He doesn't hurt me any more.
At least for now, he doesn't hurt me any more.
He's a sadist, and he isn't hurting me.
He's protecting me.
He's driving me nuts.
He's being cautious.
He's being wise.
He will, I think, return to his former ways in a measured manner, increasing the pressure of his nipple twists a quarter notch at a time, upping the impact of his almost affectionate smacks on my ass, now no more than a potch in tukhes or two, until they leave my bottom hot and angry red. He will, he may, I hope someday take up again that beautiful turquoise and brown flogger that I lay out for every visit and for weeks has remained untouched.
I'm not a masochist.
I agree with his assertion that I'm not a masochist.
He knows me better than I know myself, and he definitely knows some masochists, so if he says I'm not one than of course I'm not. But I fear that his attempts at protecting me from his most dangerous urges - and he is protecting me, in the fiercest way - will drive me to beg him to subject me to something we both know I don't want.
I am his treasure.
He will protect his property.
But meanwhile, I am possessed by ever darker fantasies of protracted canings and gang rapes of my butt hole and a knife... its point... a delicate trail of beads of blood...