Saturday, April 17, 2010

Dear Mr. Postman… thank you from the bottom of my, um… bottom?

Dear Mr. Postman… thank you from the bottom of my, um… bottom?

More than a month ago I ordered a couple of things from the internet, for Master… yeah… that’s it… they were for Master. After all his birthday is only next month. Yeppers… that is it, exactly, presents ‘for’ Master.

I ordered a DVD set that Master has been talking about wanting for years from Amazon. That came in four days. That really was for Master and he was ecstatic when he opened it. Happy dance.

But the other thing did not come… and did not come… and did not come.

I had read on another blog about this thing called a “misery stick”… how it was the most ebil of ebil implements of ass destruction, how no matter how hard she tried she could not conquer it. Nothing like having someone talk about how “bad” an item is to pique ones interest.

So I did a search… and came up with Only $9.95! How could it get any better???

And as long as I was there… why not a… only $20.00 more… well, I did order a bigger one… so $25.00 but compared to other kinky toy stores… hella reasonable.

I was on pins and needles waiting… waiting… waiting. And finally I got a notice from my postal delivery guy that he had attempted to deliver the package and it could be picked up at the post office… crap… my schedule rules that out completely. So I signed the paper asking for redelivery, giving permission for the box to be left on my front porch.

But it just did not come. Finally I took some time off from work and stood by my mail box and asked him right out… “Where is my package?” He was a little confused but he said he would check on it. And lo and behold… a box was waiting for me when I got home the next day.

I was good… I really was… I waited for Master to come home before I opened it. The misery stick was smaller than I expected but the strap looked awesome. Heavy, thick, weighty… when I swung it experimentally against my thigh, there was both a thump and sting. I think my eyes must have glowed.

Master looked at them both… pronounced the Misery Stick ‘too little’ and I have to admit, it looked small and light… and when he hit me with it experimentally through my clothing, it did not come anywhere near the pain that the nasty piece of fiberglass that is the “ebilist” thing that Master has. Master instantly could tell that I was unimpressed and turning it around in his hand, hit me with the handle… YOUCH! “Hey! You are not supposed to hit me with that end! That’s the handle!” His eyes instantly lit up, a maniacal chuckle of delight… and he thinks he is not a sadist.

He frowned at the size and weight of the strap and said it would bruise me. Master does not like to bruise me. Red butts okay… a few little lines or welts… red marks seem more permissible then black ones. That does not mean he does not bruise me, he does… but he growls about it. And because he growls, I get fearful if I do get bruised too much I might lose out on some sweet, sweet pain, so the bruises make me nervous.

I did not ask… but Master could see the need in my eyes and he stood and picked up the strap and the little stick, and pointed at the stairs down to his lair… no words, just those deep brown eyes and that pointing finger… oh god yes. It was a race down those stairs and once in his room, his words were sharp, harsh… “drop those drawers, bitch”… I did not even have time to take off my socks or sweater.

The strap was almost more than I could bear. I could not be still… I could not keep my eyes hidden… each time he would hit me, I would convulse and scream. I would twist around and stare at it, at it and him with shocked and frightened eyes. For once I was not laughing. At first I was daunted, maybe I had met my match. Could I do this? Maybe I should send it back? The little stick, the Misery Stick was hardly noticeable compared to that strap, a buzzing fly in a hurricane. He tossed it aside; the reactions he was getting from the strap… those were the kind of stuff that he lusts after, the sounds of terror as much as pain. He would brandish it just to watch me flinch, squall in terror and steel myself for the next flood of agony, brandish it and then laugh.

But finally it clicked… one minute drowning… the next instant soaring, floating, flying. Suddenly I loved that strap like I have never loved anything else. Master was switching up weapons, a smorgasbord of pain, sharp lances of sting of canes and switches, deep thuds of paddles and the swish snap of the flogger, but he kept returning to the strap and it was just the right mix of body shaking impact, sharp searing sting and long slow burn. It filled me up with sensation and again I wanted more and more… I did not want it to stop, ever.

When he was finished, my ass and thighs were deep, deep red, almost purple… laced with the welts and lines of the cane and the fiberglass stick. Master looked at it and frowned… “You look like you are going to bruise.” And I was not sure if he was right or wrong… I can usually tell… the sensation of bruising is distinct… but the strap has a new sensation, it is hard to tell if the blood is leaking out under my skin. I am a little apprehensive.

I change the subject, picking up the Misery Stick, returning to the ‘critique’ of our new toys… “This really does not hurt much.” I pick up the piece of fiber glass… holding it up… “This is ten times worse.” I look at the Misery Stick, the way the handle is attached… “Do you think you would like a handle on this, like that one?” Then I pause, remembering him hitting me with the handle and shake my head… “Um… no… if it had a handle you would just hit me with the wrong end.” He laughed that evil chuckle again, agreeing with me.

I should name that piece of fiberglass… If the new thing is called a Misery Stick and it is anything but miserable, unless of course Master hits me with the wrong end. Then that innocent looking piece of plastic that I found and brought home… that should be named what? It is the one thing that Master has that I cannot come to terms with… Suffering Stick? But it is beyond suffering, it is insidious and yet it has this cleanness… the pain is sharp and clear, pure… it goes right through you, like fire or electricity. Scourge… a word of cleansing… and it elicits so many emotions in me, joy, fear, panic, love… it tears away at my limits, opens me up, invites me to dance with it… it is ultimately seductive… sometimes after beating me with it, Master will just use it to touch me, trace gentle lines on my tingling skin. It both gives and takes from me. It is my gom jabbar… my test, my enlightenment. Yes… it is my gom jabbar.

Multiple times throughout the evening I had the sweet humiliation of having to bare my ass to my Master as he monitored the progress of my recovery. I was not bruised by the strap… but the handle of the Misery Stick, that leaves a guaranteed black fingerprint. The narrow kisses of my gom jabbar, expected, red and unfading… but the deep reddish purple of the strap… that faded to pink and then to pale… The strap passes the test… and I am looking forward to having it added to Master’s arsenal of ass destruction.

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