bruises are freshly bright pink with red welts rising up out of
the flesh. They look nothing like they will look in a few hours
when they begin to settle into my thighs. They are only moments
old, still blooming on my skin and have not found their full form
or color yet. Several reddish-purple rays are coming up where
you violated my body with more aggressive strikes. The tattered
skin is sultry hot like summer sunburn.
negotiated the scene over breakfast.
pain will be abundant,” he said, as he buttered his toast.
of a sudden I did not want to finish my coffee, nor had I taste
left for juice, but I ate the omelet he had prepared. The detached
tone in his voice unnerved me; the calmer he was the more hostile
he would turn out to be. A mysterious, maybe even dangerous shift
was creeping in to disturb the playful mood of morning.
story really begins before the half-eaten breakfast, before declining
a second cup of coffee, before even waking that morning curled
up in his arms with my wrists and elbows tied neatly together
by a single twenty-five foot length of soft cotton rope.
spooned me so closely that night as we slept, somewhat tighter
than usual and quite lovingly, in his way. He had twisted a long
length of that same white rope around my feet, in between my toes,
under my soles and heels and around both ankles to unite them.
Wrapped into a charming little package, or stilled for sleep,
as he called it.
pulled me into the arc that he made with his long, lean body so
that my back was flush up against his torso and stomach. He bent
his knees into my legs and nestled his sex in the warm, welcoming
cavern where the bottom of my ass curves into the tops of my thighs.
His heart beat against my back until my heart learned the cadence
and echoed the same rhythm into his chest. Nothing separated us.
We like it like that, rubbing bodies up against each other as
we sleep eager to commingle our dreams.
laced one piece of gentle white rope around my neck and tied it
to the headboard so that my face craned unnaturally upwards though
my head still rested on the pillow. A single piece of soft white
surgical tape sealed over my lips caught hopeful breaths as they
tried to escape.
spongy tape and the soft rope are tools of his benevolent cruelty.
The devices and his use of them in specific times serve to keep
me sufficiently restrained without endangering me excessively.
I am fully confined, even with some discomfort smoldering in my
limbs, but the danger is minimal, and the pain insignificant so
he can rest without having to monitor my breathing and safety
every moment. For my part, I have gotten used to the simmering
pain and can sleep with it for hours, literally hours; there is
a certain small pride we take in this unnatural feat.
I dozed off fully compromised his right arm fell asleep under
my body. I could feel his skin chilling the way skin does when
numbness begins to set in. I am familiar with the cooling temperature
of numbing limbs. The tips of fingers and toes grow cold and lose
sensation and the skillful skin pushes feeling along the arms
until it reaches a part of the body that has not numbed yet.
last thought I had before falling sound asleep was my surprise
that he had not readjusted his body to minimize the pain that
must have been building in his arm and I wondered if he would
sleep with it trapped like that throughout the night.
had draped his left arm over my chest and his forearm rested along
my ribs and breasts. His palm pressed lightly against my throat.
night, my sweet,” he whispered. Or maybe I dreamt that he
spoke before he fell asleep snoring quietly into my ear.
bruises have diffused and the creeping pain is inescapable. Violet-blue
lines have formed in precise horizontal rows down along the insides
of my thighs. They seem to be perfectly spaced though I do not
remember you being so meticulous when you gave them to me. In
my memory you were in a vicious frenzy as you circled around my
immobilized body beating only the upper halves of my legs with
your thin bamboo cane. My thighs are inflated and severely misshapen
from the violation. The puffed areas are clearly visible when
I am naked. It is not so easy to tell over clothes because stockings
hold the swelling together, but a tight skirt pulled over my thighs
seems somehow irregular if one looks very close. And then there
is the heat seething from my legs. Not a warming glow, rather
it is a distinct steam-like heat that can be felt even through
is fortunate that I trust him so much and that I do not startle
in my sleep and wake him up disturbed and thrashing away at nightmares,
losing my mind completely. He does not seem to worry about my
trust. He keeps testing my obedience and waiting for me to oppose
him, testing my devotion and then waiting again for me to reject
him, testing my loyalty and even sometimes wishing I would deny
him so that he can manipulate me, tie me tightly, break me, and
add yet another to our long list of secret accomplishments.
