I Bit Him

I bite him.  I don’t know exactly why I bite him now and then… a combination of playfulness and pure hunger.  Inside me there lurks something uncivilized.  I am not totally joking when I say I was raised by wolves. 

It had been an evening much like other evenings.  Master asleep in his chair.  Me goofing around on my computer.  When I got up to put in a fresh load of laundry he lurched up to sitting and looked at me with foggy, confused eyes. 

“What are you doing?” 

Strangely his tone was censuring… accusatory… like he had caught me sneaking around doing something bad. 

I held out the full basket of my dirty clothes, evidence of my industriousness… “Laundry.”

Now for this part of the story to make sense… you need to know that I am not permitted to wash Master’s clothing.  I have asked for that privilege.  I have begged to be allowed to wash his underwear.  But no… I am not permitted.  So back to the story.

He growls… “Laundry… Do you have something to wear tomorrow?”

An odd question… one that warranted some amount to thought.  Of course I have clothing to wear… but I had not decided exactly what I was going to wear… I stood there, staring at him, the squirrels in my head scrambling around like crazy.  Clearly he wants to use the washing machine… but what was I planning to wear???  Jeans or slacks… leggings with a skirt?  Yoga pants with a sundress?  What was the weather going to be like tomorrow?  What day was tomorrow?  La la la la…. 

As I stood there, frozen, listening to the squirrels as they played, he lurched toward me… and grabs me hard… “I asked you a question.”

Yelps, giggles and flinches… “I am thinking… thinking… yes, YES, YES… of course I have something to wear.  I have lots of things to wear.  If you want to use the washing machine I won’t put another load in.”  But it was too late and he was shoving me down over the arm of the couch.  Several swats and then a yank back up to stand… and his arm was in front of my mouth and I… um…

…bit him. 

I don’t know why.  I wasn’t mad.  Maybe it was the squirrels.  Maybe it was just a primitive gesture of affection.  I can’t even say it seemed like a good idea at the time… because I cannot honestly attest to thinking at that precise moment.

He yelped and shoved me away.  The look on his face was priceless.  You could tell he just could not believe I had done that… again.  He stood there looking at me with this incredulous look on his face, rubbing the hurt place.  I smiled and wandered downstairs to put the wet clothes in the dryer so he could do his laundry.

His lair is next to the laundry room and for some reason I was blithely unconcerned about that fact.  And it was not many minutes before the gravity of my actions finally sunk into his brain and I was nearly hauled up off my feet and thrown unceremoniously over the foot of the bed… right next to the pile of sticks, paddles and whips that is his arsenal of ass destruction.

I stood in the correct posture.  Legs straight, feet braced firmly on the floor, back sharply bent, my face buried in the blankets of the bed.  I was wearing panties, nice thick, warm pair of leggings and a denim skirt.  The layers of fabric softened the first few blows and I lay there… appreciating that very important fact.  It provided a nearly unheard of warm up for what came after.  He eventually figured out the puzzle of lift this up, yank that down that finally revealed my ass.  (I think it is one of my favorite sensations... the peeling back of fabric... the sudden coolness that heralds my nakedness... my vulnerability.)

On top, I was wearing a warm hoody… and as he had thrown me down the hood had fallen forward over my head and for some reason I had my fingers in my ears, wanting to screen out all distractions.  I couldn’t hear the whistle of the cane before it seared into the bare skin of my ass.  He always aims for that one place where my thighs meet the curve of my ass… the sweet spot… the one guaranteed to make me jump and squeal.  It hurt but it also felt right at the same time.  Sharp, scorching… cleansing.  Each snap sending a wave up, over and through me.  I could feel my body undulate and I would exhale with each blow. 

He would pause and take his time selecting the next thing he would hit me with.  He was definitely in the mood for sharp, stingy things.  But he was not pushing me too hard.  He seemed satisfied with soft yelps and shudders.  This time he did not demand screams or struggle. 

Then one of the pauses went longer and I lay there savoring the warmth.  He was doing something.  I could tell he was standing there behind me but when I felt his cock pushing at me I was taken by surprise.  Master hardly ever has spontaneous sex with me.  And almost never mixes sex with sadism.  I was not ready.  (My pussy gets wet when I read stories about beatings, not when I get beatings.)  He was having some trouble getting in… and he said this thing…

“Open up your hole, bitch.”

