Sunday, November 23, 2008


I hate the cane. Why do I yearn to submit to it? I truly hate it – your cane especially, Sir, it’s bigger than the jaunty, bouncy one with the curved handle that lives on a hook in the back of the closet. It’s heavier, and wider, and has that nasty ragged end with which you mark me. There are no pretenses about this one. It was made to do damage.

It’s that moment just before you strike. That moment when I demonstrate my submission, when my body says yes, do this to me, for your pleasure, for your satisfaction, because you need to be cruel, because you need to torture, because you need to send me a message that I will respect you, I will obey, I will treat my art as the treasure it is.

At that moment, when I get into position, when I offer you my defenseless flesh, when I scurry onto the bed, down on my knees and forearms, hands crossed, head raised, back arched, signaling my submission and acceptance and obedience and penitence… at that moment, amidst the haste and fear and panic… at that moment I am content.

And then you strike.
And there is nothing but the pain.
And I squirm and wriggle and try to escape –
not the cane itself, but the pain.

And there is no escaping the pain.

Considered dispassionately – though really, how can someone be dispassionate during such a beating – the pain wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Well, it never is as bad as it could be, he always holds back from what he could do. From what he has done to others. Not to me. He knows I couldn’t take it. And he knows he doesn’t need to. A fairly low level of abuse will get the desired response – which, I suppose, leaves the more extreme forms of evil for the time when my sins truly warrant them.

I sincerely hope my sins never warrant them.

He didn’t even beat me as hard as he has. But he beat me more than he has. He brought that strip of wood down on my bottom again and again and again. There was a long pause after the first strike, which allowed the pain to burrow down through the reddened flesh, through the fat, and into my muscles. Like a sponge soaking up a large spill, my buttock soaked up the pain and drew it down into itself.

What followed I don’t remember too clearly. At one point there were a few blows that came fast one after the other. These seemed somewhat less severe, but the accelerated pace made me feel more under attack. Others were more widely spaced but more brutal. As I said, I’m not sure. Because interspersed with it all were his words of anger and disappointment and correction. The scolding was at least as brutal as the caning.

The punishment was more than just the beating, and it went on for a long time. He reduced me to a quivering, bawling, pleading, snuffling mass, begging begging begging for forgiveness as I struggled to maintain whatever position he ordered me into, as I struggled to survive the pain, as I struggled to look in his eyes, as I struggled to convince him that my penitence was sincere.

Of course he enjoyed it. He’s a sadist after all. But it was real as well. For both of us.

I, however, did not enjoy it. Not at all. Not while it was happening. Afterwards, however… it’s not that I remember it fondly. But the intensity… the intimacy… the depth of submission… feeling that owned, being that owned that he knows he can use me as he wishes, punish me as he wishes…

I take that back. I retract the above. In some way, I DID enjoy it as it was happening. I hated it, that part is true. But there was such a high…. endorphins and adrenalin and even more… the assaults with wood and hand and words… the pulled hair, the twisted nipple, the chain tight around my neck… it was horrible and beautiful and everything I took, everything I was subjected to, everything I accepted as my due said Yes! I am your pet, I am your poet, I have offered you my service – no, I BEGGED to be allowed to serve you – and by submitting to this punishment I say Yes! you have the right to expect certain behavior from me and Yes! I will give you what you require and Yes! I am committed to being what you want me to be so you will want me and keep me and use me and enjoy me and be proud of your property, be proud of your pet, and please please so you won’t send me away.

I can’t bear being sent away.


mamacrow said...

'I can’t bear being sent away.'

oh babe. I'm there with you, I understand that feeling. (((HUGS)))

Paul said...

OG, I don't know who your master is, but he inspires some great writing.
Warm hugs,

oatmeal girl said...

It's a hard feeling to handle, mamacrow. Rejection continues to be one of my weakest spots. I'm very afraid of it, and devastated when it happens.

In some ways, I think the BDSM dynamic of sin, anger, and physical punishment followed by forgiveness is very healthy for me, as it demonstrates in a very concrete way (ouch!) that anger (and male anger in particular) does not, in fact, have to mean rejection. Of course, there IS an expectation that I mend my ways, and I'm trying very very hard. But a hard spanking, even a caning, is in fact preferable to a long spell of cold silence.

Paul - thank you so much, both on behalf of my demon muse and myself. He doesn't only inspire great writing - he demands it and helps me to achieve it.

However, I should point out again that he is not my master, and I am not allowed to address him as such. I am not a slave and although I say he owns me, it is in a somewhat different way. I truly don't think there is a word in the BDSM lexicon to fully describe our relationship, which is why I refer to him here by so many different terms that tend towards the clever but fall short of definition.

If there were a deity of BDSM, I would give thanks every day for having sent this intelligent, creative, stern, controlling, dryly funny, and very sadistic man my way.