never do refuse him, though I consider trying to decline his more
perverse requests, mostly out of a sense of embarrassment and
a terrible fear that agreeing, even one time, to some truly deranged
sexual game would finally prove me a crazy masochist after all.
course, there is the sheer sexy joy of it. I do not fight him
and his harsh imagination when he introduces me to some sort of
new torture. Among his cruel devices, behavior modifiers and his
kindly-fierce domination I am his tractable lover.
that one time that we had a conversation about drawing blood?”
I asked one evening, months ago, over a meaty dinner at my kitchen
You said you were against it,” he answered.
I said I was definitely against it, I did not want you to cut
me under any circumstances at all. Ever.”
were quite adamant, as I recall,” he noted.
you said, I remember these words exactly, you said, ‘Drawing
blood is off the table.’”
smiled and took my hand in his own, turning it over to examine
I say exactly those words?” He laughed and clapped my open
palm with his warm, stiff fingers. I felt as if I were small enough
to stand in his hand.
am not embarrassed that I recollect whole sentences with complete
accuracy. I even remember the expression of easy acquiescence
he wore on his face in the moment that he said it. I recall thanking
him for his understanding and feeling pleasantly responsible for
instigating the agreement and asserting accountability for my
personal boundaries and safety, or so I thought. I live in an
illusion of control.
what happened?” he asked. “Is it back on the table
along with your arm? Do you feel ready to be cut?”
with that he gripped my hand tightly, picked up his steak knife
and drew the blade from my inner elbow down to my wrist pressing
a little too hard as he traced the line of my prominent vein.
I stopped breathing.
you let me cut you right now?” he asked. His face hardened
and his smile contorted. His kissable lips, no longer wanting
my mouth, split into a maniacal grin.
don’t know.” I whispered, or perhaps I said nothing
at all as he tightened his grip.
pushed the tip of the blade in between two blue veins, directly
on the last horizontal line before wrist turns into palm. It was
as though he was waiting for me to stop him and when I did not
resist he pressed the blade even harder before abruptly pulling
the knife away. He released my hand, placed the knife at an angle
on his plate and sat quietly and very still.
the urge to stir the heavy silence with sound or movement, I let
my unrestrained hand lay limp on the tabletop and contemplated
how easily I relinquish power to him. I studied his tenor as I
waited for him to rally the mood in the room again. He seemed
to be entranced and I did not want to disturb his meditation.
Several silent moments passed and then, gradually the familiar
smile and the expression that looks like compassion eclipsed the
cruel appearance that had overcome his face just minutes before.
again, I digress; the cutting has long been tolerated between
us. And that conversation over steak dinner served as a kind of
formality rather than a revised boundary. Even in that first moment
of my anti-cutting declaration I knew I was only borrowing time.
My rejection of cutting was a white-gloved slap across his face,
the challenge was awkwardly obvious. My clear and distinct boundary
became a potent dare for him to take on, a new obstacle for him
to maneuver and patiently break through. I am easy prey, but that
is another story altogether.
story begins well after the roles had been completely established.
After the idea of inserting various challenges had been adopted
as commonplace. This story starts long after love...
bruises and the pain are both enhanced today. This morning the
design has changed radically. The purple color has darkened and
the red spots have grown so that they bleed into each other forming
small red clouds over the purple sky of flesh. The dozens of distinct
lines have darkened as well. Under the purple masses deeper violet
streaks stripe my inner thighs. Next to the horizontal slivers
that were so prevalent yesterday there are now long vertical stripes
(four on my left thigh and three on my right) traveling from the
bottom to the top of the bruises. The marked areas span eight
inches long on each leg. I think you would like the vibrant mosaic
you painted onto my flesh, it is unique and unpredictable. My
thighs, wrapped in tightly stretched skin are swollen, bulging
and deformed. My legs rub together and chafe as I walk. I think
I will be carrying the inflamed sensation throughout today, and
perhaps tomorrow. This suffering is like a scalding burn; it gets
worse before it gets better.