Now that made me wet.  Just remembering it now, makes me wet again.  And I reached down and spread myself open.  It was hot… there is something amazing about sudden, selfish sex… fucking with your clothes on.  He kept talking to me as he held my hips and used me.  “Keep your ass up.  Arch your back.  Your ass is hot.”  He fucked me with fast, rough jabs of his cock, pushing deep with soft, low growls.  He came quickly and shoved me down with a callous, dismissing grunt.  “You want to come… deal with it yourself.” 

But he stood and watched as I masturbated.  And as I got close he picked up a stick and idly poked at me with it… deliberately distracting me.  But as I peaked and began to come he leaned down and kissed me on the mouth, a deep ravenous kiss.

I could not keep the impish grin off my face as I cleaned up.  I bit my lip and gave him an appreciative look… “You keep doing stuff like that and I will end up biting you all the time.”

It definitely was not much of a punishment, but then it was not all that bad of a bite… it hardly left a mark.       

Toy box... um bag?

As you can see the "box" is more of a bag. You would be surprised how much you can stuff into a bag...

...see all the nice neat plastic bags? Master makes me be so neat and organized. He stands over me and micromanages the meticulous scrubbing of the insertables. (so humiliating... washing ones pussy juice off (or something far, far worse) off something and then having your Master look it over, even sniff it to make sure it is not "dirty" any more.)

See all the pretty toys? It seems from looking that my kink seriously lies in bondage and te' buttsecks. How embarrassing.

Remember how I said Master likes to make sure I am all organized and "clean"???? Just look at the mess that is his collection of implements of ass destruction...

There is no way I could fit all that into a bag... no matter how many Ziplock baggies you apply to the equation.

Speaking of cheese...

Here is a pic of that spreader bar I made. It was pretty simple. Buy bar. Sand bar. Spray bar with satin clear finish. Drill hole and twist in eye screws on either end. Add a couple of snappy things so Master does not have to bother with the tying of the pesky knots.

Stepping off the Path

I think one of the best things about Master’s rigid adherence to routine is when he does make a left turn, changes it up; everything is suddenly filled with sweet surprise. Suddenly I don’t know what to expect.

As I write this I have this thought that the routine, the predictability breeds expectation and on some very basic level the illusion of control. If I know what to expect, I know what to do and if I know what I am supposed to do, I am getting ready for the next expected step in the dance. When I am bent over in the shower, not only am I focused on what I am supposed to be doing at that moment, I am also getting ready for the inevitable tap, the signal to switch position, to spin around and open my mouth.

So when Master steps off the path, the treadmill, and heads off in some unexpected direction, it takes me by surprise, leaves me breathless with uncertainty. I can’t know what to do, can’t know what he expects; I have to pay infinitely close attention to him. All sense of certainty and control magically evaporates.

I know we have been flirting with various ideas of bondage. I have been sanding and painting and attaching various pieces of hardware to my spreader bar. He has been demanding that I wear my collar, wrist and ankle cuffs during everyday activities. He took me to the hardware store and bought a number of snap hooks and dug out some rope and figured out an ingenious way to just hook them to a loop.

But Master is not one to show his hand. And definitely not one to change his ways, and I know better than to even hope for change or have a wish or indulge in expectation. And our day started exactly like every weekend day does. Quiet and coffee, computers and parallel play… him killing monsters… me writing about them. Then the quick, sharp directive comes to change gears, to put on exercise clothing and to come for a cycle ride. All normal… all expected… all safe and predictable.

We get home and I know without needing to think that I will be in the shower soon, bent over or on my knees, waiting the signal to turn and present the other orifice for his pleasure. And there is a certain masochistic pleasure there, the knowledge that he likes it this way and that his likes take precedent, that my need for kink, need for novelty, need for pain and helplessness and humiliation take fourth or fifth or last place in his world. I don’t know if selfishness is the right word… because it rings negatively in my head. He definitely puts himself first but so do I.

All the rituals were there, the stripping of clothing, a brief interlude in the bedroom when he questions why I have two towels… somehow this offends his sensibilities. I guess a person in this house should have only one towel hanging on their hook. This is normal, a constant observation and constant correction… it is the core of control. It is familiar; it is the real rope that binds me to him.

