Tuesday, March 30, 2010


Thrash, thrashing, thrashed… a new word, a happy word.

Yesterday morning as I received my usual hug, kiss, nipple grab and swat good bye as Master left for work, he commented that it had been a while since he thrashed me. I could not help but whimper and wiggle as I enthusiastically agreed. He said that that night when he got back from work I would get a thrashing and I started to jump up and down. It had been a while, over a week. But I know better than to get my hopes up too high. Master is fond of saying things like that and then retracting it just to watch me squirm in frustration.

And when he got home, he greeted me in his way, a hug, a kiss and the usual painful grab and yank of a nipple or two. A sadistic grin accompanied the final swat or two, “Ready for your thrashing?”

Squeals of eager anticipation and a vigorous nod, “You like that word? Thrashing?”

I was practically wagging my tail, but still the dry voice in my head was saying, “Slow down, don’t act too eager.” And he did sort of withdraw, go about his coming home routine, emptying pockets, smoke a cigarette, mess around with the computer, then sit down and have a snack. When he settled down deeper into his big chair and began to flip around on the channels of the television, I knew better than to push, to even speak of it.

I sat quietly and worked on a story, sending him side long glances… five o’clock turned to six and I knew that if I did not get dinner started soon, it would too late. I got up and began to get out the ingredients and he instantly was up and grabbing at me, shoving me around, twisting me, hurting me… basically just being a bully. He does that. As soon as I move, it is like triggering a predator reflex. And if I have something I am doing, some focus on a task, he loves to interrupt me. He knows how making me stop doing something I am focused on grates. He thrives on the resistance.

Just as irritated as he wanted me to be, I struggled to get away, to work on the thing I was doing and the more I fought the more he seemed to be enjoying himself. Finally I said in my best airport announcement voice, “We are sorry the thrashing hour is past, it is now the cooking hour, please come again…”

He let me go, said, “Okay, no thrashing,” then he walked away.

Damn, it is such a fucking balancing act, if I act to eager he will not do it just to make me suffer mentally. But if I take the resistance a step too far, it can do the same. I did not chase after. I did not say anything. I did not even look at him. I was determined not to squirm. I went right back to my original task.

It wasn’t sixty seconds when he was back with a vengeance, grabbing me harshly and dragging me physically down the stairs to his lair. He is so strong and I cannot even begin to pretend resistance now. I am totally giggling with wild exhilarated excitement. He shoves me into his room and I am instantly stripping. I can’t get my clothes off fast enough.

He has so many things to hit me with and he does not like me to know which he is going to choose. I know this, lay face down on the bed and hide my eyes. My heart was already racing, and my breathing fast. He always starts harsh, I knew it is going to hurt… and hurt a lot. He wants me to scream at the first blow and keep screaming the whole time. I could hear him rattling things around, sticks, whips, paddles, canes… I listened, my skin prickling in anticipation.

Would it be the little fiberglass stick with its hot, lancing, searing sensation like I have been burned? It is silent and deadly and when he hits me with it, he does it in rapid staccato snaps, leaving behind a constellation of lingering pain. Or will it be the huge wide paddle that covers my whole ass in one blow, heavy hard and noisy. Or the flogger, or the cane, or the heavy spatula or the thick leather belt, each with their signature sound, and pain. The very cries they force from my lips are different. I don’t know which I fear the most and love the most. He makes me wait. He knows I am waiting.

The swish and sting is unmistakable. It was the string flogger, the one he spent so much time tying the knots in recently. Of course, he would choose that, he is still in love with it. He spread the blows out, knees to shoulders. I squealed and undulated… and laughed. I don’t know why I laugh but I do, I always do. Between shrieks, groans, sobs and tears, it is always there, giggles, cackles, even at times deep roaring belly laughs.

Then BANG, the force of the paddle drove the air from my lungs and I yelled with the pain, he hit me over and over with it until I was strangling on the pain. I writhed and twisted. I could not lay still. Then just one swish and sting, the bite of the flogger was almost a relief and I groan in relief. But then snap, snap, snap, like the shots of a machine gun the cane bit into my tender and stinging ass. I screamed loud and hoarse. When I think I could take another blow it changed. He chooses another weapon. It never lessens but the tone, but the very flavor of the agony transformed and as it does I can absorb more. It filled me up, washed away all thought, I am reduced to a mass of nerve endings.