began negotiating this particular ordeal of copious pain over
dinner during a cheery reunion after too much time apart. It was
well before the preparations for sleep, still wide awake and feeding
each other with catch up stories. The recent separation illuminated
how much we had missed each other. There was that slightly uneasy
anticipation that makes it hard to stay focused, like being on
a first date. After arriving he held me in his arms for an extra
was talk of it even then, in our first hours back together, casually,
as we ate our supper and while the wine loosened us. It was circuitous,
hypothetical talk about extreme pain and suffering that never
quite referred to me or to him. I never said that I was courting
pain or tempting him to bring it to me. He never said that he
desired the experience or that he was feeling that sadistic side
of himself conspicuously bubbling to the surface. In fact, he
implied the opposite.
wonder where my limits are,” I contemplated.
you like to find out?” he asked, inferring that it was all
my choice and that his interest in my interest in being beaten
was somehow a charitable generosity and not self-gratification.
That is how he works it to keep his conscience clean; he makes
me ask for it. He offered to beat me, if I wanted it.
himself, he declared, “I can take it or leave it. Now tying
you, that arouses me endlessly.”
did not deliberate long. I could (but, did not) note that he seems
to harbor a hidden thirst for beating me. I have seen the craving
in his eyes when his desire escalates and dirty suggestive talk
collides with opportunity. A notorious smile etches out of his
face when he raises the cane high above my paralyzed body pausing
threateningly in the air before…. but, I am getting ahead
of myself again.
this point, over dinner he was still surveying the territory as
he inquired about my lascivious eagerness. I was indeed in the
mood for pain and he could smell it.
the past, in the history of my life, I don’t remember fantasizing
so this is an acquired desire?” he asked.
it feels like it comes from deep inside of me. Arousal from being
beaten feels like a buried hunger.”
laughed out of amusement, I laughed out of insecurity.
it terrible to want pain?” I asked him. “It seems
to me that it’s a little deranged.”
does it feel?” he asked, carefully stacking perfect bites
of food onto his fork in predetermined order.
I said and the word lingered in the air for a long time.
did not mind my silence. Then suddenly, perhaps incited from consuming
half a bottle of wine, I fell to pieces weeping while sitting
unbound on a chair at the kitchen table with my legs folded under
my hips. He did not reach out to embrace me while I cried big
tears from raccoon eyes. He did not try to alleviate my pain with
his comforting arms. The more I cried the harder it was to tolerate
him watching me. When I could not take it any longer and rose
to clear the table in a paltry effort to deflect emotion, he interfered.
again. Tell me, what’s causing your tears?”
am so afraid of love.” I sobbed, meaning, I think, to say
something else, something more specific.
veil of protection I have worn my entire life melted away the
more he wanted to know me. Wrapped in his compassionate gaze my
ribs bent inside my chest to make room for my heart as it expanded
with love. The fine veil that keeps my vulnerability scarcely
guarded fell away and I cried out the pain from a lifetime of
holding my deepest demons at bay from the rest of the world.
don’t have to be afraid,” he said.
is this wall that I have kept up to prevent myself from being
hurt. I have been keeping myself secluded in plain sight and have
felt so alone and unknown.”
can feel the weight of your struggle to keep it all together,”
he said. “You do not need that protection any more. Are
you ready now to give it up?”
he took me to bed where he made slow vanilla love to me. Without
bondage, without cruelty, just soft and sentimental lovemaking,
except for those last few minutes of impassioned fucking when
he lost himself in my sex and nearly split me in two with the
fervent, thrusting force of his wild hips.
done… it took all of his energy to tie me for sleep last
bruises are bizarrely arresting. The orange-red has become blood-red
and the purple gradations range from deep violet along the inner
softest parts of my thighs to an innocent, lovely lilac dotting
the fringes. The streaks have formed clearly now, they are short,
distinct red lines. They look as if they are about to bleed, as
if the blood is being held inside by just one gossamer layer of
skin. What fascinates me the most is the great, clean hole that
has formed in the middle of each large colorful mass. It is almost
as if you missed those spots. On each leg there is one unblemished
circle, they are the shape of fists, deep wells enclosed by fiery
rings of anger. The center is the color of my natural flesh, unmarred
and clear. In your madness could you have missed those spots?
