Monday, July 4, 2011

The dance of pain

Holiday weekends confuse me. Even though I'm not working, I have an inner sense of the pattern of the week that's almost physical. It's certainly visual. A holiday throws things off. I'm not sure where I'm standing.

What I do know is that tomorrow is Tuesday. And despite an impending change in my Master's schedule, Tuesday for now is still the day I serve him lunch and my mouth and my nipples - and my pale, round belly like a somewhat-smaller-than-before mound of rising yeast dough. And all the other parts of me he owns and enjoys and uses and fucks and hurts.

Tomorrow, Tuesday, he will be hurting me.
Or so it appears.

I have my instructions.
Special preparations.

Being currently minus a renter as well as minus a job, I have reclaimed the dungeon bedroom.

Place the flogger and the cane in the basement bedroom.
The flogger on the bed.
The cane in the closet.

The flogger is so beautiful.
I love my flogger.

Even more than the first one, which broke apart while he whipped me. But he'd decided that one was too hard for me to take, anyway. The ends of the cords were knotted. This one is gentler, plus 2 shades of blue and a sweet, soft brown. He can enjoy whipping me very hard and it doesn't hurt too much.

The cane, as I've said before, is not a standard cane.
It's a long strip of wood, ragged on one end.
A nasty thing.
He has to tap it against my butt very light to keep it from hurting like hell.
It usually hurts like hell.

He was thinking about hurting me this weekend.
He was obsessing about hurting me.

But you know? I'm not worried. Because I know he wants to hurt me. Needs to hurt me. I think one reason why our night in the hotel was such a shock was because that wasn't what either of us expected it to be. I was to be calm, peaceful, focused on pleasing him, focused on serving him. Our times together always end up intense because that's the way we are - although he does like to blame it all on me. But the night had been defined as calm.

Last year he beat my butt with the back of my hairbrush, but that didn't cause an upheaval because I knew I had screwed up a small but crucial task and expected to be punished. So he beat me and it hurt a lot but then it was over and I was cleansed of my guilt and then we went on and it was a beautiful night.

Tomorrow he needs to hurt me.
Because he needs to.

Maybe that's one of the differences between a sadist and someone who is merely sadistic. At times, my Master needs to hurt me. And then he will, while restraining himself as much as possible from hurting me more than I can bear.

He takes care of me.
He protects me.
Even as he is teaching me to embrace the pain.
To connect it with pleasure.
To want it.
To beg for it.

What I really want is to please him.
To serve him and to please him.

[dead air]

I just had to shake my head. I wrote those two preceding sentences and fell into an undefined reverie that was all feeling... all intimacy... that magical borderless union between the sadist and his prey...

He likes to use that word.
And to some extent it is quite accurate.
But there is something else.
Something more.
When the victim is willing and loving and giving.
It's a dance.
A dark dance.
A sensuous dance.
A dangerous dance,
but sweet and intoxicating.

The sadist leads.
And when I'm in his arms
and he bends me back almost to the ground,
my nipples sparkling towards the sky,
he presses his mouth to my naked throat
and sinks his teeth into my neck.

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