We move to the bathroom, all the same preparations, micromanaged tooth brushing, shaving under his sharp eagle eyes, waiting to enter into the shower after him, careful to stay in my tiny corner while I shampoo, soap and finish shaving. Waiting his touch to let me know when I have permission to move into the water to rinse. I remember I got soap in my eye and stood there all squinched up, waiting. It did not occur to me to tell him that I had soap in my eye. He noticed my face and said in an impatient voice that I could have asked to rinse my face if I had soap in my eye. But that is not part of the dance, me asking for things. I think I would rather stand there with soap in my eye than to step off the path. I am not allowed to step off the path, break tradition or ritual.

His first touch is familiar, the sudden demanding shove down on my shoulders and after a token resistance, a sparkle of mock “make me” in my eyes, I am down on my knees, fluffing him for the next step in the dance, the tap that means stand up and bend over.

But the tap does not come.

He says… SAYS… (you need to know that Master rarely verbalizes during sex) He says, “Stand up.”

I boggle. I stop sucking and my eyes lift up and up and meet his, staring at him in confusion with his cock still in my mouth, not sure if I heard him correctly.

He turns off the water. Now I really don’t know what is going on.

We get out and dry off. He is talking about mundane shit, politics or maybe social issues? For the life of me… I can’t remember. I don’t think I was listening all that closely. I am still trying to figure out what is happening. Trying to guess what is coming next so I will know what I am supposed to do. I have lost my sense of control and I am more than a little uncomfortable.

He does not head downstairs. He wraps the towel around himself and wanders into my room and begins to gather up things… rope… leather collar, wrist and ankle cuffs, spreader bar. He does not speak when he walks down stairs and I follow with wide eyes.

He wordlessly hands me the cuffs and I begin to put them on, fumbling with buckles, distracted because he is taking the rope and tying it to the bed. He puts snaps on it. My hands are up and no longer under my control. He grabs my ankles and snaps the spreader bar between them and with a strong grip and lift, two more clicks and my feet are up attached at the same point as my hands. I am spread wide with my feet fastened down somewhere up over my head. I am rewarded by the sight of my shaved pussy about six inches from my wondering eyes.

Every time I move, there is the rattle and click of stainless steel snaps, I tentatively stretch and struggle but I am well restrained. I could get away if I needed. I can just reach one or two of the snaps with my finger tips, I could just unsnap myself, but the possibility does not occur to me. I have the ability but not the freedom. Master comments that I well and truly fucked.

I can see him, see him peruse the selection of implements of ass destruction, touching, hefting, lifting, swinging. His eyes meet mine and seem alight with sadistic anticipation. He grabs the strap and hits me with it. Crack! It sizzles across my ass. Crack! Crack! I buck and squall. The snaps rattle. He moves up my thighs. It is so close I can feel the wind on my face, my eyelids reflexively blink. He picks up the old cane, the first one we bought and greets it… “Hello, old friend.”

I can see the welts raise up, the white lines that slowly grow pink and then red. Master comments how he likes to strike exactly “There…” as he repeated slashed into the tender crease where thigh meets ass. I blink and blink. I know he won’t hit my face but it is so close. None of the blows are beyond bearing, the intensity manageable and I find myself savoring each new wave of pain, of burn, sting, ache, itch… like a gourmet, tasting, analyzing, luxuriating.

He keeps changing weapons. And I watch… I see… I know what is coming. He picks up the squid and I blurt out a fearful warning, as if he did not already know… “That thing breaks pussies.”

And he grins and drags it between my legs and then taps me threateningly with it a few times and then moves on to floggers and focuses his cruel intentions upon my pussy only inches from my face. I can tell he is moderating his blows but I am spread, open and vulnerable. I can feel the hits right on my clitoris. It sends electric shocks of sharp pain through me and rather than subside, the burn builds and I can feel my clit swell.

He frees my hands and hands me my vibrator. No words, no verbal command, but his expectation is obvious. It always is intense, that first rush of contact with the buzzing end of that little machine. It always makes me shudder and whimper. I think he likes that. His eyes light up with approval. He digs around in the toy bag and returns with the largest dildo… a silly great big pink thing that vibrates and soon I am filled to bursting, new waves of sensation rising up from inside. He tips it sharply up, deliberately searching for my g-spot. I think my eyes must be crossed, unfocused, my whole body tense and trembling with the immense orgasm I can feel building within me.

