A Penitent Season: Day 4

Note: This is a series of 14-days of erotic penance written in real-time available exclusively to my patrons. It's my our observation of a real fucked up version of Lent. You can access the entire series at this tag.

.....

Day 4. 

Sometimes I wonder why I insist on living my sexuality so publicly. Outside of the writerly interest in exploring sexuality in a literary way and divorced from the general desire for validation that plagues all artists, there are more sexual reasons for why I do it. It is thrilling, for certain, to elicit a very specific response in people, a concoction of arousal and despair that hurts the brain and makes the body yearn. Over the years the accusations that the things I write are *disturbing* have stopped bothering me and encouraged me to look into *what* is disturbing and I think I get it. The things I write about are easy to *other*, as a character on the pornographic internet I don't need to be thought of as *real*, I can be seen the same way as we see porn actors who insert alarmingly large devices into their orifices or ones who appear to be living in basements for years. I can be viewed with the plausible deniability of a staged act (and of course, there is some staging, or at least, some strategic placement of information in a way that turns a conversation into dialogue but that comes from the writer, not the sexual being) when it comes to the subjects about which I write, the acts I seem to perform.

But.

I write from a very human place. I write from the place where the act becomes sentient and begins to consider its own humanity, out loud, in the middle of the performance, and I think that makes me relatable because on the emotional level we're all pretty similar in terms of what we experience, it's just the stimulus that differs. Even when I write about things that one may never think to do or have ever thought could be arousing, the fact that human beings will always be able to see the human being in me makes it more terrifying and disturbing. The fact that alongside the disturbia of the need for maudlin suffering and the fetishism of trauma, I can also be seen as the person who experiences the pedestrian ennui of life, the tenderness of the love of an animal, the existential dread of the human condition and a person who experiences all of the normalcy in the world makes it more scary. It's like finding out your nice-seeming neighbor who always gave you a cup of sugar and watered your plants was the serial killer. It's harder to view only the demon when you are privy to so much more information about the human. You can't help but see it as yourself or yourself, as it.

I totally do it on purpose.

It's fun, outside of the fact that my sexuality is pervasive and lives in every realm, it's just fun. It's entertaining to see responses in people, it's gratifying to force sexuality into the same realm as the rest of life and remove the possibility of its extrication. I could write things that were just hot, after all no one wants to think about the tick-tock of the life clock when they're reading about the erotic humiliation of a big-titty hussie, but it feels dishonest to pretend those thoughts and experiences disappear in the sexual realm. It feels incomplete not to bring all of life into this space of erotic non-fiction. I want it there, I want to see what it does to people. It's for my own titillation.

But there is exhibitionism to it as well.

I want to be seen in my suffering. I don't care for the exhibition of my body, I enjoy exposure that is humiliating, but the act of flashing my ass or tits does absolutely nothing for me. I don't care if anyone thinks it is hot or beautiful. I don't want anyone to look at my body. I want you to look at my pain. I don't mean look at my bruises either, the visual exposure is a tool of business to be honest, I would never take another picture if I didn't have to use them to do the disgusting act of driving up traffic so I can redirect more of it to my writing, and wallet. Bruises don't demonstrate suffering well, it's not the right medium to evoke the specificity of human emotions that take an experience from jarring to harrowing. Harrowing is all about the details. Harrowing is about feeling sorrow for what you see in me. Harrowing is about those parts of your heart that read me and feel bad for me. Pity. Horror. Despair. Hurt.

But it's not just exhibitionism.

It's a little bit more because it's important to my pleasure of demonstration that the reader be turned on by it as well. Even, and hopefully, despite themselves. Feel sorry for me, please, but enjoy my misery as well. Get off to it. It's horrible, like finding a person passed out in the street and stealing their wallet before calling an ambulance, if you call it at all. That's what really turns me on about living my sexuality so publicly, I like that response that makes you just a little wrecthed for wanting to see what else could happen to me, for liking the horrible things that I am experiencing, for relishing them. It's not enough that I be seen in misery and evoke emotion, I want to cause the wrong emotion as well. That's the most human thing about us all, we all feel good when we should feel bad. Should is a construct. Does it feel so good, to poke it?

