I am not allowed to write about my sessions with my merciless mentor. I am not allowed to write about him, or what he does, or what he says. I may write about the writing, I may write about my responses to what is happening to me, but not about what happens when we are together. And there are certain things I may never mention at all.
Except tonight. The absolutely forbiddens are still forbidden. But I wanted to write about pain, as I squirm in my seat trying to get comfortable on a perfectly agreeable couch. And I explained to my torturing tutor that it would be hard to discuss without mentioning why I said ouch every time I sat down or got up or changed positions or rolled over in bed.
Different seats hurt in different ways. The wooden dining room chair curves around my ass for support, and pushes on some side sore spots. I didn’t even know I HAD sore spots on the sides of my ass; I didn’t realize I had been hit there. The car seat, while softer, pushes me back at an angle that torments the welts from the cane. My desk chair hurts all over, with special reminders when I get up or sit down. In between is the constant underlying ache that is determined to be the theme and variations of the next few days.
I suppose I could say I was surprised when my professor of pain said that yes, for this one time I could write about our session, and that I could share everything I’ve written him. But then I’m never really surprised. He has his reasons, whether I know them or not. His goals are clear, and even when he seems to be giving in to me I know better than to think I’m gaining the upper hand. He always has the upper hand, and when it lands on my ass it hurts. A lot.
Besides, I don’t want to be in control. I crave his chain, both real and metaphorical.
I am feeling rather squirmy about what is going to come, but in some ways I feel I owe it to you after these weeks of obscuring silence. I am going to stand before you as naked as I can be. (No no no guys, put away your dicks, not THAT kind of naked; I will be feeling much more vulnerable than from physical nudity… ah… and perhaps that is why he is letting me do this… )
This will be a long post, since I don’t mess around with his commands or I won’t be able to sit for a month. He is allowing me this one entry, so it is all going in as one. I will give you a fairly dry description of what he did to me, followed by the reports I sent him. Because that is what I have to do. Immediately after he leaves, I am to e-mail him with a report of what just occurred, and then the next day I must send a follow up report with the perspective of more time and, supposedly, a cleared head.
I have my orders. I dress in a shirt and long skirt, both of which button. Barefoot. I chose not to wear a bra the first time because of something he once wrote me and since then always go without a bra, showing off my protuberant nipples. I am to wear a thong. Of course everything comes off very soon after his arrival. I let him in. He enters as if he owns me, as if he rules this world he allows me to live in. I am more used to it now, but the first time it scared me. I was terrified of doing something wrong. I have, of course, made mistakes. And today it is hard for me to sit.
The first time he was here, I risked that my tyranical trainer would be gone before my housemate got home, so we went down to the dungeon. The next two times we confined ourselves to the bedroom. Or should I say, HE confined me to the bedroom. He does what he wishes. I do what he wishes.
Really, I don’t have a chance. He can get anything out of me that he wants, and not just with the threat of corporal punishment. He already knows me all too well. Not just because he is clever and perceptive and has the sadist’s knack of sniffing out weakness. It’s this blog. He had already seen me naked and vulnerable weeks before he set foot in the dungeon and ordered me to strip. He jumps on vulnerability, bats it around, licks it, sniffs it, and then sinks his teeth into it. Hard. He loves to make me squirm. He will cheerfully rub my face in my blatant hypocrisy, perhaps as part of his trying to make me more rigorous in my thinking, or perhaps just because he enjoys tormenting me. It hurts, but I welcome it. I welcome his making me face up to myself, just as I welcome the strictly enforced writing schedule he has decreed.
[Pause from writing while I change position. Everything hurts…]
So. He arrives. I let him in. Barely a word is exchanged. I inform him that for once my housemate came home on time but that I had requested that he stay in the basement. I had already closed the doors to the other 2 upstairs bedrooms to help prevent any screams from traveling down the heating vent intercoms to my housemate’s room below.
We enter the bedroom. Ketzel is there. She feels trapped, her tail puffs up to the size of a very fat hairy salami. She flees. The cats are both afraid of him. Maybe I should be, too. But I’m not. I don’t know why, but I’m not afraid of him. Not since the first time. He has found things inside me and he feeds them. He challenges me and he hurts me and he plays on my vulnerabilities and he makes me feel alive and he has taught me that I am beautiful.
