Why do I keep apologizing?
I haven’t said it out loud, but it keeps repeating in my head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
That’s why you get hit, right? You were bad. And even though I am really sorry for all that I did and all that I deserve I also know that this isn’t punishment. Punishment is too easy. She is hitting me because she wants to hurt me. She is hitting me because I want to be hit. This pain is not a consequence, it’s an act all of its own. That makes it scarier because punishments have definitions, limits, sentences. This is pain for pain’s sake.
The issue really isn’t the pain though, it’s the frustration. The pain becomes just another sensation, like an itch or a kiss or pretty lights. The problem is that when it comes on hard and your hands are tied behind your back you can’t stop it. Then it takes over.
When she straddles my hips and takes out the long thin metal shim they call an “Evil Stick” the pain she inflicts is a white flare of brilliance. The first few times it is dazzling and sucks my mind into that place that’s new and old at the same time. The pain is hot and sharp and I love it. I love it. Then it is too much, like teeth on the head of my cock. It is too much and I can’t do anything about it. My wrists hurt from sudden straining, my muscles tighten. I shake my head but there is no escape from it.
The searing prick of the metal pulled back and then snapped against my chest is a flare. Once would hurt, but over and over again the experience becomes agonizing.
Yellow is at the tip of my tongue. It is both the thing I don’t want to say and the thing every part of my brain is screaming. When she pauses, moves to the other side of my chest my senses collapse and realign. Breath, breath, breath. Focus and control. I can take it. I’ll show her. She’ll see how tough I am and how I can take more than anyone else. I’ll show her and she will reward me and her eyes will sparkle and she’ll kiss me. A real kiss not her cruel half kisses or the deliciously mean biting kisses. She kiss me and pat me on my head and tell me I’m a good boy.
Why is that attractive? It’s silly. It’s stupid even. When I’m there it is like winning the lottery. It is like my birthday.
The thought is lovely, but the Evil Stick brings me back. There is no room for thought when the frustration and pain is everywhere.
No, no, no, no, no. There are these little invisible markers and every time one passes my body reacts without my permission. The hurting moved into some new level and I feel this cool font well up in me. I don’t understand it. It’s like suddenly all these emotions caught up with the situation.
Then comes the fear. I can’t cry. I can’t show her that. I have to be tough. I have to be a man. Men don’t cry. I have to be in control. It won’t stop though. The pain is everywhere. Her face covers above me. She isn’t going to stop. I have to break one way or another. I can give in, I can give up or I can give myself to her.
I am whining because I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to let her see that, even though I know she wants it. Some tiny little voice says it has to be like this. Some part of me is becoming small and frightened and timid. I want to hide behind the pillow. I want to kiss her hand even as it hits me. All I am is want and pain.
Then the hot tears are in my eyes. She is stopping and she is kissing me. She knows, she knows.