Pain, Punishment, Subspace...
The last couple of nights have been amazing in so many ways. My Master and I have deepened our connection in so many ways.
Three nights ago:
We played. He likes to beat me. But submission, for him, does not rest in restraints or in physical force. Submission, to him, is accepting pain--physical and emotional pain--along with pleasure as it is given. He made me lay face down on the bed. Still, quiet, I endured his weapons: a belt, a crop, a flogger. He paused, at times, to tell me that I am his good girl. A good slave. I was taking it so well. And I did. And it was beautiful. I felt the freedom of submission, the consuming desire for him, the release of being able to give all of myself to his whims.
Two nights ago:
We played. The Mistress has not been feeling so well, so Master and I have been on our own quite a bit. I miss my time with her, but I am content in my place. I know that I do not decide when it is her pleasure to use me. So, my Master and I played. But I was not myself. I was selfish. Disobedient. I was ungrateful and I played a dangerous game. I lost. Some tops that I have been with have enjoyed the "I am going to tell you you can't come, but then I am going to make you come anyway so that you will be in trouble game." I thought, mistakenly, that my Master was playing that game the other night.
He was not. It turns out that he really is vested in his slave controlling her responses. He wants to control everything between them. And he has made it clear that he will. After coming three times without his permission, feeling the slap of his hand across my cheek and hearing him say that I would spend two hours with his belt, I found myself, once again, face down on my bed.
But there would be no sweet, "You're my good girl" words whispered in my ear as he kissed my back. There would only be his belt--and occasionally other impliments, but of course, the belt is the worst. It carries the disobedient child connotation--the displeasure of one's superiors. He even told me that, if I act like a child, he will treat me like one. And he did. He whipped me with it--both ends. The buckle was a deep, bruising pain. The leather carried more sting. He concentrated on my ass--from the tops of my thighs to the tops of my cheeks. He did not beat my back or my lower thighs. He did not turn me over and take the belt to my front side. He placed all the pain where he wanted it. A reminder, for as long as it lasts, that bad little girls get their asses whipped with the belt.
I cried after--I don't cry from pain, usually. I uttered the safeword in the middle. I couldn't take an hour. And while he honored it, stopping to hold me and stroke me, he made it clear that he would, eventually, extract the rest of my two hours. I lay there, trembling with need and pain--physical, yes--but emotional pain. It was the first time I think he has really been mad at me. I felt it to my core. I did not enjoy a single blow. I felt the stark contrast between the night before--his pleasure and pride in his good little slut vs. his anger and disappointment in this ungrateful, selfish, disobedient child he found himself saddled with. I wanted the first back.
And the way to get it? "Finish it, please, Master." I begged for the rest of the first hour--he had decided earlier that the second hour would come a few days later. I begged for him to do it because I knew that I needed it. It needed to be punishing. It needed to be brutal and cruel, because I am not the submissive I can be without it. We both knew it. He agreed, finishing the second hour as I lay there accepting each blow.
I cried and cried, years of emotion and pain released in a single instance. Freedom and a sense of the spiritual--he became my God in those moments--overtook me. I felt whole. At peace with my place in life. And, finally, content to be a submissive. Content to honor my true nature and to accept the path that I have been given. I was born to suffer and it is in this suffering that I find peace, joy.
He held me as I cried, telling me it would be O.K. But he did not say that my punishment was over. He did not relent. He said I would be better after I suffered the second hour.
And I knew he was right.
We talked, about other things. Life in general. Then, he decided, like he likes to do, to give me a choice: In exchange for the second hour, I could choose to wear a pair of vicious nipple clamps to sleep in. I would wear them until he and Mistress woke up the next morning. I agreed, knowing it would be terrible torture but not less than what I deserved.
After I chose, he placed the clamps on me and, it seems, enjoyed the torture he inflicted. He decided to fuck me then. My sore ass pressed into the bed, the clamps on my nipples he mounted me. Thrust hard into me, making me want to cry and scream. And come. He let me, his little slut allowed to come. And I did. Over and over. Before he did, though, he decided to test my submission in one more way. He kept me on my back as he fucked my ass. Hard. I came from that too. Then he left me to sleep.
I knew pain then. Real pain. Not the whippings/beatings I have had before. But pain. Emotional and physical pain. But I also knew submission. A space in my head that is the most beautiful, free place on earth. Echos of my troubles do not reach there--I am alone and left with the joy of offering myself to them. I am placed carefully in a position where I am free of desires and wants and free of the burden of unfulfilled wants and desires. I don't want to go back there from time to time. I want to go there to stay.
And, even today, I am reminded of the pain. My Master has decreed that I am not to sit on anything softer than the floor or the wooden slatted chair he gives me. For the next week, I will feel the reminder. And I will learn control.
