my training continues.
my satanic sadist is becoming more specific in his instructions, for which i am ever so grateful. it is much easier to please him now that i know more clearly what he wants.
his newly specified desires are no surprise really, considering that we are both acolytes of the power of the word. it’s not enough that he can see from my eyes and from my willingness to accept whatever torture he inflicts on me that i do want him to hurt me. it’s not enough that he knows from my screams and small movements to escape the blows that he is indeed hurting me. it’s not enough that he can deduce from my expressions of devotion that it is for his needs alone that i offer my body for his use because i want to please him and sate, if only for a moment, his horrific lusts.
he wants me to humiliate myself by begging him to hurt me and then hauling myself out of subspace enough to speak of my pain and plead for more.
he didn’t say anything about humiliation. as i was writing the last section that word can rushing out and i realized that, while i can easily write scenes and poems of asking him to hurt me for his pleasure, when i envision myself in the moment, i feel very shy and rather embarrassed.
there is nothing half-way about the tortures he unleashes on me. the spankings aren’t too bad, although when he smacks me very hard the sensation crosses the line from pain-that-is-pleasure into pain that is nothing more than pain. but the canings… the forthright beatings with a strip of baseboard trim that passes for a cane, the new cherry one heavier and less flexible than the original oak piece… the canings are just plain cruel and are meant to be so.
he has promised… he has threatened… that we will be moving on in my instruction. my training advances, as does his toying with my body and my fears, all for his amusement, all for his arousal, all for the satisfaction of directing the despoiling of my flesh and contradicting my insistence that he is not in fact evil.
he wants to prove otherwise.
and somehow, although now i am once again starting to be a bit afraid of what i have committed to, i want this. i am torn with longing for his next visit. longing and fear and curiosity and desire that is ripping my body into little panting shreds of begging flesh flecked with tears of moisture from my cunt.
and that’s what is so humiliating about asking him to hurt me.
i do want this.
i do want him to hurt me.
even though while it is going on i think it can’t stop soon enough.
i’m not sure i can take anything worse than what he did last time
but although my butt complained for days afterwards
i also floated for days afterwards on pure joy.
i am very confused.
but i am going forward.
i am not his slave.
i choose this
and i will continue to choose this
as long as i want it.
and i do want it.
below is a small... what shall i call it? it is a prayer almost, a ritual plea, that i wrote on waking up this morning. ever since he told me that he wants me to ask him to hurt me, as well as to speak to him of the pain as it happens, i have been obsessed with the notion of asking for the pain. i can’t shake it. my mind returns to it again and again, i keep thinking about it, and writing about it, and imagining doing it. i keep seeing myself standing there naked before him, looking up into his eyes, feeling so shy but still managing to look into his eyes, for his sake, for the sake of his own pleasure, for his pleasure, not mine, asking him…
and so i wrote the following, which pleased him and which he said i may share with you all, along with the above hints of his plans for me. i do not doubt that this brief relaxation in restrictions over what i may write was inspired by reasons both calculated and manipulative, and that he will thoroughly enjoy any concerns over my physical and emotional safety that are expressed to me either publicly or privately, but i can do no more than follow his instructions.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
for your sake.
to feed your desire.
to feed your hunger.
to answer your need.
because i am yours.
because i am yours.