No, you couldn’t possibly have neglected those areas; that
is not like you at all. Each deep hole is over two inches in diameter;
I have measured them with my ruler. The aperture on the right
leg is slightly lower and wider and considerably more painful.
The bruises do not match in color, size or shape. Just looking
at them one can see that you were easier on my left leg than you
were on the right. Both legs are still swollen, though less so
than yesterday. And now the pain is much more prevalent on the
inside, almost as if the pain itself is clinging with sharp claws
to the underside of my skin.
investigates my constitution each time he encourages me to reveal
my boundaries and undisclosed desires. He probes to discover my
fragility. He notes my interests and stows them away in his mind
to use when he disarms me later. He butchers my fantasies when
he manifests them into reality. He expands upon the deviant fascinations
that I make up and takes them far beyond my romantic notions.
The rope tied to contain my body, the one I have begged for, always
has some sort of added trial. Like when he ties a noose around
my neck and traps the loose ends between the frame of a window
and its pane, forcing me to balance on the tips of my toes and
frustrate my breathing. I must gasp for air while he waits a fair
distance from me, keeping an eye out, I suppose, for possible
damage or authentic distress. He takes my simple curiosity about
pain and introduces me to the very edge of my limits of endurance.
He is good like that, it is one of his best techniques.
this morning he wakes me early by untying and retying my wrists.
He pushes me down onto my stomach and mounts me from behind. He
fucks violently and then savagely explodes onto my back and ass.
He does this without releasing my neck from the rope which is
laced to the headboard, and without stripping the tape from my
mouth. It is morning and he is aggressive. My body is strong though,
and has surpassed the pain. Tolerance of pain is the only thing
I control and I am mastering my endurance and ability.
rips the tape from my lips before collapsing and falling asleep
for a few minutes. My skin feels tight, especially where last
night’s tears have dried on my cheeks. When I wake again,
I notice there is a knot of rope pressing hard on the back of
my neck in the depression where spine meets with skull. I open
my eyes and he is already awake, he has been watching me.
you ready to be undone?” he asks.
am thirsty and hungry and my skin smells of sweat and dried semen.
He unties me completely and leads me into the bath.
bruises have become ugly now. The right leg is much worse than
the left in every way imaginable. The right thigh is now a darker
rainbow of color. The sensation on the left is less pronounced.
In comparison, the bruises and marks on my left thigh look insignificant
but taken alone they are still mean enough. The right thigh tingles
sometimes when I walk and always when I bend and always when I
place my hands on my lap which I do deliberately, particularly
when I need to remember my own abilities. Two sets of vertical
tracks have mysteriously appeared overnight, I had not anticipated
these unusual formations. Each set runs along the insides of my
thighs from the bottom of the bruised area to the top. The longer
track on the right is six inches, the left is just short of that.
A dozen or so smaller lines dart horizontally next to the massive
bruise. They are actually slightly raised up from the skin. The
little lines are so precisely spaced and identical that it is
clear you were paying attention to the outcome when you went clipping
me with that dangerous bamboo cane. They are bright red and angle
in from the front and tops of my thighs to lower thigh where they
have moved closer to the inside. The long vertical tracks are
the ones that are most livid now having just been born from under
the already esteemed marks. The deep, natural colored circles
have also transformed, they have grown more discrete, they are
like protected areas surrounded by all that darkness and angry
slashes that give the illusion of bloody cuts. The circles look
painless but when I touch them there is more sensation than on
the deepest violet colored blossoms.
struggle through eating my breakfast because a prophesy of extreme
pain now hangs in the air causing me to lose concentration for
minor tasks. The morning conversation has been light and playful,
perhaps owing to the purging of sadness last night. When I am
not suffering he has a desire to repair that. He finishes every
bit of food on his plate and even eats my leftover slice of toast.