I am not in love with him.
Not just because it’s not in the metaphorical contract. (Everything is metaphor with me, isn’t it?) I’m just not. I’m drawn to him, he fascinates me, somewhat like a snake before it strikes but also because there are other things I sense, other parts that I connect with more when we write than when he is here. I like him. I am grateful to him. I sense his power and succumb to it… I have wondered about this kind of inherent power and he has it, it’s not just posturing, it’s not a game, it’s very very real, and I glow from it. He makes me feel desired, not just as someone he can play with… this isn’t play. Not just for what physical pleasure he can take from me. He came after me for my mind, for my words, for other things that I haven’t even guessed yet, I’m sure there are other things, and for the pleasure of owning me, of owning these poems that spill out of me for him. He defines me, he lets me see myself, he helps me to grow, and he taught me that I am beautiful.
I don’t know if I was beautiful before. But now I am. I’ve stood there before the mirror in my bedroom, my naked back pressed against his clothed chest, my hair wild, shoulder length, and pre-Raphaelite red, and looked straight at us and known that yes, somehow, now, I am beautiful.
This post is supposed to be about pain. So here, before you read my drunken reports, I’ll get back to what he did to me.
He doesn’t waste time. He gestures with his head and orders me to remove all my clothes. Does he enjoy the sight of the lacy pink thong which I haven’t previously shown him? I’m not sure. I strip quickly. I think he looks me over. Perhaps he briefly touches me, turns me around, eyes his property. This is why I write reports immediately after he leaves, but I was too high this time to write a clear chronological account.
I have positions I must assume when he orders them. I like that. I like this simple, quick way of demonstrating my obedience. They are partly for that, I think, and also for practicality. There’s the one that gives him easy access to my nipples. He does enjoy my nipples, which as I’ve said before are pretty stunning. They’re pretty red at the moment, although not as sore as last night.
He does enjoy torturing my nipples, and I’m sure we’re only at the beginning of a long uncomfortable journey of exploration. He enjoys it but also, he has read this blog. He knows what I like. He knows what gets to me. He knows my fantasies. And he uses them all against me. He is a sadistic version of a fairy godmother.
He pinches my nipples. He tells me to fetch the long hard cold chain he brought me on the previous visit. He never wastes words. He knows how I feel about things closing around my neck. He clips one end of the chain around my neck. And then he plays with me, and plays with my fears, and plays with my desires, and he pulls at the chain around my neck, his hand close to my throat, and he hangs the chain down my back and brings it up through the crack in my ass and pulls and it hurts and brings it up into my cunt and pulls and I moan and the chain is tight around my throat and his hand is tight around my throat and the air is restricted and I look up at him with shining eyes and is this when he asks “Yes?” and I say “Yes!” with shining eyes and no doubts and he tortures me with the chain and he twists my nipples hard and my eyes are shining and I know this is right.
He orders me onto the bed. He wants me to recite my poem. He always wants me to read or recite one of my poems. Today it’s one I wrote just that day, they come out of nowhere, these poems, and this one was easy to memorize which is good, it works much better when I don’t have to try to read.
He is a large man, my cruel collector. And he uses his size against me. The first time he called on me, he had me stand facing the wall as I read my poem, and then pushed me into the wall with his whole body as I read again and again and again. This was indeed an example of performance art as I experienced my own poem words with my whole body and with his. The urgency the exercise gave it… I felt like I was back in theatre school. He isn’t just playing with me, he isn’t just hurting me, he is teaching me. I cannot emphasize enough how much he is teaching me. And not just about BDSM. Sure, there is that, but it goes way beyond that.
He orders me onto the bed. Hands and knees. Did I start reciting then? or not till later? I don’t remember. What I do remember is that he spanked me. Hard. This was a punishment. And it hurt. A lot.
