Unbeaten

He didn't beat me today.
He didn't spank me.
He didn't whip me with his belt.

He didn't use on my pale skin the beautiful brown and turquoise leather flogger that many years ago he had his masochist slave make for me. The slave knew whom it was for; the sadist we share has many ways to inflict pain. This flogger is the second model. The first one came apart in use, and the Sadist judged its knotted ends too harsh for me. It's not that he spares me, although I know he protects me. It's more that he can achieve the same effects with less extreme methods, and he doesn't want to risk losing me by going too far. I'm grateful to his masochist slave for giving him the extreme suffering that I cannot.

But not today.
The previous two weeks were hard.
Hard on my flesh and hard on my emotions.
Butt, tits, belly, pussy, all suffered horribly beneath his belt and hands.
I'm still puzzled that my bruises weren't worse.

But today?
Today's training session was different.
Training.
Retraining.
Retraining in some of the
techniques that he
desires
requires
demands
when I serve his pleasure.

So no belt.
No flogger.
Only the lightest of nipple torture,
Which always takes me to
That Place
where I disappear
and all that remains is His.

And then, because I knew, because I saw the signs, the invisible signal, I spread my thighs apart. I spread my thighs and offered those most tender, sensitive tissues to what turned out to be a very gentle spanking. It did fell gentle, yet when he pushed his way into me, when he thrust again and again, it hurt - and I was grateful for the pain because it made me cry out each time he pushed into me and I know that my pain and my cries please him and excite him and it reminded me how my body is his and it's all about his pleasure and what the hell kind of feminist thinks things like this?

But that's who we are.
That's who he is.
That's who I am
and he makes me feel so
strong
and so
safe
and who are any of you to dare question?

I have never been so happy

What, no bruises?

I feel cheated.
Deprived.
After all those blows
and all that pain
why is the canvas of my
ass but spattered with spots
of pink? Where are my
black and blue badges of courage?

My heart is scarred by your
anger. Your words left
dark red cane stripes on my soul.

I peer over my shoulder,
straining to see my ass in the mirror.
Ah! There's one! Two days gone
and the red belt mark has morphed
to blue. I breathe a prayer of thanks.

I hate it. I want it. I need it. Please, Sir, whip away my sins!

My bruises disappoint me.
The brevity of my punishment disappoints me.
I expected more.
I expected worse.
I was relieved when it ended.
Scared and grateful when he beat me again.
It wasn't enough.
As a punishment it wasn't enough.
Cleanse me, Sir.
Whip my guilt away.
Tie down my arms so I can't
protect
my tits from your belt.
Make me suffer enough to atone.

I can never suffer enough to atone.

And it did do the job.
Even though you didn't choke me.
Even though the chain stayed out of your hands,
away from that most vulnerable
hole
between my legs.
You didn't bring a new
strip
of wood
to use as a
cane
in place of the one I angrily discarded
when I left you.

You were my Tam Lin
but I didn't hold on
as
enchanted
you changed from one
fearsome beast
to another.
I was scared.
I was angry.
So I ran.
And then looked for you in
every
other
man
I met.

Can your belt beat out of me that guilt?

Not really.
Not ever.

But spanking my pussy as you held my legs apart
Whipping with anger, with love and with lust
You slashed to shreds my stubborn will
As if with the knife you're
forbidden
to bring in the house
closing your ears and sadistic soul to the
siren song of
my belly.

I sobbed.
I suffered.
I surrendered my soul.
And offered myself to
everything

everything

I ran from before.

Oh Matron Saint of Foolish Vows,
please help me keep my word!

How do you use me? Let me count the ways.

A pair of poems, written in response to yesterday's encounter and recommitment.

The literary inspiration should be obvious.
The first poem was the direct response.
The next was an attempt to wrestle it into proper sonnet form.
Wrestling indeed.
A struggle for sure.
But then, he loves seeing me struggle.

He's not into bondage, by the way.
He expects self-restraint.
Force of will.
And of not that, restraint by his hands.

Anyway, here is the pair of efforts, posted with his permission. I'm nearly trembling with delight at how returning to his control has inspired me. (He does inspire trembling. Especially with orgasm denied.)

Note: I'd be most grateful for any comments, if only to let me know that you are here and noticed that I am.

~ ~ ~ ~

How Do You Use Me?How do you use me? Let me feel the ways.

You beat me to the heat and depth and pain

My ass can bear when offered to your belt

And then beyond to what you know I need.

You torture me with twists and bites and slaps

On tender tits and taunting nipple ends

While feeding on my frightened helpless screams

And holding fast my wrists with brutal grip.

