A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (3)

The days that followed were focused on 2 main things:

1. Arrangements and details, all very precise.
2. Writing assignments to shape my mind so as to enhance my service and his pleasure. Assignments to put me in that place. In the many rooms of that place.

I have been given permission to share these with you. They will give you a glimpse of my Master's mind in all its creativity. And they will give you a glimpse of both the beauty and darkness of his soul.

His words inspire me.
Cruel or glorious, they inspire me.
They are like a drop of red wine,
dissolving into the clear, sweet water of my brain.
You can see the color spreading out,
disseminating its metaphors,
changing how I think.
Changing who I am.

I kneel below him.
I tilt up my head.
He feeds me like a baby bird,
a diet designed to direct my development.
I am his little poet whore.
His treasure.
His angel.
And he has made me so.

So.
Here is what he wrote.

Your thought for tonight.

Remember and think on that image I gave you of yourself as a creature of the rain forest; neither plant nor animal but growing like a tender tree, pure lure. Your green skin penetrable anywhere, for sexual gratification by anything. Scent, sound, heat and defenseless vulnerability radiate throughout the warm wet jungle, drawing wanderers to you. None can resist your pale belly, though it provides just enough resistance that, in your obligation to serve, and through your tears, you are bound to inform each rapist that they must plunge themselves into you hard enough to hurt you if they are to reach their moist velvety reward. You manage a weak smile, for their benefit, as each viciously pumps himself into you, and finally a whispered "Thank you Sir" as they withdraw and as your leafy head lowers, a jade rivulet oozes from the newly-made scar down you to the ground where it joins a pool from your previous encounters. You sob softly, and hear a rustle, signaling the approach of others.

And here was my response (although not the only one, as my references to this image have continued since then.)

I feel myself dancing naked in an Henri Rousseau jungle. Slow, sensuous, sinuous dancing, swaying like the huge green fronds that surround me, arms up, belly rotating, pussy dripping lush, sweet, green sap.

My scent rises... from beneath my arms... from between my legs... from that spot at the back of my neck...

The beasts smell prey.

They will come.
They will mount me.
They will rake me with their claws.
They will pierce my throat with their jaws.
And then they will leave me to the next.

On this, I will thrive.

And every night, my Master, you will return and take what is yours.

Like an aloe plant, my Lord, whose appendages must be broken off to soothe the pain of others, I must be wounded to satisfy the needs of those who are drawn to me.

But the liquid that drips from where they have pierced me can do nothing to ease my own suffering.

(I know, my Master, that I should be frightened by this image. But instead I am horrifically aroused. A very different sort of pain, my Lord, but pain nevertheless.)

And from there we returned to practicalities.


[If you have joined us in the middle, you might want to go back and read Part 1 and Part 2.]