Since Master beat me last Friday, beat me with the Gom Jabbar, leaving those evil black welts along the sides of both my thighs, the bruises grew and grew, black, red, purple... the original black welts changing to deep red stripes surrounded with a sickening yellow. The bruises are like flowers, deep black and purple hibiscus with strange yellow hearts and red stamens. And they still hurt to sit upon... six days later.
And it is a disturbing fact that when Master gives me those random swats, those unexpected smacks as I walk by, lean over to get laundry from the dryer, or make the bed... when my ass is within reach... he aims for my flanks, for those twin islands of pain that linger there. He hits me there deliberately, I think to remind me that they are there as much as for the fact that he likes that it hurts me there more.
And I find myself fearful. I have not been seeking him out, not been deliberately placing myself within reach, not flaunting, flashing, swinging the target provocatively in his face. I have not been waving the red cape in the bull's face... In fact I have been retiring, avoidant, and when he does reach for me... terrified. My mouth goes dry, my heart pounds in my throat... and he senses that fear and seems to like having it there.
And it is not a small part of me that trembles in anticipation for when he does take me down to his lair, does decide to really beat me again with intent... how will it be different? ...will I still laugh? ...or will he indulge in this new appetite of his, his hunger for my fear. And if he does, will I be strong enough to give him what he hungers for...
So far, there have been no beatings beyond those random swats, the daily endless "love taps" that punctuated my days. He seems to be focusing on the plundering of my mind, pursuing the endless and varied mindfucks that keep me off balance, unsure of myself... little things like asking if I am feeling better when I had never said I felt bad. And when I respond, "But Master, I've been feeling just fine." He attacks, grabbing a nip, pinching and twisting so cruelly that I cannot speak, his voice cruel and amused, "But, my pet, that is not what I asked." Yet there is no way to answer that question... If I had said yes, that would not have been true... I have not been feeling bad so if I had said "yes"... that would infer that I had... and if I said "no" while that would be the literal correct answer, because if there had been no actual change in my well being... it still would have inferred that I was in some way feeling "bad"... meh... he just wanted me to be confused and wanted to pinch my titties... bastard... It wouldn't be so bad if there weren't a dozen other similar things a day. Thank god he has to go to work. His dick has been in my ear all week... it is starting to chafe.
Last night, deep in the dark, hours after I was sawing logs... he grabbed me, rolled me over and just shoved it in. He was going at it top speed by the time I woke up enough to realize this was the real thing and not a dream. It was all him, I was just a warm wet hole to masturbate in. No words were ever spoken. It was awesome to be used like that... like a fuck hole... an object, a tool to use to make it easier to fall asleep. I think he enjoys the sensation of fucking me when I am not aroused more, I am dryer, there is more friction... he calls it traction. He comes faster... and pulls away without words or cuddles... and is soon asleep.
I found myself walking around in the night, doing those prophylactic measures to keep the UTI's away... peeing and taking my antibiotics. Happily I went right back to sleep. Normally when he uses me like that it frequently means I am up for a couple hours... thinking, analyzing, savoring... I got to leave that for this morning.
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