i find it so curious to watch someone being beaten... i always wonder what it looks like when i am being caned or spanked or, now, flogged... both what the sadist looks like doing it - his movements, the expression on his face - and what it looks like when the instrument or his hand lands...It's true. Sometimes I feel the child inside me. The child who wants to know everything, understand everything. The child who is always asking "Why?" The child who is so curious about the fire that she sticks her hands in and gets burned.
I wasn't like that then. I don't think I ever stuck my fingers in the fire. I was such a good girl. I'm a good girl now, too. But the phrase means something much different to me today... Oh, the things I have to do to be a good girl today...
So I want to know. I used to always ask "What does it feel like? What does it feel like when you raise your arm to strike? What does it feel like at the moment of impact?" I even posted the question to craigslist as well as here, and eventually shared my favorite response.
[Pause for tears. Damn. I shouldn't have done this. I shouldn't have looked back at that post. It wasn't working, I know it wasn't working, I knew it wasn't working, I can't handle the long silences and he can't handle anything at all. Certainly not right now. Why can't I stop grieving?]
We return to our regularly scheduled programming. If I can remember what it was...
Oh yes. Me being caned. Spanked. Flogged. Wondering what it looks like from the sadist's perspective and wondering what he looks like when he's doing it. And wondering now how I would feel watching... it would be different from watching a film of someone else. I would be remembering what it felt like... I would be remembering my screams. And I would be remembering the pain as, each time, he scratched his initial into my flesh.
In some ways, that is always my favorite part. There are still traces of the two times he cut his initial into my belly last fall. I would want it shot with 2 cameras, so you could cut between the look on his face and the tip of the implement, the jagged end of the wood strip, the sharp protruding nail top of the upholstery tack that holds the trim to the flogger, as it scratches my skin and leaves behind small traces of blood that seep up to the surface.
I have told him I wondered how I sounded. He's not sure he wants to record it for me. He's afraid it would make me self-conscious in the future. I respect his judgment. He is almost always right. And since the point of hurting me is to feed his hunger, and his hunger is fed by my reactions to the pain, I wouldn't want anything to spoil that reaction for him.
I'm tired now. Crying makes me tired. Plus I have a bedtime of 11:15, with a very special assignment to complete beforehand.
[Damn. it snuck up on me again. i was going to write "kitten gets to cum tonight." but i'm not kitten with my demon muse. i am still kitten, i will never stop being kitten, deep inside i will always be kitten. but not with him. i am his pet, i am his angel, i am his poet, i am his slave, i am all sorts of creative names. but not kitten. i am the philosopher's kitten. now and forever.]