I am a writer. A poet. My medium is words. Metaphors, rhythm, the occasional rhyme, these are my tools, these are what I use to show you the world through my eyes.
But today, words won't do.
I wish I could paint.
I wish I could paint the pain.
Or perhaps if I were a composer. I think that would do as well. Anything other than words. It needs to be something more visceral, more physical, instinctive, sensual, not intellectual.
I want you to look at the splashes of paint on the canvas, the fingers of color spreading out from the central impact, with stabs of red where the knots cut at my cunt. I want you to see - so that you will feel. Don't think. Just let it strike you.
He ordered me against the wall. He usually orders me against the wall, facing the wall, arms over my head and spread against the wall like thick rising tree branches. I am naked. I must always greet him naked at the door. He looks me over, turns me around, surveys his property, and then orders me down to the dungeon.
Down to the dungeon and against the wall.
He comes up behind me. I slither down the wall, thrusting my bottom out, pressing my plump ass into his waiting crotch. I feel the heat rise from him as I feel him harden and swell.
He wants me.
At some point he pulls away, walks away. I know what he's going for.
The pain is glorious. He has already given me a few hard spanks on each side of my bottom, stunningly hard smacks around the side of each butt cheek. His hand is large, with perfect power behind it - and I know I've yet to feel the worst of it. I suspect he could break the skin with his hand alone.
The flogger... I can hardly write. I'm writhing in my seat, seized by the physical memory, incapable of putting it into words. The impact. The huge impact of all those knotted cowhide tails. The force. The pain. And then again. And again.
And the last blow caught my pussy.
Picture sparks of red and yellow splaying out from my clit as the knots catch it in a violent kiss.
It hurt like hell.
And I wanted more.
I wanted to stand there for an hour and give myself to the flogging, give myself to his need, give myself to the pain, without flinching. Not bound, not chained, not restrained, giving him my body in a contained dance of submission.
Later, he twisted my nipples again and again, sometimes almost gently, sometimes so fiercely that I struggled to accept it. But it was after the tender torture, the mere hint of the pain, that he pulled me up from my knees to look in his eyes, and said:
"It is the pain that unites us."
"Yes," I said. "I know."
And I did.
He left me with marks on my neck - from the Beast's bite, from his own strangling hands. And as he was dressing to go, he said "When you get a chance, take a look." And he pressed his fingers on a spot on my left buttock. "Right here," he said. "From the flogger. It looks like a paw."
And so it does.
Heedlessly, I had called to the Beast.
And he left his mark.