Right as I come, I open my eyes and meet his gaze. Right before I come, there is that precious moment of clear, pure, intense pleasure, that sudden exponential build of indescribable sensation, and I stare deep into his eyes, suddenly still, perfectly still, a deep gasp of wonder as I exhale and relax. All the struggle is over, I know I don’t have to focus anymore, try anymore… I could not stop it now if I tried. In that briefest of eternities I am calm, euphoric, infinitely in love. I am there, standing in the path of raging flood, fully aware that I am going to become engulfed.

And then it is here. It crashes into me, sweeps over me, through me, picks me up and shakes me. I am no longer in control of my body, my voice. I cry out and convulse. The sounds of the metal clips are loud in my ears. I fight my bonds. But I know he wants more, demands more, will not accept anything less than all I can give. I do not drop the vibrator. It comes in waves… crashing peaks that only seem to build and build. And the valleys between the peaks are filled with all the clarity and pure pleasure that is that perfect moment immediately before I come. Over and over I pause and sigh, meet his eyes and connect and before it takes me away again.

He only relents when I drop the vibrator, finally spent, drained, used up. My legs are starting to ache from being bound over my head and I tense and pull against the rope and snaps holding them to the spreader bar, forcing blood to flow. He reaches up and unsnaps the bar of wood holding my legs apart and presses down on the backs of my thighs, pushing my legs down and up even further as he enters me.

My mind is clear and I watch him as shadows of pleasure chase across his face, his lips tighten and pull back. His brows are furrowed in a frown of intense concentration. His hands are hard, gripping, his fingertips digging into my skin. I watch with awestruck, fascinated eyes. He moves slowly, deliberately. I can see how each movement, each thrust, each slow slide out and back in, sends waves of pleasure through him. I reach down, touch him where our bodies join, slide my fingers around the hot, wet, slickness, and am rewarded by a soft groan. His whole body shudders and flexes, little trembling spasms shake through him as he comes.

Master unsnaps the last of the hooks holding me down and I finally can straighten my legs, turn and curl up on my side. I lay there for many minutes, empty of thought, floating, warm, soft… savoring the surprise… the sweetness of stepping off the path.

Attitude Adjustment

“Get downstairs!”

“What for?” My question was information seeking, not challenging. As I got up and headed for the basement, I was genuinely puzzled. Not sixty seconds before he had said we were going out, just running errands; bank, grocery store, and maybe hardware store. And I was doing it. I really thought he had thought of some last minute chore that needed doing before we got into the car.

“Don’t ask me why!”

He shoved me hard face down onto the bed. Ohhhh, oh, okay. I get it. I had been pouting a bit. I've been better, a lot better, but still fragile, still not quite as sure of myself. And he had been pretty gruff all morning, and with each growl, each heavy handed correction I had gotten quieter, more distant, shrunken up deeper inside myself. A little attitude adjustment seemed to be in order.

I was already wearing my cuffs and collar and he wrenched my hands behind my back, tried to thread some rope through the rings and growled in frustration when the rope was too thick to fit through. I giggled and commented that I had not had ropes in mind when I designed these cuffs and crawled over to the side of the bed and reached for the toy bag and handed him a couple snap hooks. And then on impulse I slipped on a blind fold.

My heart was racing, it has been months and months since he has done any kind of bondage. I still wasn’t sure exactly what he had in mind. The last few times it was just goofy. Tie her up and see if she could get loose. Nothing rough or even sexual, just experiments to see what knot would hold.

He ignored the snaps for a while, still fussing with the rope and then picked up a snap and clipped my hands behind my back. Then he proceeded to tug at my arms and lift up on the waistband of my pants and I lay there trying to figure out what the hell he was trying to accomplish, not fighting but not particularly cooperating either, mostly because I just couldn’t bend that direction. After a while he snarled at me to get my ass up in the air and unsnapped my wrists and refastened them behind my knees. Another Ohhhhh moment.

He laid into me with a cane, hitting me exactly on the crease between my thighs and ass. It hurt a LOT. I didn’t know if he was hitting me harder than usual (though looking at my ass now… I know now that was exactly what he was doing.) but at the time I wondered if I was just feeling as physically sensitive as I had been emotionally. I howled and squirmed like crazy, tipping over from my knees to my side and as he continued to hit me, striking that same place over and over I continued to struggle and eventually rolled over onto my back and tried to hide my ass.