You show no mercy towards those tender parts

That cower there between my beaten thighs

And blush and swell with want and pain and shame.
You fuck me sore with angry hungry lust

And drink capitulation from my eyes

And know that I will love you all the same.

~ ~ ~

How do you use me? Let me feel the ways.

You beat me to the heat and depth and pain

Your belt upon my ass can fast attain

And then beyond until my wild eyes glaze.

You torture me with slaps and bites and twists

On tender tits and taunting nipples red

While feeding on my frightened cries of dread

And making clear the purpose of our trysts.

You show no mercy to poor Pussy’s cave 

That cowers wet between my beaten thighs

And blushing, swells with want and pain and shame.

With hungry thrusts you fuck your someday slave

And drink capitulation from my eyes -

And know that I will love you all the same.

The juicy stuff. You know you want it.

One of the Prime Directives which, I confess, I'm not always so good at observing:

     Give him what he wants.

     Not what he doesn't want.

I haven't been very good about that here, either.
First I give you nothing at all.
Then I blather about some married man nearly getting in trouble
because his wonderful wife is not where he is
and he's lonely for companionship.
How boring.

So I'll give you what you do want.
Just a small slice.

How we resumed our previous category of relationship after having been apart for over a year, followed by around 15 months as lovers.

Not sure what name to give the character of our relationship, as BDSM seems...
Inadequate.

And submission?
Something's missing from that term, too, although I can't nail down what.

In any case, a chance to return to that other way of being together was offered and gratefully, if nervously, accepted. Because, as he has always said and I agreed, this is not a game. Not for us. We're embarking back on it very seriously.

And there is real danger.

The Beast lurks, always lurks, though I've been warned not to refer to him by name and not to call to him. For various reasons, there are times when he can't be guaranteed to maintain control of his sadistic nature which is beyond someone who just enjoys inflicting pain as part of their sexual interactions. He loves me - he truly does love me and sometimes even manages to say the words. He doesn't want to risk injuring me, or doing something that would cause an irreparable destruction of the relationship.

"He."
I keep referring to him as "he."
I don't know what else to say.
I don't think of him as the Fiend anymore.
I don't really think of him as the Beast either - even if that name were not taboo.

We're going way, way back with my training, so I am not allowed to call him "my Master" anymore. Not there yet. And after years of calling him "Daddy" - which made us both feel ever so good - that's packed away for now. I may address him only as "Sir" but it seems weird to refer to him that way. So for now, it's just "he." "Him." No capital letter unless at the beginning of a sentence.

And today?
Today.

A ritual.
They always work so well.
Confession.
Punishment.
Forgiveness.

The confession pleased him.
I included the major sin which he was almost convinced I would omit.
And thus, my punishment was much lighter than he had planned.
Certainly lighter than I expected.
Which doesn't mean it was light.

He whipped my ass with his belt.
Hard.
Very hard, he says.
I was draped over a leather footstool and he beat me with great intent.
But he didn't lose control.

We continued in the bedroom.
Again, the belt.
On my ass, as I was bent over the foot of the bed, leaning on my forearms.

The belt.
One blow to each tit.

The belt.
Hard, between my spread legs on tissues that are much too tender to be treated that way.

And then?
The punishment was over.
He got in the bed, and had me get in, and held me to him while I sobbed, and he comforted me, and talked more about what had been said and what had been done.

And about love, too.

But the pain hadn't ended.
Hurting me for his pleasure.
As opposed to hurting me because It Needed To Be Done.

Whipping poor Pussy to make her swollen and sore, so she'd be extra tight around his cock and so it would hurt when he fucked me. Often he will spank her with his hand, hard, but this time he went back to whipping her with his belt. Hard. And then with the curled palm of his hand. Very hard. And I struggled so, because I'd made up my mind that I would not protect myself, that I would offer him whatever he felt I deserved and whatever would give him pleasure. But it hurt so much, God it hurt, the belt on top of the previous whipping, and then his hand on top of all that, and I couldn't bear it... I tried so hard to hold my legs open but our bodies must protect themselves and he was up on his knees looking down at me with a most fierce and determined expression and would have what he wanted and he pulled my legs apart, forced my legs apart, held my legs apart and I struggled but there was nothing I could do and he spanked me there over and over until I was almost beyond feeling it... everything was falling away and there was nothing but the pain and the helplessness... and I see him now. That image living in my brain.

And it's so vibrant.
So intense.
And I'm so grateful that he forced that pain on me.
So grateful that despite my struggles I offered it to him.
Willingly gave him my physical vulnerability along with the emotional.

And yes.
When he fucked me it hurt.
And yes.
I was red and tight and swollen inside.
And yes.
I whimpered and moaned and cried out that it hurt.
And he came with a roar.

And he loves me.

And no.
Of course I'm not allowed to cum.