat that can be felt even through fabric.

He is fortunate that I trust him so much and that I do not startle in my sleep and wake him up disturbed and thrashing, losing my mind completely. He does not seem to worry about my trust. He keeps testing my obedience and waiting for me to oppose him, testing my devotion and then waiting again for me to reject him, testing my loyalty and even sometimes wishing I would deny him so that he can manipulate me, tie me tightly and subsequently break through me and add yet another challenge to our long list of secret accomplishments.
I never do refuse him, though I consider trying to decline his more perverse requests, mostly out of a sense of embarrassment and a terrible fear that agreeing, even one time, to some truly deranged sexual game would finally prove me crazy.
Of course, there is the sheer sexy joy of it. He finds me to be an agreeable playmate. I do not fight him and his harsh imagination when he introduces me to some sort of new torture. Among his cruel devices, behavior modifiers and his kindly-fierce domination I am his tractable lover.

“Remember that one time that we had a conversation about drawing blood?” I asked one evening, months ago, over a meaty dinner at my kitchen table.
“Clearly. You said you were against it.” He answered.
“Yes, I said I was definitely against it, I did not want you to cut me under any circumstances at all. Ever.”
“You were quite adamant, as I recall.” He noted.
“And you said, and, I remember these words exactly, you said, ‘Drawing blood is off the table.’”
He smiled and took my hand in his own, turning it over to examine my palm.
“Did I say exactly those words?” He laughed and clapped my diminutive palm with his warm, stiff fingers. I felt as if I were small enough to stand in his hand.

I am not embarrassed that I recollect whole sentences with complete accuracy. I even remember the expression of easy acquiescence he wore on his face in the moment that he said it. I recall thanking him for his understanding and feeling pleasantly responsible for instigating the agreement and asserting accountability for my personal boundaries and safety, or so I thought. I live in an illusion of control.

“Well, what happened?” He asked. “Is it back on the table along with your arm? Do you feel ready to be cut?”
And with that he gripped my hand tightly, picked up his steak knife and drew the blade from my inner elbow down to my wrist pressing a little too hard as he traced the line of my prominent vein. I stopped breathing.
“Would you let me cut you right now?” He asked. His face hardened and his smile contorted. His kissable lips, no longer wanting my mouth, split into a maniacal grin.
“I don’t know.” I whispered, or perhaps I said nothing at all. I tried to pull my hand back into my body, but he tightened his grip and held me still.
He pushed the tip of the blade in between two blue veins, directly on the last horizontal line before wrist turns into palm. It was as though he was waiting for me to stop him and when I did not resist he pressed the blade even harder before abruptly pulling the knife away. He released my hand, placed the knife at an angle on his plate and sat quietly and very still.

Despite the urge to stir the heavy silence with sound or movement, I let my unrestrained hand lay limp on the tabletop and contemplated how easily I relinquish power to him. I studied his tenor as I waited for him to rally the mood in the room again. He seemed to be entranced and I did not want to disturb his meditation. Several silent moments passed and then, gradually the beautiful familiar look of compassion eclipsed the cruel expression that had overcome his face just minutes before.

But, again, I digress; the cutting has long been tolerated between us. And that conversation over steak dinner served as a kind of formality rather than a revised boundary. Even in that first moment of my anti-cutting declaration I knew I was only borrowing time. My rejection of cutting was a white-gloved slap across his face, the challenge was awkwardly obvious. My clear and distinct boundary became a potent dare for him to take on, a new obstacle for him to maneuver and patiently break through. I am easy prey, but that is another story altogether.

This story begins well after the roles had been completely established. After the idea of inserting various challenges had been adopted as commonplace.
This story starts long after love...

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Marked Part Two

The inside of my mouth is torn and sapid. My inner lips taste like blood and fresh flesh, though the skin is just ripped and pulled apart, not actually bloody or scabbed. Still, they have that sweet blood taste to them. I have heard that the mouth heals faster than anywhere else on the body; I think it is the constant cleansing power of saliva. My saliva saturates the slashes on the inside corners of my lips.

There were balls of fabric stuffed into my mouth again and again that victimized my gums and stretched my lips. It was tape stuck to my mouth that kept my lips shut and the gags inside sneaky-creeping down my throat. I was afraid that the glue from the tape had stripped the natural red color from my mouth, but to suffer the tape only added to the blush.

There are no visible marks on my neck this time. The pain there dominates from the inside. It is throughout my throat like rings of rope somehow circling the interior of my skin. That is how my throat feels, as if rings have been coiled around it to make it longer and more valuable. Although I know it was rope wound round my throat, it seems I can differentiate circles as though they were isolated coils, precise and defined.

