A week, a night, a gift - beaten, peed on, and treasured (6)

When I look back on the series of thoughts that the sadist injected into my mind during those days before the trip, I am not completely sure what he was trying to achieve. Part of it, I know, was to keep me completely, intensely immersed in that place in which he can so easily put me with nothing more than a word or a phrase. Part of it, perhaps, was a recapitulation of how far we had come in the nearly 2 years since he found me. And another part, I suspect, was to reveal to me why I am his treasure.

Why I was being honored by being allowed to go.

Why - damn, I'm crying now - why he wanted to have me with him.
The piece I am not sharing certainly speaks to that.

My dear friend jcn mentioned in a comment that there seems to be a contradiction between my Master's image of me and my own, especially as relayed in the last post. She writes:

We have (in your Master's voice), I found you in prison, and I chose not to help, or befriend or support or encourage you.

Which is difficult to match up with your image of yourself, downy and delicate, crouched beneath him, being fed precisely the correct diet to strengthen your wings.

And there is the problem of his view of an unrelenting and merciless captor, and yours of joy dancing within you as you waited to be subject, yet again, to his terrible ministrations.

I do laugh, too, when I read your descriptions of yourself, sparkling and full of soul songs in his hands, and his descriptions of you, bleary-eyed, hanging from a branch, in despair over his command over you.

So, dear OG, we wait for all these mysteries to be solved, for these apparent discrepancies to be explained [...]

Before I give the sadist's response, here is a small part of my reaction to that very long message. Remember, he had written:

And so you see my pet, though we use euphemisms and prosaic verbiage to describe the dynamic, you truly, actually are imprisoned, and only I know where you are, and what you need. Only I can bring you even the tiniest bit of relief from your suffering. These words have certainly saddened you, and I revel in that. They may have even angered you. But I have zero concern that you would do anything that would cause me to lose my ability to amuse myself with my treasure. You could cut off contact. Maybe even hold out for a while. But you would be back, and I would always know that.

And I replied:

Your words did not anger me, my Master.
And they saddened me only in reminding me of my life-long pain.

I cried exactly where you predicted, but there was a measure of joy and relief in it, too.

How could I not give myself to probably the only person in the word who understands me?

How could I not love you, even though you use your knowledge of me purely for your own amusement?

With you, only with you, do I feel a little less alone.

Perhaps that is why I say, contrary to all logic, that with you I feel safe? And certainly, my Lord, that is why I say that you have freed me.

You were what I needed.
You are what I need.
And so I ran to you.

There was more, of course. But I'll leave it at that. Except for now giving my Master's reply to to jcn's comment about the seeming contradiction:

"those 2 dynamics [...] are in fact inseparable"

Perhaps, to make it clearer, I should give you a little more from my responses, which continued throughout the day:

Oh yes, my Lord. I well know that I am your prey. But at least you understand me. You value me. You take pleasure from me. And you pay attention to me! I am not alone any more.

This feels like a lead in to the 23rd Psalm.

For Thou art with me.
Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.

Ouch.

I have never known anyone like you, my Master. And what you give me, I have never had from anyone. Can you wonder that I would sacrifice as necessary to remain at your feet?

[ . . . ]

And if I don't want to escape, my Master?
If I feel more alive as you torture me than I ever did flailing about on my own?

I say how you free me, my Master. It's not that you change me, I am still cut off from the rest of the world. But you free me from being cut off from myself. You allow me to see myself as valuable, rather than as an inconvenient pain in the ass.

What is key here is that you truly understand that you really could not escape, even if you wanted do.

I have been saying that myself for a long time, my Lord. I had no choice.

There were a few more comments, including one or two from me that seemed to penetrate past his armor, at which point he switched the conversation to practicalities.

All this happened on the Thursday night. Friday was completely devoted to discussing details, adding to instructions I had received over the course of the week as to what to buy (water and cheap champagne) and what to bring.

As I mentioned previously, because of the schedule of the main purpose for his trip, it made sense for me to travel separately, and to return on my own on the Sunday. I was sorry about this, as the previous year's discussions including a delicious scenario of my masturbating in the seat beside him on the whole trip out, exhausting myself with orgasms for his amusement while he fondled my tits and pussy at 70 miles an hours. Add to this the possibility of drivers choosing to hover beside us to share the entertainment and you can see why we regretted the necessary change in plans. But some things can't be helped.

Because of our separate arrivals and projected late rendez-vous at the hotel, clear specification of means of communication were crucial. Besides, being a dom and all - and doms being notorious control freaks - my Master does seem to get off on precision and ritual. So I was clearly informed exactly when to text him with the room number, followed by an e-mail, to be repeated after a defined interval if I didn't hear back, and then a further back-up plan if I didn't hear back after that.

There were three paragraphs of this, which I dutifully transferred to the sheet of instructions I would take with. I then condensed and listed the steps, so I wouldn't miss anything in his profusion of verbiage. However, what I forgot to put on that hand-written list was something buried in paragraph 4: as soon as I get a reply to my message, text him yet again so he will know we have 2-way communication.

There is always something...

Saturday dawned sunny and hot.
Very hot.

The cats were clingy. They knew I was leaving town and were not at all happy. I would be gone for pretty much precisely 24 hours, and felt they would manage with heaps of extra dry food. The last thing I wanted to do was ask my friend M-- to feed the cats while I was gone, thus letting her know I'd be gone, thus leaving her wondering where I was going. She doesn't know about the fiend. It's not like with the philosopher, where eventually people knew of him as my boyfriend and all I was keeping from them was the D/s part of our relationship. The sadist and I exist in a world of our own creation, which no one else may enter unless it serves his pleasure to assign a small part in our play. Besides, M-- is telepathic. I think she is already picking something up. She just has no idea how to read it, so it floats in her mind undefined.

I had hoped to do my small bit of packing on Friday night. A very small bit of packing. After all, from about 7 pm Saturday until I floated out of bed Sunday, I was to remain naked. But I just couldn't focus enough on Friday night. So Saturday morning I allowed myself a little extra sleep and then diligently packed a change of underwear, a sleeveless summer dress for dinner, my toiletries, and my own pillow into a small, wheeled floral suitcase. The champagne and water went into a small, blue, soft-sided cooler. I made sure not to forget the charger for my Blackberry, and brought my laptop as well.

And the cash.

We must not forget the $20 bills he had, on the previous Saturday morning - stuffed in my white racer-back bra and my plain white cotton panties as if I were a prosaic whore or a stripper or (more exotic) a belly dancer being hired for a very special party. I was allowed to pay for the hotel and gas with my credit card, but otherwise everything else had to be bought with the cash.

The purchases... for the champagne I went on that same Saturday to a store in DC, where I knew the selection would be better. Not that it really mattered. I suspected I knew why he wanted the wine, and taste would be irrelevant. But I liked the sense of making a special trip, dedicated to fulfilling my Master's command. I was excited and nervous, feeling as if I were doing something illegal, as if anyone looking at me could see that I had abdicated control over my body, my mind, and my life. Could see that I was someone who willingly gave her body to a man selected by someone who claimed the right to make a gift of her services. I reeked sex. I was sure everyone in the store could smell it.

I felt my Master's chain clipped tight around my neck, and could feel him pulling on it from miles away. I could feel his eyes on me, enjoying my arousal, feeding on my trembling, watching over me like a not-so-benevolent deity. And as I left the store, I could hear his voice... that voice I can't describe but which stops my breathing - I could hear his voice saying:

"Good girl."


[I think that will be enough for tonight. If you have joined us in the middle, you might want to go back and read Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3, Part 4 and Part 5.]