Flogged to pieces

He broke the flogger on my ass.

Admittedly, it was not that well-constructed an instrument of torture. The Medusa's head of lashes was held to the leather-covered body by upholstery tacks, with short pointy bits that couldn't possibly survive the enthusiasm with which he swung it at my buttocks.

Still, it came apart, and for the final flogging of my breasts and cunt, when he whipped my tits and ordered me to say that I loved him as he again and again brought the knotted lashes down on my bruised and tender nipples, he held the amputated business part in his hand and swung it directly at my tortured flesh.

He enjoyed that part.

Yesterday, I barely heard from him, although eventually he allowed me to write him as much as I wanted. I tried IM in the morning, but burst into tears, having been either crying or on the verge of crying ever since he beat me. He had no intention of comforting me, nor did I expect comfort. I begged to be dismissed and then remembered that I have these tiny magic pills, of which I need only one very tiny half to make me stop sobbing. They were first prescribed for me when I was still crying a week after the attacks of September 11th.

I took a half and it worked. I was so upset that there was nothing unused to give me any side effects of wooziness.

I got back on IM, and before my Master left, he gave me permission to write him as much as I wanted.

And then a very odd and disconcerting thing happened throughout the course of Sunday and into today. After what I call the beating and he calls correction and which was really like a very violent hailstorm of spanking and flogging and caning and slapping and angry words and then more of the same... after he was gone and I managed to cautiously pull on my clothes over my nearly bleeding buttocks and screaming nipples... I was not at all aroused at the thought of what had happened. Not one single bit. After all my fantasies of submitting to his torture, and after other times of less violent abuse by him and by the philosopher when I know the pain and submission made me hotly wet, when it came down to this I felt no arousal whatsoever. The pussy meter was dead. And I have no idea if I was wet while it was happening.

But. Yesterday. Sunday. Once the crying was stopped. Very slowly over the course of the day I started noticing these little twinges in my cunt. Pussy pulses. I tried to ignore it, to make believe it wasn't happening, because for all my declarations of submission this embarrassed me.

I wrote my Master this morning, a few times. Nakedly, creatively, submissively... and eventually, with continued embarrassment and in a state of confusion, I admitted that thoughts of what he had done to me were now arousing me.

And he replied:

You are aroused because you were in that place which you long for; totally under the control of another, to be done with as I pleased. You knew you were helpless, powerless to stop me from doing whatever I wanted to you and I did. Just reading the last sentence is making you aware of a pulsing in your pussy. Despite what would transpire, you were where you ache to be.

As always, he was right.