He can wait to be satisfied. I do not find it so easy to be patient.
breakfast, we take a walk to feel the crisp autumn air on our
skin. We laugh at how seldom we need to leave the house, preferring
instead to stay indoors with the rope and the torture and the
undistracted conversation. I tease him that he only wants to spend
time with me in our sexual escapades.
am joking…. mostly,” I say.
takes a sharp left at the next corner and steers me back toward
the apartment immediately.
again, he tells me to take off all of my clothes.
is the same as he often is, presumptuous, carefree and laughing
easily when the mood strikes him. I must watch him very carefully
to see his poetic transformation into serious meanness. I am easily
diverted by his overwhelming domination which commands all of
my attention. I must remind myself to stay focused on him if I
want to observe his evolution; despite the distracting obstacles
he introduces, I must keep myself sharp.
sits me on a straight backed chair that he has brought into the
living room and positioned so that the warm rays of the sun shine
through the window and onto my thighs. He attaches my knees and
feet first to the legs of the chair. Then he confines my arms,
chest and stomach to the wooden chair seat and back by winding
hundreds of feet of rope around my body. He uses the darker hemp
with the tight, itchy braid. This is the hemp that smells of the
earth and leaves patterns imprinted onto my skin that do not disappear
for many hours afterwards. He is working hard. I cannot tell if
the sweat that is forming on the back of his neck is from effort
or illicit excitement. The light expression on his face during
breakfast is mutating into a stony dark grin as he pulls rope
and more rope around my form. He stops, smiles and unbuttons his
white shirt, strips it from his body and drapes it over the back
of the sofa. He lays a bamboo cane across my lap and I am distracted
in the contemplation of my future.
body is heavy with the weight of hundreds of feet of rope. Terror,
suffering and unspeakable pain are closing in on me. He will teach
me about having expectations. I am embarrassingly aroused. And
although my sex is screaming out to him, he does not reach his
hand down to feel the dampness between my slightly parted legs.
he has finished securing me, he leans his face in very close to
mine, so close that his breath blows along my skin as his words
enter my consciousness, sexy, as I like it, better than that,
better than I wish for.
mouth and nose graze along my body and the tiny hairs on my skin
rise to meet his breath. He could take a bite out of my neck or
my shoulder or just as easily place velvety kisses all along my
flesh. Instead all I notice is the sound and the feel of the light
air whispering from his mouth.
what is it that you want?” he asks, deep voiced and serious.
remain silent, hoping that he will not force me to say the words
and claim responsibility. He seems surprised by my resistance.
He takes a step back from me and cocks his head to the side…
bruises have been frightening me today. Latticed patterns have
emerged out of the funny short streaks. The deep violet was so
much more charming than this mass of reddish-purple. The formerly
innocent hollows have now turned into jaundiced pale green-yellow
circles that change color and shape all the time. Today, I do
not like the marks as much; though I have gotten used to wearing
them they are no longer beautiful to me. The slightest touch still
stings but it no longer gives me pause as I move about my day
knowing that underneath my clothes I have been battered. You were
not available to see them at their pinnacle. You missed witnessing
the best part of them, when they were still gorgeous and fresh
and uniquely mine; before I got used to them, before they turned
into massive absurd flaws that I have to hide from judgment. I
have stopped nursing the marks and now I am waiting for them to
heal which is taking an excruciatingly long time. I cannot remember
just when the swelling went down, or when they became stunningly
every breath I am reminded of my imprisonment by the dark ropes
constricting my chest. He is leaning against a wall directly in
front of me waiting for my response.
