Back to the knife

He says I exaggerate.
He says I romanticize.
Poetic license, he calls it.
But finally, he set the record straight.

I didn't even use the blade side, only the back of the tip, and I have scraped much harder with the [jagged end of the strip of cherry wood that serves as a cane].

And I suppose it makes sense. As he rightly pointed out, there was blood, but not that much blood. I was in fact surprised to note the lack of blood on the knife itself, which lay on the carpet beside me as, marked and frightened, I knelt before my torturer and sucked his cock. Similarly, there was pain, but not that much pain. It was probably more panic than anything else. Panic and an embarrassing lack of trust.

In one way, you could say that the beast wielded the knife, the beast cut me, but Daddy had his hand wrapped firmly around the wrist of my attacker, and kept him from hurting me as much as he yearned to.

But I don't think you can say I was misrepresenting. Because I experienced it as if it were the sharpened blade and the piercing tip. So emotionally, it was that. Certainly, the reality explains why he had to work so hard to make the mark he desired. The sharpened blade and the piercing tip would have easily formed his initial. More efficient, less safe, and far less brutalizing.

I continue to contemplate what happened, what he did to me, and my various responses, and - most important - how I yielded. I gave myself to it. I struggled to please him as the beast snapped his (unearned?) displeasure and slapped my face. Twice. Hard. I sucked his cock frantically, terrified at what would happen if I did not achieve the demanded level of pleasure. I lay there beside him on the queen-size futon, my pale skin set off by the dark red sheet, and screamed in terror as he ran the knife over me.

I never said "No. I can't do this any more."

And after it was all over.
After the flood of endorphins exploded into sobs.
After he left.

After it was over, and in the days that passed before my equilibrium returned, as I realized how shaken I was, how numb I was after reaching such a high state of tension and fear, when I realized that I was so cleansed yet numb that I had no desire nor even ability to masturbate, that there was no orgasm in me... during all that time, when part of me wondered and worried whether this time he had gone too far... all I wanted was for feeling to return, for desire to return, for love to return, for my willing and complete submission to return.

And all during that time, the most frightening thing of all was the nagging desire, which I tried my best to ignore, to pledge my fealty to the beast and to give myself to the knife once again.

To hold nothing back.

Nothing.
Nothing at all.

I am grateful to my Daddy for protecting both of us from our scariest urges.
He does protect me.

I love you, Daddy.