When we played last night, I didn't come without permission. I held back, obeying him as I should. And I felt free again.
Three nights ago:
We played. He likes to beat me. But submission, for him, does not rest in restraints or in physical force. Submission, to him, is accepting pain--physical and emotional pain--along with pleasure as it is given. He made me lay face down on the bed. Still, quiet, I endured his weapons: a belt, a crop, a flogger. He paused, at times, to tell me that I am his good girl. A good slave. I was taking it so well. And I did. And it was beautiful. I felt the freedom of submission, the consuming desire for him, the release of being able to give all of myself to his whims.
Two nights ago:
We played. The Mistress has not been feeling so well, so Master and I have been on our own quite a bit. I miss my time with her, but I am content in my place. I know that I do not decide when it is her pleasure to use me. So, my Master and I played. But I was not myself. I was selfish. Disobedient. I was ungrateful and I played a dangerous game. I lost. Some tops that I have been with have enjoyed the "I am going to tell you you can't come, but then I am going to make you come anyway so that you will be in trouble game." I thought, mistakenly, that my Master was playing that game the other night.
He was not. It turns out that he really is vested in his slave controlling her responses. He wants to control everything between them. And he has made it clear that he will. After coming three times without his permission, feeling the slap of his hand across my cheek and hearing him say that I would spend two hours with his belt, I found myself, once again, face down on my bed.
But there would be no sweet, "You're my good girl" words whispered in my ear as he kissed my back. There would only be his belt--and occasionally other impliments, but of course, the belt is the worst. It carries the disobedient child connotation--the displeasure of one's superiors. He even told me that, if I act like a child, he will treat me like one. And he did. He whipped me with it--both ends. The buckle was a deep, bruising pain. The leather carried more sting. He concentrated on my ass--from the tops of my thighs to the tops of my cheeks. He did not beat my back or my lower thighs. He did not turn me over and take the belt to my front side. He placed all the pain where he wanted it. A reminder, for as long as it lasts, that bad little girls get their asses whipped with the belt.
I cried after--I don't cry from pain, usually. I uttered the safeword in the middle. I couldn't take an hour. And while he honored it, stopping to hold me and stroke me, he made it clear that he would, eventually, extract the rest of my two hours. I lay there, trembling with need and pain--physical, yes--but emotional pain. It was the first time I think he has really been mad at me. I felt it to my core. I did not enjoy a single blow. I felt the stark contrast between the night before--his pleasure and pride in his good little slut vs. his anger and disappointment in this ungrateful, selfish, disobedient child he found himself saddled with. I wanted the first back.
And the way to get it? "Finish it, please, Master." I begged for the rest of the first hour--he had decided earlier that the second hour would come a few days later. I begged for him to do it because I knew that I needed it. It needed to be punishing. It needed to be brutal and cruel, because I am not the submissive I can be without it. We both knew it. He agreed, finishing the second hour as I lay there accepting each blow.
I cried and cried, years of emotion and pain released in a single instance. Freedom and a sense of the spiritual--he became my God in those moments--overtook me. I felt whole. At peace with my place in life. And, finally, content to be a submissive. Content to honor my true nature and to accept the path that I have been given. I was born to suffer and it is in this suffering that I find peace, joy.
He held me as I cried, telling me it would be O.K. But he did not say that my punishment was over. He did not relent. He said I would be better after I suffered the second hour.
And I knew he was right.
We talked, about other things. Life in general. Then, he decided, like he likes to do, to give me a choice: In exchange for the second hour, I could choose to wear a pair of vicious nipple clamps to sleep in. I would wear them until he and Mistress woke up the next morning. I agreed, knowing it would be terrible torture but not less than what I deserved.
After I chose, he placed the clamps on me and, it seems, enjoyed the torture he inflicted. He decided to fuck me then. My sore ass pressed into the bed, the clamps on my nipples he mounted me. Thrust hard into me, making me want to cry and scream. And come. He let me, his little slut allowed to come. And I did. Over and over. Before he did, though, he decided to test my submission in one more way. He kept me on my back as he fucked my ass. Hard. I came from that too. Then he left me to sleep.
I knew pain then. Real pain. Not the whippings/beatings I have had before. But pain. Emotional and physical pain. But I also knew submission. A space in my head that is the most beautiful, free place on earth. Echos of my troubles do not reach there--I am alone and left with the joy of offering myself to them. I am placed carefully in a position where I am free of desires and wants and free of the burden of unfulfilled wants and desires. I don't want to go back there from time to time. I want to go there to stay.
And, even today, I am reminded of the pain. My Master has decreed that I am not to sit on anything softer than the floor or the wooden slatted chair he gives me. For the next week, I will feel the reminder. And I will learn control.
When we played last night, I didn't come without permission. I held back, obeying him as I should. And I felt free again.