He punishes me because I’m careless. I don’t focus well enough on my tasks. I have ADD but he doesn’t accept excuses. And he’s right. He does what he can to help me, I do believe he wants this to work, at the very least I suppose I amuse him but I do believe I please him and that I give him some of what he hoped to get from me when he saw whatever he saw in my FetLife profile. He breaks down my tasks, he gives me strict schedules, and he tries ever so hard to get me to focus and show him respect by getting rid of all the damn typos in my e-mails to him. And then eventually he has to punish me.
Pain. He is most definitely a sadist. I’m seeing only the tip of it. I felt bad at first, I knew I couldn’t give him what he needs. I do think I’m a masochist, but a mini-masochist, or perhaps more appropriately a fledgling masochist. And I wanted to please him, I so want to please him, and he would say but that’s not what I’m looking for from you and I would be slightly soothed but still. I wanted to please the sadist in him. And he would explain that it was all relative, that he knows I am sensitive, and that a lighter spanking would have the same effect on me as something much more brutal applied to someone who needs and can take a whole lot more. It’s the effect he craves. They do like to hear us scream and moan and whimper and cry, don’t they?
But what’s happening, and what I expected to happen, is that he is taking me on a journey into pain. And it’s not only that I can take more now. It’s deeper than that. He is teaching me about the intimacy of pain. The very first time, he stood me before him and pinched my nipples. I looked away, absorbing the pain, feeling it, giving myself to it. But he kept making me look back at him, made me open my eyes, and made me look into his eyes. And then I understood. I felt the flow. It wasn’t a violent moment, it was a poetic moment, and we looked each other in the eyes and it flowed between us, and there was this bond, as he gave me the pain and his desire to cause me pain and I took it and gave him back my pain in openness and vulnerability. I wasn’t just the passive recipient. It was a communion of pain and from then on I wanted more.
This time, I got more.
He spanked me. Hard. And then he caned me. Not with the cane I still have hanging in my closet, which I am loathe to let anyone else use. Not with any kind of cane you can buy from JT’s Stockroom or anywhere else that caters to perverts such as we are. My tormentor is both more prosaic and more poetic than that. His preferred instrument of torture is a strip of oak baseboard trim, its rough ends looking as if he broke it off with his powerful hands from a longer strip. It is heavier than the cane in the closet, and not as flexible.
It hurts. And last night it hurt a lot. Because he hit me harder than he ever had before. I was almost not sure that I could take it. And then he stopped. Because he was done. I think it was only 3 strokes on each buttock. It really hurt a lot. And it still hurts. And I revel in it.
And then at some point after he beat me, perhaps right after the caning, he had me get up off the bed. And he pulled me to him (I think I’m remembering this right) and he encouraged me to cry. And THAT surprised me. And I cried and felt safe and was once more reassured that I was traveling the right road. That we are creating a project together.
The poetry. Again, I can’t remember when he had me start reciting. I know he pushed me down on the bed and was on top of me and pushing against me and making me recite the poem again and again and again… My poems seem to arouse him at least as much as my nakedness, if not more... I thought I would give the whole poem here but it is too closely tied to things I may not mention so I won’t. There are some risks I would rather not take. But it is short and rhythmical and I will share the second half:
I have no doubts.
You flood me.
I am ready to serve.
I am always ready to serve.
He really likes this one
When he was done taking his own pleasure, he turned me over and seemed almost affectionate. He ran his finger down my torso and then (as he later had to remind me) took the jagged end of the cane and traced a line down the center of my body, starting below my breasts. The end of the cane is ugly looking and scary, but he ran it over me so gently, he scratched his initial into my skin as if it were a caress. He marked me with a caress. He scarred me with a caress. He brought the cane down further, barely touching my cunt with it and then I think drawing it over my thigh. He takes things slowly with me. We get into trouble when we go too fast.
He caressed me with the cane, he scarred me with the cane, and then he lay there with me while I touched myself and came for him and cried for him.
I think there was more after that. I can’t remember. He spanked me a bit more before he left, for his own fun, not for punishment, and it didn’t really hurt much. There was some more with the chain, I think. And then it is time for him to leave. I am in position down on the bed, chain around my neck. I must stay that way while he lets himself out. He always lets himself out while I am not allowed to move until I hear the door close. There is something very brutal and controlling about it but it doesn’t bother me. It feels right somehow, and accentuates this feeling of being owned that I revel in.