a prolonged silence he says, “You know, if you don’t
tell me what you want, you won’t get it. And I’ll
be just as happy to watch you remain tied to that chair all day
takes a few steps toward me so that his shins lean against my
bent knees. My eyes stare at the swelling in his pants. He places
two fingers underneath my chin and tilts my head up to face him.
are in a rare position. Anything you ask will be honored, you
need only ask for it.” He raises that compassionate smile
from behind an otherwise inscrutable expression for only a few
fleeting seconds and my heart opens wide when he finishes his
must ask for what you want.”
takes all of my strength to form the words that follow.
want you to take this cane and use it to beat me painfully.”
want you to introduce me to suffering beyond what I think I am
capable of enduring.”
I want you to be cruel beyond what you think you are capable of
last request seemed to take him by surprise.
bruises are trying to seep down my legs and into my feet. It might
be an illusion but I think they have stretched closer to my knees
overnight. They are definitely fading now as the yellow bleeds
into the purple bleeds into the red bleeds into the blue making
the whole area the dull color of dusty dry dirt. I notice now
how I resist their disappearance. Yesterday I was angry at their
meanness and today I feel as if they are retreating because I
do not appreciate their significance enough. It is still true
that the area suffering the most sensation is what used to be
the unmarked centers. I no longer cringe when I touch the darker
bruises but sharp pains still sear though me when I poke at the
lighter, now grayish middles. You managed to plot your brutality
so that the recovery keeps bringing me back to you despite your
physical absence. Visible suffering slowly disappears to reveal
insidious sensation hiding in the most conspicuous places; and
the less distinctly marked skin conceals deeper pain.
gently lifts the cane from my lap.
you need a gag?” he asks.
will gag you if you decide to scream out,” he warns.
have stopped using words.
wields the cane in sharp, quick movements; hitting my left thigh
with fast, bullet-like taps, starting close to the top of my leg
and working his way down to my knee. The cane strikes the inside
of my thigh dangerously close to my sex for such fast motion which
I worry might spin out of control and slice though my most delicate
skin. I must remember to trust him now. My cheeks are burning,
they have to be flushed red. His face has darkened and his eyes
have grown impossibly wide.
cannot look at my legs. I have that same feeling I get when an
injection is about to be inserted into my arm, I want to look
but the sight of it makes me dizzy and causes the pain to worsen
in anticipation. Like the needle, I think I feel the piercing
sting before it is in me. I keep my eyes fixed on his beautiful-mean
strikes me over and over with that bamboo cane, applying measured
pressure in slaps that come too fast to count. He does not slow
down or rest, he does not take the time to breathe; he just continues
to hit me unceasingly. The repetition helps me concentrate and
as my focus narrows to him and the cane the quick snapping of
the weapon across my thighs becomes easier to tolerate. Not just
easier, there is pleasure the more I am able to withstand the
pain. I have either expanded my tolerance for pain or his application
of it has diminished. It is like this for several minutes and
I am growing comfortable with my capacity to endure. Then, without
any warning he issues a slap that cuts into my flesh and sends
stars shooting across my eyelids.
pain is powerful and now he brings it ferociously. He was only
warming me up with the short slaps. I must face my naïveté
face reveals previously undisclosed passions. He is not doing
this for me, he is finding a grotesque pleasure in this savagery.
He is lying when he says he does not enjoy bringing the pain.
His face reads contentment mixed with cruelty and stirred by pleasure.
single whimper hysterically slips from my mouth compelling him
to remind me of the gag and even a blindfold if I continue to
make noise. This is not playtime and enacting my distress is not
going to influence a sympathetic change to my situation. He cannot
control the attempts my body makes to take flight but he can limit
the offensive outbursts. Relaxing the beating however, is not
in the offing.
promised to honor whatever request I made and now he will see
to the expansion of my experience. I asked for it, after all.
beating is wild now, like machine gun fire up and down my thigh.
