Thursday, September 16, 2010

The mark of the Beast

I suppose it was my fault.
He acted is if it were at least partly my fault.
But it's not as if he hadn't been thinking about it.
For a long time he has been thinking about it.
Reminding me that it was there.
Showing me his hunger.
Feeding my fear.

Today, he brought out the knife.
Today, he kept out the knife.

Why am I so aroused as I write those words, given the fear and the pain and the panic and the screams of Daddy, please, Daddy, don't, Daddy please don't, please stop, please... YOU'RE HURTING ME DADDY!!! PLEASE DON'T CUT ME DADDY!!

He said it was my fault.

It started on Monday morning. We were talking about my discovery that I was his little girl, and how I had to make it clear here that it was just one of many facets of who I am, and I commented:

I would not be surprised if it turns out there are more personae lurking inside me, yet to be revealed.

To which he replied:
Of course there is more, or more accurately, there are more, in you. One in particular (probably because of the holidays) I have been thinking of beginning a module of exploration into: your Jewish-ness (as it relates to your sexuality) and how can I taste it, grow it, exploit it. I realize I am asking for it here; the subject is too huge and its influence so overarching that distillation or even summary is impossible. Still, if I shied away from initiatives (concerning you) that I knew would be a trial we would have no communication at all. And keep in mind (cause I do) that to an American boy of Irish descent, there is a bit of ethnic mystery there. I mean, the mere term "Jewess" kinda gets me hot.

So start thinking, NOT OBSESSING (yet) and we will revisit it from time to time.

I must mention here that I positively hate the term "Jewess" and always have. But as I began my research, I realized that the reason why I hate it is exactly the same as the source of our fascination and threat in the eyes of the majority. I hate the sense of exoticism in the term. The implication of "otherness." Growing up in New York City during the 50's and 60's, there wasn't anything all that Other about being Jewish. There were only 5 non-Jewish families in my elementary school - a bigger school than many of you are probably used to, one where the 4th grade alone had 5 large classes. The Baby Boom generation was booming. Everyone in NYC ate bagels long before the rest of the country had ever heard of them, and at least a few words of Yiddish peppered everyday speech throughout the city.

I hated being seen as exotic when to me I was normal. The summer before my senior year in high school, I went to a 5-week theatre program at a Midwestern university. My roommate was from Ohio, white and Protestant and unsophisticated. She looked at me and said: "Oh. I never met a Jewess before." God, it made me feel so weird...

But you don't argue with the man who owns you, especially when he's a sadist, and I always love to feed his fantasies. He's got this thing about nuns... Hey. He's Irish. What do you expect?

We all have our obsessions, don't we...

So I started my research and I was going to quote some of it here until I realized that I'm just trying to avoid talking about what I really need to talk about so as to exorcise it and that is the hour he spent with me today. And the knife. And the bandages I am wearing after cleansing the cuts with alcohol. That hurt. The alcohol hurt. But Daddy suggested I do it.

He does take care of me.
In his way.

His "Jewess" obsession.

He was coming over this morning and one of the things he likes me to do is to feed the flames of his arousal before he arrives. I can do a better job at that now that I'm not working. Now that I'm not dashing home and trying to have the room prepared and my body stripped before he arrives expecting me to be naked at the door. Now that I have time to wait and compose messages to tease his cock into a state of urgency and his mind into a desperate ferment.

I should have known better.
I know there are things that are dangerous.
I know there are things that incite his hungers.
I know there are things that call to the beast.
I am not supposed to call to the beast.
There is always the danger that he can't be stopped.

But my mind can't always be stopped, either. It starts on its creative way and my imagination runs ahead of caution and these phrases and images pop into my head and they are for him, they are inspired by him, and it feels dishonest to hold them back.

So this is how it went:

Good morning, Sir.
Good morning, my Lord.

Good morning, Daddy.

I am clean for you.

I am shaved for you.
I am trained for you.
I wait to make you hot and happy.

your whore.

your pet.

your poet.

and your own precious little girl.

Good girl.
You may choose the room in which you will entertain me.

Also, I have discovered the perfect way to incorporate a Jewish element into our interaction: Shofar blowing.

I'm laughing, Daddy, while fretting that I don't know all the proper calls and blowing patterns. I do so want to do everything right, Sir!

I am preparing the main dungeon room for you, Sir. For the morning, we should be reassured of privacy.

I am ready, my Lord. I await you. Naked, soft, and Jewish.

(he switches to texting to announce his new ETA)

I'm not going anywhere, Daddy. I will wait patiently, eagerly, happily, and moistly.

Opening my mouth, projecting my tongue, inviting you to assault and invade.

My Jewish mouth, sweet as kosher blackberry wine. Potent as schnapps. Before you drink, say the blessing for fruit of the earth.

(He is driving so keeps return texts to a minimum.)


Spank my bottom till it's as red as the apple with which Eve seduced Adam. The apple of knowledge from the tree of life. We Jews always want to know more.

Teach me, my Lord.

Offer me my Jewess.

