The Pain Thing

Pain.

If I could, I would make the word pulse on the page, like the pulsing of pain itself. Maybe I should write it in red.

PAIN.

Or in italics.

pain.

I wonder why I keep putting a period at the end of the word? Maybe it symbolizes the impact. Though when he takes my left nipple between his fingers and gradually increases the pressure until I almost squirm away before remembering that escape isn't an option, or when he takes my left nipple between his fingers and gives a sharp squeeze-and-twist so that the pain pierces me like the sudden ignition of a flame...

But even when he canes me, which so far has been the worst pain of all... even when he canes me, there is the horrible impact after each stroke, and then the pain lingers and vibrates down into my muscles...

I am a bell, a bronze gong, struck with a giant bronze stick. You can here the clang of metal on metal, the scream of the bell at the moment it is beaten.

At the moment I am beaten.

And then the ringing continues,
the bell shakes,
the bell sings
in pain and devotion,
in suffering and joy,
the music of submission.

In fact, you know, I am hurt neither all that much nor that often. Certainly not anywhere near as much as one would expect, given that I serve a man who does not play at his sadism. If I were smart, I would not offer enticing scenarios involving pain and rape and degradation, such as I did throughout the hours to ease my Master's day. I worry that I will prod the sleeping beast, the beast who feeds elsewhere, and remind him that I am the meal he craves.

The meal he shouldn't have.

But they are, after all, my fantasies.
And have been for... oh, a good 50 years or so.

To be chased.
To be caught.
To be bound.
To be hurt.
To be raped.
Painfully.
Degradingly.

I started to write out some of the things I imagine. And then stopped. Not that you'd be all that shocked. Well, I dunno, maybe you don't expect them to come from me. Certainly you have read them elsewhere. Flesh, pain, cocks, holes, orifices dripping semen and blood, skin scarred by a web of welts, candle wax dripped from so close that my skin is burnt by the flame as well as by the molten globules...

I don't know how much of it I could stand in real life. But while there are some shared fantasies of suffering and abuse that I know for a fact will happen, and some that are merely four-handed études of arousal, there is this middle collection... these imagined scenes that I poke at again and again, experiences that lure me to walk towards them, to stand before them naked saying:

Here.
I am here.
I want to know.
Teach me.

A small part of me is always watching myself, wondering how someone who was always so cautious (mostly always, anyway) could be so drawn to the flame.

I will hold my hand closer and closer to the fire.
I will be burnt.
I will be hurt.
And I will glow.