...

The kid is home today, he has to take his final exams and he has to study more than I am comfortable with anyone having to study. I don't like this format of testing at all, but I haven't quite found a way out of this system. I also had a tonne of work to do today. My husband, the monster, spent his morning retrieving objects of genital torture from the big, steel closet where he house all the bad things. I don't think he intends to beat me today, I think all of his intentions are centred around my cunt, and building on the terrible conundrum of being aroused because you're not allowed to be aroused.

As I worked at my desk, he put a whole bunch of objects on the bed and cleaned them. Pipes, hoses, hammers. It really is a nice time, I now remember, when he is still fucking me with things like dildos and his cock, which actually are designed to be in there. That being said, better a hammer than his fingers, really. He told me in the morning that he would teach me not to be turned on by my punishment or punish me for it until I died. I did die in response to that sentence, does that mean my punishment is over? After he finished he took the kid for a haircut, I went to lock the door and as we waiting for the child to pee, put on his shoes, change his shoes, comb his hair, realise he didn't have to comb his hair, pee again, he leaned over me beside the door, against the wall. He had a beard, it's gone now, but on the occasions when he is on leave, he usually shaves once every three days instead of the daily shave to which he, and I, are accustomed. I don't like the beard. I touched it. I asked him if he was going to shave and then I felt bad for imposing my expectations on his appearance. I genuinely felt bad about that. He laughed at me.

"When I come back," he started to whisper into my ear, his tone like an amused, insouciant executioner, "I'm going to punish your cunt. You're going to be so, so sorry for how you behaved last night."

I am scared. I really am scared now. I can take an alarming number of consecutive beatings. My masochistic brain is wired a specific way, more pain makes me want more pain. The first beating is hard, the ninth beating is inevitable.

But this.

This is terrifying to me. I do not understand his fixation with genital torture, I do not understand my own fixation with it either, but it's vital to our relationship. I do also understand that I cannot take it. I have a vagina that rips at three fingers. It *rips*. I cannot. I have a vagina that is naturally inclined to resisting any kind of penetration and over the years it has come to fear his the most. The fear of it has turned into nausea today. As he told me what he was going to do, I found myself wanting to vomit.

I didn't.

I just waited.

...

He came back home and shaved. I was too deep inside my work to be distracted, I think he is able to tell, mostly because, I have a very clear tell. When I am deeply immersed, I start reciting what I am typing in loud whispers, it helps me, but I forget that I am not always alone at my desk. Sometimes people can hear me, I wonder if I am coherent. I took a vague note of the fact that he was moving around the house, talking to the kid, taking a shower, walking the dog. By the time I finished, he was sitting on the bed, watching True Detective. I asked him if I could get on the bed.

The furniture rule is one of those extremely arbitrary rules of which there is no even, fair enforcement. Some days, he wants me to ask. Some days, he whacks me for wasting him time by asking something that is so obviously what he needs me to do. Some days he wants me randomly thank him for the privilege of being on his bed. Some days he tosses me out of bed because I didn't ask to be in it, other days it's a complete non-issue. For a person as fixated on clarity as I am, I sure can enjoy stochastic implementation of this rule. It's because I am comfortable with his right to make and change the rules without so much as informing me of them, especially when it comes to his belongings. I tend to think of our things, our spaces, as his. I often call it his room, his bed, his couch, his table even when legally and financially I am an equal party to them. The encumbrance of ownership is a bit much for my sensibility anyway, I fear losing no things because I own no things, that is the belief system within which I am most comfortable.

As soon as I got on the bed, he came towards me, lifting me up to my knees so he was looking right into my eyes.

"So you like to get horny when you're being punished?" He asked, pushing the hair off my face and tucking it behind my ear, "It's time to confront this bad, bad behaviour."

He gestured that I should take off my pants and while I was doing so he placed a pillow in the middle of the bed. I put them on the chair and made my way back to the bed, trembling and despondent, I crawled back into bed and got on my stomach.

