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.