Every time I started to take a breath, started to adjust, started to come to terms with it, he used the smallest and most vicious of his toys, that terrible little bit of fiberglass. It was silent, yet it wrung from me the most panicked and frantic of shrieks. It was like being bitten, stabbed, stung by bees and every touch stayed aflame, burned and stung and grew in pain rather than eased and subsided. It was like he is touching me with a red hot wire. And it ripped asunder any control I may have achieved, shattered any refuge of peace I have found in the storm of agony.

As I realized that I had no control, that there is no place to hide, I choke on a sob and then began to laugh, deep wild laughter. And he laughed with me as he beat me, changing weapons more and more quickly. There was no predicting. Once when a sensation was strange, alien and beyond my comprehension I twisted and looked, wondering if he had found some new thing to torture me with but it was just the same string flogger he had started with. My tormented nerve endings were playing tricks on me. He growled for me to pull on the blind fold. He loves the sudden panicked recoil and surge of my body as some new unexpected sensation tears at my resolve to be still, be still and absorb every instant of this experience. If I were to see what object was in his hands, I would be able to anticipate. I do miss the chance to watch his face as he beats me; I wish I could see his face sometimes.

Finally I cannot scream anymore. I laid, letting the soft grunts of pain, the soft choking whimpers and, still, the soft laughter leak unrestrained from my panting lips. But I could not scream or struggle any longer and he said, “You have had enough.”

I mumbled against the mattress, “No, not enough.” But I rolled over and pulled up the blindfold and looked up at him. He still had the tools in his hand, was still hefting them and staring at my nude body. I met his eyes, writhed provocatively and ran my hands over my tingling skin. I was still panting from exhilaration. He swung and I watched as the flogger made contact with my now exposed breast, and I cried out once, a sharp exhaling, “Ahhh,” as the pain sank in. I watched like a spectator as my skin turned red and my nipple shrank instantly into a tight knot. And again, I couldn't help but burst into giggles.

He picked his targets then, breasts, belly, pubis, inner thighs, used the string flogger only now. He is more confident with it, knowing exactly where it will strike. His blows were more restrained there, on the front of my body. The pain was more intimate and I could finally see his face and he could see mine... see the pain and the joy, the struggle and the acceptance.

He said again, “You have had enough.” And finally he put down the tools of pain and lay down beside me. His lips were warm as he gently kisses me and then moved down to take one of sensitized nipples between his lips and teeth. He bit down and I tensed and shuddered under him, and, for the first time, felt the rush of arousal.

I find the infliction of pain is infinitely pleasurable. It is intense, exhilarating, raw, intimate but, strangely, it is not sexual for me. But the adrenaline, the trust and the intimacy leave me so open, so ready for his touch. Each caress is magnified, my skin so sweetly sensitive, and my busy brain for once silenced. At his first touch I was totally his.

He laid beside me, still fully dressed, leaning up on one elbow so he could watch me more closely as he touched me, ran his finger tips across reddened and tender flesh, once again reveling in the surge and undulation of this body he so completely controlled.

He found my center, seizing and pressing, his fingertips danced in those primal rhythms that I cannot resist. Once again he sought my voice, listened to the sounds of my building passion and as I arched, pressed up against his caress and cried out, he made a soft satisfied sound of triumph. He had me completely in his power and he did not stop. If anything, that touch, those fingers only pressed harder, rubbed harder, forced more from me. I convulsed, I thrashed, I screamed, and, bubbling up between pleading lips, there was still more laughter. Even when it was beyond pleasure and was just reflexive jerks of exhausted, flesh I did not push away his hand. I gave him what he wanted, just like he gave me what I needed.

Today, I run my hands over my skin, examining and celebrating each red mark, each bruise, each tiny red line left by the evil little piece of fiberglass, savoring, remembering.

Thank you, Master

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