My collar bones and the depression in between them at the center of my neck and the very top of my chest carry so much sensation and tenderness that I began to think the bones inside of my skin may have chipped. When I touch this part of my body with my fingers it feels much different to me and unfamiliar, like the structure underneath the skin has been transformed. The bones feel prominent and unset from their places.

I cannot keep my own hands from my neck and I wonder if I am trying to reclaim a perception of vulnerability, or is it control? Or ownership? Maybe it’s something completely different. Perhaps chasing the safety I feel when you are bending me to you, relieving me of my sovereignty and journeying with me to my abyss.

My ribcage feels smaller, actually smaller, constrained. In the shower while washing I am made aware of the crushing of my bones when I touch my torso. I am thin and can differentiate my ribs with the touch of my fingers. As I run my hands along the curves of my rib cage I encounter the vacillating tenderness where sometimes the binds were tighter, sometimes chokingly constrictive.

When I reach my hands above my head the skin from the inside of my upper arms down through my armpits and into the sides of my rib cage feels restricted and injured. If I had not been there I would think that you had whipped me across my chest. There are no visible lesions, welts or bruising on the skin, but on the inside, again, there is that impression, that feeling… this constant and stinging awareness evincing my endurance.

This same action, holding my arms up above my head in the air creates a stretching sensation throughout my chest. It takes extreme effort to reach and to bend my arms and torso and I do it much more frequently than is necessary because it forces me into a certain peace and tranquility.

On the fleshy part of my ass there are three lovely, thin welts. I was not even aware of them until I sat down on a hard chair and a burning that I could not ignore revealed them. A trinity of slender, pink ribbons lashed onto my skin, like tributaries streaming from the left globe across the divide and regaining power over the right globe until they thin and delicately fade away into my thighs. Three pretty, young welts demanding attention, enlisting pause.

From shoulder to shoulder across my chest and around my back there is a certain inflamed pressure. I think that if I could see my bones they would have red lashes where the rope was tied too tight, and still, not tight enough.

I wear your imprints as tangible evidence of progress. Guests on my body, they govern me for the time that they sojourn here. They draw my beauty to the surface, eliciting an attraction that becomes me. I will worship them until they abandon me.

My body has been torn apart and pieced back together but has not quite found its place yet. As the days unfold my limbs gently and not so gently drift back home. My skin rewraps itself around the bones and muscles inside. The red, brown and pink marks vanish quite beautifully, like birds disappearing into the distance despite the fixity of my gaze.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

Derriere Diary


I have to admit, I have a little crush on the newest toy in my collection.

He’s been flirting with me all week but I had not given in to his advances. Until today.

He had been calling to me from inside the leather case, inside the drawer of my dresser where I keep some playthings to entertain myself. I deliberately stow these toys away in a drawer that I will go into daily so that I can see what is in store for me should I be so inclined to submit.

I said I wasn’t going to get into it for personal satisfaction. I said I would reluctantly work on it but would not promise pleasure from this act of discipline. I declared my stand, my behind is hard to tame.

I have been avoiding this lavender toy that has been calling my name daily over the past week. Ever since you put me in training again, ever since you said you wanted me to spend some time focusing on my anal expansion. You are not fooling me, I know all this is for your continued access, forcing me to ready myself for you. You are doing a good job of it, this new toy is your clever co-conspirator, much more in love with you than with me for you picked him out of the hundreds of others and fit him nicely in the palm of my hand and now he is grateful for the opportunity to romance me at your behest. He may become my lover but it is you who has his loyalty.

All week long this rippled toy reminded me that my first week is running out, every day I remembered that if I do not act soon I will fail before I even start.

There is an expectation that I will meet this request laid out by you, and I am reliable, if nothing else. Tuesday passed fast and Wednesday was a blur and Thursday came and went as well. On Friday I was too tired to concentrate by the time I got home and Saturday was foiled by an unexpected invitation to meet for late night drinks spoiling my anticipated solitary seduction.

But then on Sunday morning I woke thinking of you.Rolling around in the big bed knowing that were you to be lying with me my mouth might be stuffed with your cock by now and my hands would certainly be securely tied with rope. There was a sexy scent in the air that lured me to the second drawer of my dresser and without spending any time agonizing over choices I pulled the purple rippled plug from its comfortable case and brought it like a new friend to my entranceway.

I lathered the tool up with thick clear lubricant and played gently with the idea pressing it lightly against my rosette, pretending to probe. Nipples hardened and clit pouting. I dove in with one, then two and finally three waves. I would not go any further, not today, not yet, it is too soon to be fully vulnerable. And despite the discomfort of my behind my pussy was dripping sweet syrup and I could not stop my fingers from rubbing, not so gently on this first time out. My left hand tapped on the flat end of the plug so that the ripples vibrated inside my body and rushed my orgasm before I had a chance to stop it….