I climb upon your altar, a martyr to your lust. You lay me down on the sacrificial stone, sprinkle me with holy water, and with your green knife send me to God.

You fuck my mouth as dying gurgles flow with the blood.


Feel the knife.

You cut the hair from my head and have it spun into thread.

You know where.

I'm scared...

May be warranted this time.

I remember the ritual...

The small knife in my pussy. (That's not what he had in mind.)

Alone in the dark in the closet.

But yours is bigger and sharper. And it holds your evil.

I am already bleeding. (I have my period.)


Now just wait.


And so I did. I stopped writing and watched out the window and finally he came and I met him at the door and he looked over his property and then sent me down to stand against the wall, my face and tits to the wall and my butt thrust wriggling towards him, pressing back towards him, and he usually comes up behind me and presses his still-clothed crotch into me and I rub back against him and there are all sorts of rituals before he goes to his chair and orders me to suck him.

Except this time.
This time I heard it.
I heard the knife click open.
I knew that's what it was.
And I knew I was in trouble.

So yes, I suppose it's at least partly my fault.
I did incite him.
But really.
When you're Jewish -
when you have our history -
our history of being martyred for being the Other -
where did he expect my mind to go?

And the knife?
It has been waiting in the wings for a long time.
Sooner or later, it would hear its cue.

And finally.
There is the mark.
His initial.
Carved into my bounteous but shrinking butt,
and then cut again to make it clearer and deeper.
To make a statement no one can question.

She is mine."

As he said before he left,
"This one will last a long time."

And I'm glad and I'm afraid.
Nothing is ever simple.
Ambivalence always loiters.
He carved his initial into my flesh.
He marked me as his, with blood and with pain.
And I will be his for a very long time.

But right now,
a day and a half later,
I still need to curl up and cry.

[For more from me, including some thoughts on the sacrifice of Isaac, see the COMMENTS.]


charlie said...

It is something to carry his mark of ownership around in your mind and another to have it on your body for everyone to see the connection. Congratulations!

Paul said...

OG, congratulations, you are indeed marked for life.
Soon it will heal, and you will start to feel the pleasure.
Love and warm hugs,

Anonymous said...

"But really.
When you're Jewish -
when you have our history -
our history of being martyred for being the Other -
where did he expect my mind to go?"
But, of course, the original martyrdom was Isaac's, and the circumstances were created, deliberately, by both of his Fathers, Abraham and God.
And was a choice.
As is yours.
I am astonished, as always, by both your courage and your directness - and, I guess, by the fiend's, as well. I think you are well-matched. And that's a compliment. Fascinating and thoughtful and, in an odd way, a seminal (no pun intended, honestly!) post. - jcn

oatmeal girl said...

Well, charlie, I sure it won't be seen by EVERYONE!

Paul - thank you. I don't see any signs of actual healing, but it also doesn't seem to be getting infected, so that's to ease the worry I remind myself that it can take many days for even a paper cut to stop hurting!

jcn - the fiend's courage... for what he did? I wouldn't call it courage, actually. He doesn't really have control of himself at such times. What we refer to as "the beast" does. It takes possession, this other part of himself, this fatal mix of brain chemicals. I would think it frightening to live with such potential for violen and that... dominant. I think of how my own winter-time chemical imbalance makes me shovel one cookie after another into my mouth as a still, small voice inside (Jews will recognize the reference) whispers "what the hell are you doing? you're not at all hungry" while being incapable of stopping my hand. When the beast takes possession, Daddy's still, small voice is strangled, and nothing can stop his hand.

Ah, but Abraham's hand was stopped. A substitute sacrifice was sent. A few years ago I suddenly found a way to understand the story of the sacrifice of Isaac. Understand and embrace it in the context of D/s. Because it is all about faith. Faith and obedience.

Note that it is always referred to as the SACRIFICE of Isaac. Not the aborted sacrifice. Because the important thing was Abraham's willingness to obey. The act itself was not needed.

I was terrified.
I was in pain.
But I submitted.

And now?
I'm shaken.
I'm in pain.
I am marked.
But I will be ok.
We will be ok.

He is my Lord.
My Master.
My teacher.
My guide.
He is my Daddy.
And I love him.

Anonymous said...

Brevity does lead to lack of clarity, but I cannot deal with your comments as if I had the number of words allowed a term paper. So - the fiend's courage. Not for "what he did." For continuing, despite the frightening temptations that lie in your sweet self, to engage, to relate, to enjoy, yes, certainly, but also to bring you strength in the process. I'm probably wrong, but I think isolation is easier, for those whose "still, small voice" - (schikses, too, recognize the reference!) - is sometimes drowned out. So, yes. The fiend's courage.
As to the sacrifice, or martyrdom, I stick to my original point. It is about faith, you're correct, and it is about obedience, of course.
It is also consensual. Deliberate.
As is the initial.
Of course you will be ok, singularly and collectively.
Because it's a choice. - jcn

nancy said...

That just left me shaking.

How lovely to be marked.