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.