The sadist has a thing for nuns.
I've known about it almost as long as I've known him.
Since maybe a day or two after he found me.
I'm a naive thing.
I didn't know people had nun fetishes.
People probably have fetishes about everything.
It fascinated me.
To be swathed in a full nun's habit.
To be innocent.
Soft white buttocks whipped.
To be despoiled.
I absorbed his fantasies into myself.
And I wanted to please him.
I've always wanted to please him.
So pretty early on, I decided I would somehow have to get my hands on a nun's habit. Get my soft white Jewess body into a nun's habit. Note: I hate that word. Jewess. It feels dehumanizing. But it turns the sadist on. And I play to his desires. His fetishes. Which gets us back to the nuns. The habit. Where the hell was I going to get a nun's habit? A real one?
And then I mentioned it to one of you. She used to comment as jcn and now has a profile but I can't remember what name she uses. Anyway, she said she had a friend who was a nun who was trying on the case. And then someone came into where she works and asked if anyone could use a nun's costume. A good one.
That was this summer.
Today, the sadist got to see it.
With me in it.
And then not in it.
I've said that we don't "play." We don't role play either. There are different aspects to our relationship, to how we are with each other, to the needs we serve for each other. Emotional needs. Sexual needs.
Me in the nun's habit.
What he did to me.
It was the closest to role play as we've ever gotten.
But it was more than that. Far more. Oh yes. You could call it a scene. A scenario. But it was also a ritual. A ritual we both needed. I was to make confession. To think, to search, to self-examine. To open. To offer.
This morning, as I finished compiling the list, it suddenly hit me.
All my failings.
All my faults.
All my weaknesses.
I was devastated.
And later, as I began to read it to him,
swathed in the very convincing
and totally obscuring
I started to cry.
It was a true confession.
From the heart.
When he talked to me about it beforehand, while I was away for Thanksgiving, he reassured me that it was just a fine-tuning. Not an engine replacement. Not preparation to trade me in for a newer model. And he was right. I did need this. Not that I needed reminding of my faults and failings. I haven't forgotten them. I never forgot them. But every so often I need to face them. Especially the ones that involve sins against the sadist. Whom I serve and whom I love. For both reasons, my failings are unacceptable.
Far more than to him, it turns out.
I confessed and I sobbed.
He comforted me.
Stroked my back.
Eventually, he did punish me.
I needed that, too.
He almost didn't punish me, he said.
Because I have an interview in a few days.
He didn't want to do anything that might make it too uncomfortable for me.
But he couldn't keep from doing it.
I was too hot in that nun's habit.
And I needed it.
It cleansed me.
The thing is, the sadist is not one of those Doms I sometimes read about who need to tear down their subs. His bigger concern is that he thinks I'm amazing. beautiful. Brilliant. His treasure. And I have a hard time swallowing it. And that makes him more angry than just about anything.
I'd been afraid of the coming punishment. I wanted to do penance, but was afraid he would beat me with that nasty strip of wood he uses as a cane. Which is what he usually uses for punishment. It hurts like hell. And it's a nasty sot of pain. It scares me.
But he didn't.
He didn't cane me.
And he didn't flog me,
which would have been appropriate.
He whipped me
With his belt.
I kind of like being whipped with a belt. Of course, this wasn't supposed to be for my pleasure. And it didn't feel like that. It was supposed to cleanse me of my grief and my guilt. And thus be something I could embrace. It wasn't an angry beating. And... punishment seems like something external. Something imposed. Whereas penance... you offer to do it. It's a cleansing pain, a cleansing suffering. And the belt... the choice of the belt over the cane... it felt loving.
I told him that.
Assuring him that "loving" was not implying that other, related word.
And did not protest my characterization.
A loving whipping to cleanse me of my sins and my guilt.
A firm, loving whipping,
his belt landing on my soft, bare, proffered bottom
as I posed on the futon on my hands and knees,
everything but my reddening butt swathed in black
and my head and hair buried beneath the veil.
There was more, of course. It was happy and beautiful and fierce and we had to struggle to keep the beast under control. It was close sometimes. I'd been afraid he'd be there. Because of the nun. And he was there. I saw him in my Daddy's eyes. I felt his hand tight around my neck. And he was dangerously close when later, for his pleasure, Daddy whipped my pussy.
With the belt.
He left the belt with me.
He'll be whipping me with it again.
He'll be buckling it around my neck again.
He'll wrap it around my neck and pull me to him
as he lies back on the futon
while I kneel between his legs
sucking his happy cock.
The nun will be back, too.