He dropped the cane and began to tug on my pants, forcing then slowly down over my hips exposing my ass inch by inch. Oh fuck, I knew if it hurt that bad over my clothing I was in deep shit if he got access to my bare ass. I was babbling, pleading, “You don’t want to do that. You don’t want to pull my pants down. It will hurt too bad. Please, don’t.” My pleas only seemed to spur him on. He took his time, selecting various implements of ass destruction from his armory. The strap was crazy, then that new narrow paddle, then the cane again, various floggers. I was squirming, gasping, screaming, yelling, giggling… more than once getting my fingers caught when I would reach down to somehow protect myself. And nothing hurts worse than taking a hit on the back of the fingers. Then, bang! Something crashed into my pussy, my bare tender exposed pussy. I think I got airborne with that one. As I thrashed on the bed, screaming louder and louder as the pain swelled and grew, blanking out my mind, he casually trailed the legs of the homemade flogger I have named ‘the squid’ over my tenderized ass.



I was breathless, “You did NOT hit my pussy with that????!!!!!”

He chuckled evilly. And I protested, “You will break my pussy!!!”

He did not say anything but when I felt a soft cloth dabbing at my labia, I asked incredulously, “I’m bleeding?”

“Just a little.” And then he chuckled, again!

“Oh you evil bastard, you broke my pussy. I just know it. You broke it.”

I had both hands clamped over my pussy. I did not care if he broke my fingers. I was not allowing him access to my pink parts again, EVAR!!! He grabbed my ankles and tied them up over my head. I think my squirming had made him accidentally hit my pussy and he wanted to hold me down a little better. I did not resist but I had not let go of my pussy either.



Once he had me tied down a little better, he was back at it, making sure that no part of my ass went unpunished, no tool or toy left off the agenda, from heavy leather flogger to nasty narrow gom jabbar. I remember him commenting once that he loved the strap best of all, because I had bought it for him. I do know he kept returning to it. He would stop and tease me, walking around the bed, touching my face, poking at my pussy and anus with the sharp tips of various things while I squealed and screamed and twisted and begged. I was raw, bruised and just a little bloody by the time he finished.

Then he walked away, leaving me blindfolded, bound, contorted, my legs up over my head, my hands still clutching between my legs, protecting my sore pussy. I lay still, puffing, listening, wondering what he had in mind now, what item he needed that he did not have at hand here in his room. I slowly, gently, tentatively ran my fingertips over my sore ass and pussy, as far as I could reach with my wrists still bound.

I had never really mellowed under that rain of sensations, he had made sure that nothing lasted long enough, predictably enough, changing up the pain too quickly for me to start to fly too high. But now, now finally left alone to feel the echoes of sensation, the afterburn? As it were? I could feel my body finally relax and the rush of my blood through my veins.

He made no effort to hide the sound of his feet on the stairs as he came back down. His voice was a little surprised, “You have not moved.”

“Was I supposed to?” My voice sounded a little foggy, distant.

He laughed and began to untie me, working his way from bound ankles and clipped wrists, ending with pulling the blind fold off. “Come on, we need to get going if you are going to get to the bank before it closes.”

Oh god, he expected me to just jump up and run those errands. Okay… okay… He is driving so I can do this… can do this… can do this. It was funny how everything seemed blurry around the edges, echoed in my head. I had to hold onto the stair railing tight as I wobbled up the stairs. When my vision cleared enough I peeked at my ass.

I am tattooed, marked, striped, and speckled. Black marks, blue marks, red, pink, and purple, my ass looks like an impressionist (snort... pun intended) painting. I bent over and check out my girl parts… was it broken???? The bite of the squid was unmistakable. A cluster of purple red contusions, sort of raw bruises the size of about two silver dollars reaches from my inner thigh up and across my labia. I am so impressed I run a fascinated finger across the sore and uneven surface, each mark raised up and tender. I hiss and cannot help but touch it again.



Even now, hours later, I can feel the sting, the ache and I remember those moments taken out before running errands. He has been an amusing mixture of pride and embarrassment. Attitude adjusted, both mine and his.

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 http://www.prysmcreations.com/misery_sticks.html. Only $9.95! How could it get any better???












And as long as I was there… why not a… http://prysmcreations.com/leather_bully_sticks.htm 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.