I was going to say “feeling of being owned and used” and certainly it felt like that the first two times. But this time was different. He gave me pleasure. He showed me tenderness. I felt more and more of the communion, not just of pain but of creation, and of my learning and growing and glowing in his hands. And of being beautiful. He wants me to tell you that he is this evil controlling creature, to make you all believe that you should be worried about me, that it is verging on an abusive relationship, etc. etc… it amuses him. But I can’t do that. Because he makes me beautiful, he is encouraging me to grow as an artist, he gives me faith in myself as an artist, he makes me wince less at calling myself a writer even as I’m wincing more at how much my ass hurts more than 24 hours later.
He is not an evil man, he is a curious and challenging man, and I am very very happy even if I don’t quite know where he is taking me.
So. There you are. With just one more thing before I give you the reports I wrote him right after he left and then this morning. Please accept my apologies for the varying tenses used in my description of what happened. I went a little spacey, but decided to let it stand because that’s what our sessions together do to me and what thinking about them does to me.
And now here is what I wrote him, offered with some measure of embarrassment. Drink it in now, because it is a glimpse you will not often be allowed, until the next time my seductive sadist decides it suits him to give you another peek.
- - - - -
Stream of consciousness report, 3rd visit
my left nipple hurts
i have beautiful welts on each buttock
beautiful hard welts on shiny red buttocks
my neck is red
there is a big J scratched down the center of my torso
i remember your tracing it with your finger
but never felt the scratch
thank you, Sir, for marking me
thank you for marking me again.
you have branded me as yours
and i welcome your marks
and i rejoice in being yours.
my left nipple hurts
it is throbbing
and reminding me of you
and of being with you
and of pleasing you
and of your using me
and of your punishing me
and of your giving me pleasure
and of your allowing me pleasure
and i thank you for all of it, Sir.
for the pain to punish me
and the pain to amuse you
and the pleasure that i hope gave you pleasure
and my tears of release that i hope gave you pleasure
or amused you
it doesn't matter
you wanted my tears
of pleasure and of pain
and that's all that counts.
everything looked kind of fuzzy
mainly because my glasses fogged, i think,
but also i suppose because my mind fogged...
i didn't feel as if my mind were fogged
but i remember the time i was hypnotized
to rid me of ptsd
it was very successful, only took the one session
poof, no more flashbacks.
but i never felt hypnotized...
i serve you, Sir.
i rejoice in serving you.
this is all about you, Sir.
but i'm not a slave.
i welcome you willingly
each and every time.
you make me happy, Sir.
you teach me.
you open worlds to me.
and as you held me against you
as you crushed me beneath you
as you closed the chain around my throat
as you closed your hand around my throat
as the chain scratched my anus
as the chain buried itself in my cunt
as YOU buried the chain in my cunt
as you twisted my nipple again and again
so that even now it pulses with the pain
as you spanked me, hard
as you caned me, harder
as i thought i couldn't take it and then i did
as you gave me just the right amount
to push me to where i started to wonder if i could stand it
and then stopped, and now i know i can go there
and then on a little further
each time a little further
as you took me and used me and hurt me
and made me an object for you to play with
i knew this was what i'd been waiting for all along.
sometimes fantasies are no more than fantasies.
sometimes they are true reflections.
and sometimes it takes someone else taking charge
to make them come true. and more.
and my nipple REALLY hurts!
thank you, Sir.