He is still working on the left leg. He has not even begun on
the right but the shift is coming; he will have at it before he
is done. My eyes are watering. A less confident sadist would back
down. A less confident masochist might quit too.
is finding a rhythm and he likes it. My skin is turning bright,
brilliant red, one big aggregation of stinging red, enflamed flesh.
Sweat is running from his brow into his eyes. His face has gone
flush, a slightly lighter shade of cherry than he is pulling out
of my skin.
he mixes hard forceful strikes into the cacophony of easy taps
and as I watch him carefully through the fisheye lens of tear-filled
eyes I cannot anticipate the force of each strike by his stance
or the lift of the cane in his hand. I refuse to betray the extraordinary
pain with jerking body movements and unrestrained sounds of agony.
I can take it, I keep telling myself until the pain is too much
and then my mantra distorts.
is an illusion. Suffering is an illusion… The words
echo in my head and instead of resisting the pain now I am absorbing
switches to the right leg, finally, at just the moment I was about
to break and scream out. Is he trying to teach me a lesson about
resilience? No, now he means to see how far he can take it before
he cannot dole out this punishment any more. He is challenging
his method for starting on my left leg, there is no warm preparation
on my right thigh and the very first strikes are so forceful that
purple marks break out of my skin instantly. The moments of gradually
rousing the red skin are long gone; this beating is about doing
damage. This beating is relentless.
is breathing heavily and moving around me gracefully, like a dancer.
Even caught on this chair I am dancing with him, attached to him,
inside of him. I see how my fortitude coaxes his aggression and
this knowledge makes me even more committed to enduring this torture.
The more I seem to take it the harder he strikes me. I will abide
it obediently, silently.
am immovable, determined to take whatever he is donating. The
words reverberate in my head as he unceasingly draws contusions
from my body.
is an illusion.”
is pouring down his brow and the darkening marks are acclimating
to my skin. The abandoned left thigh is stippled with broken capillaries
and purple streaks where the cane met the flesh again and again.
My right leg is ignited with pain.
is almost as if I can feel his cruelty and he can feel my agony.
I no longer read the stinging slap of the rod on my skin, even
as each blow is so sharp that it draws a fresh design out of my
flesh. I have surrendered ownership of my body so that we may
exchange suffering and know compassion. Each excruciating strike
seems to open my heart even wider.
ceremony he puts one final caning into my legs. There was no indication
that he would stop but in an instant he is done. He kneels down
next to me and the cane falls to the floor. He places one hand
lightly over my wounded thigh and the torrid heat from the brilliant
flowering marks absorbs into his palm. He is gazing into my crying
eyes. He rests his head on the torn and broken skin of my lap.
The red hot burn of my flesh seeps into his cheek.
bruises and marks have faded considerably. They are still clearly
visible but they seem less angry. They look like greenish-yellowing,
purplish-brown blotches, hardly attractive, though compelling
enough to activate the imagination. Certain areas faded where
I was sure the skin would never give up its adopted purple discoloration.
Other spots held their appearance though I really thought they
would have evaporated early on. The latticed stripes are still
apparent here and there, but you have to look carefully to find
them. It is now nearly two weeks since you put them on my body
and it will be another week at least before they are gone completely.
The most curious thing today is the strange and noticeable distortion
of the muscles, or tendons, or veins, or blood running underneath
the skin on the softly substantial parts of my thighs. When I
press my fingers to my flesh I feel distinct anomalies in the
form under the skin. A rippling of sorts, as if the mass underneath
has valleys and hills and currents running through it. It is an
unusual, even alarming malformation that I pray will mend itself.
One day soon I will wake up and look for my bruises but they will
be gone and I will spend the rest of that day mourning their disappearance
and wishing you would find it in your heart to come and lovingly
beat me again.
Friedland lives and writes in New York City. She
facilitates free writing workshops with New York Writer’s
Coalition, a not-for-profit community organization offering creative
writing opportunities to formerly voiceless members of society.
She is currently writing a collection of short erotic stories
about bondage, sensual suffering and extreme love. Beth can be
contacted at bethindeed
2008 by Beth Friedland