ps - i like to tell you that i'm happy. i want to be sure you know you make me happy. but i know i don't have to. i know you can see it in my eyes. still. i like to tell you, Sir. i'm happy and my nipple hurts and i will continue to work very hard to please you and try not to be so inadequately focused. and the new poem? it just came. it is a true expression. no artifice. and i am very glad you like it - and that i could memorize it. though i did start to lose it at one point, didn't i... and yes. i do think of you all the time. and serving you as your poet and your slut and whatever else... ALL of it makes me happy. and pleasing you makes me happy most of all. and my nipple hurts and there's a big J scratched in my skin and i suspect if it were winter i would wear a turtleneck shirt tomorrow and you give your commands and you hurt me and you use me and i feel so phenomenally alive i almost can't stand it. and when you crush me beneath you... and i look into your eyes... each time i see you... more and more i look into your eyes and i give myself to you with my eyes... and i am glad i can give you at least some of what you need, Sir. i am so glad you spotted something in my profile and lured me into wanting to serve you, and that you allow me to serve you with my mind and my body and now i'm just babbling on and on so i think i'll stop and have some dinner and lots of water because my cunt was soup and my nipple still hurts and thank you, Sir.
- - - - -
Second report, 3rd visit (the following morning)
Good morning, Sir.
I wish I could pee standing up.
And as I look back at that sentence, I realize I'm becoming horribly aroused.
It goes without saying that my butt hurts. A lot. I slept on my side and when I rolled over in the morning, I groaned in surprise. And smiled. Oh yes, I'll be thinking of you every minute of the day. I'll probably be wet and swollen every minute of the day, too.
You surprised me with kindness yesterday. I was touched and surprised. I loved it when you pulled me to you and encouraged me to cry after that hard punishment caning you gave me, a caning which surprised me at the level of pain and made me think I almost couldn't take it. But I could. And you knew that. You knew just how many strokes I could just barely take at that strength. And while it hurt like hell I am now so aroused talking about it that I surprise myself. And then you told me it was ok to cry, and let me find comfort against your chest. Oh, you do know about vulnerability, don't you, and you do know how to build on it by being both the torturer and the comforter.
You impressed me with the confidence of your sadism. You know what you like to do, and you do it. You know what you want and you take it. Your confidence makes me feel safe in your power, safe with your control, I am yours and I look up at you and I will go where you take me.
I felt like your toy. Not just because that is a phrase tossed around in BDSM-land but really. I felt as if you had stolen your sister's doll, I was your sister's doll, and deliberately and with sureness of purpose you were exploring what you could do with me. I am your toy and you keep me hidden away but take me out again and again and subject me to your outbursts of inspiration.
Everything hurts. My whole body aches. There are these beautiful welts on my butt, and bruises from last time. I love the double-edged bruises your found-object cane makes. Baseboard trim will make me tremble till the end of my days. And I always did like oak ... I suppose I should have gone for the bag of frozen peas right after you left, but I did want to start my report., and it's hard to type while lying on my belly... And anyway, I love the bruises.
My neck is stiff, my whole body aches, your initial is scratched into my torso...
My whole body aches.
My whole body glows.
It is all about you, I am pledged to serve you, but you gave me pleasure, you made me feel beautiful, I looked in the mirror as we stood there together, you made me LOOK beautiful, I believed you that I was beautiful, that I am beautiful, I FEEL beautiful, you hurt me, you used me, you have me by a chain around my neck and my mind, and you have made me beautiful.
Everything hurts and I'm glowing.
You are a magician and you own me.
Thank you, Sir. I can only hope that I made you feel even half as good as you made me. Though I suppose I should have faith that you know what you want and you take what you want and don't stop until you've gotten what you need. And I am truly grateful that you want to take some of what you need from me.
Thank you, Sir.
- - -
PS - it turns out it hurts to walk, too!
Stop grinning, you sadistic bastard.
I said that, and all of a sudden I missed feeling your body pressed against mine...
- - - - - - -
Addendum: I read over everything I wrote and the 2 reports I made and realized that I left out the exact same thing in my introductory description as I did in the reports. My torturer refers to it as punching me in the abdomen, but I don't think that is a correct description. He presses his fist against my abdomen and then pushes in. He orders me to soften, he wills me to soften, and I do, and i absorb him into me... it is an incredibly intimate moment, I do experience it as intimate rather than violent or sadistic... I give myself up to him, I open myself to him, it is a moment of pure trust, in some ways even more intimate than being fucked because it isn't as easy. Anyone can shove a cock into a cunt. But this... there is no open passage here, it is pure force of will and imagination and communion. And now he is inside me.