"Put your face in the pillow, there's no way you are getting through this without screaming," he said, "But that still doesn't mean I want your shrieks to disturb my peace."

Where did you get this peace, my love? Was it from watching True Detective? I would never have said that out loud, but it did occur to me, and deep inside my mind, in a place where I still smile and believe in sunshine, I was amused by it. I saw his fingers, through the crack of light between the pillow and my face, as he picked up the pipes he had laid out on the bed earlier in the day. Why do we have to do this? Can he not just beat me and beat me again? It's a little hole, how much torture can it take? Please.

He put his hand on the small of my back and applied just a little bit of pressure, I lifted my hips because my body knows exactly how to respond to him even when it knows it will not enjoy whatever is coming. I would wish I wasn't so easy if there wasn't such divine pleasure to obeying him under every circumstance. Complaince is a sex-toy. They're all sex-toys, goddamn emotions, I would have nothing to do with them if they didn't turn me on so much. With his other hand he began to work the pipe into me, it's flexible enough to be doubled and tripled but rigid enough to have jagged edges. My insides were already so sore and vulnerable, but he was determined not to relent so I attempted to negotiate with myself to just suspend the reception of pain and get through it.

That never works.

I was screaming into the pillow within seconds. I can never explain exactly how this makes me feel but I always know when someone else gets it. It's an experience too vast to elucidate and too particular to mistake. Its such covert torture too, no one will ever see it inside me and no one will ever know how much violence he left inside me. I will never be able to brandish these bruises as evidence of my suffering, my word will have to be enough and it isn't. My words aren't equipped to explain this. The pain inside me is eternal, each person who has added to it, in welcome arenas of torture or terrible circumstances of my misfortune, left it in there forever. My cunt is where all the violence ever committed unto me resides. Each subsequent attack is adding to the vault, it's stepping on old wounds, it's ripping out the sutures I have so carefully reapplied after the last disturbance; it's wrecking a precarious ecosystem, a precise disruption of which could potentially bring down my entire world.

It is impossible for me not to react to penetration, even when I negotiate with myself and resolve to behave, I will usually say or do something that is not allowed. I will scream, wriggle, beg him to stop or try to get it out of me. I wish I could get raped better but I can't. I am unfixable. Incorrigible. That's why he has to do this to me. I got a little self-indulgent with the trauma-porn there, but it's true in its own sad, little way. There is an essence to suffering for your own needs that is absent in other interactions of this nature. A possibility. When he hurts me for him, he is evil, and I can get off to that, it's beautiful to see evil unleash itself upon you, but when I ask to be hurt because I am evil, because that is what I deserve, it's dirtier. Repentance is dirtier than reception. I will sign that in blood.

Blood that he will probably draw out of my cunt by fucking it with things that do not belong in there. I screamed out loud. I feel like I cannot do anything right. The amount that I have been heard in the last four days is usually how much I scream in four months. It makes me feel like such a disappointment and this emotion, the disappointment, it's like a fucking sleeper cell in this terrorist organisation that is his love. It's just a twinge of pain in my heart right now, I barely notice it because I am so occupied by the overwhelming pain in my body, but it's invading me from the inside. Days later, when my body is wasted, my heart will be ready for him to devastate. It's surreal, i can see my own deconstruction, I can chart it, I can delineate it with academic expertise, but I can't stop it.

Nah.

I won't stop it.

It's not just the person sticking pipes inside a cunt who is dirty and sick, the cunt could be just as vile. I am. It's why I deserve this. Or at least, I'd like to pretend it's why so that I don't have to admit that all of this strange fixation on having my cunt hurt in specific may have been completely absent if I hadn't had a few orgasms on a cock I didn't consent to having inside me inside me eighteen years ago. I'd like to believe I'm not still punishing myself for that, or worse, I'd like not to discover that I failed to forgive myself for something that was not my fault because the sexual mess I made in the aftermath of dealing with it was too much fun for me to give up. It's that one. That's the one that's the real reason why I know I deserve to be punished.

But not like this.

Or at least, when he was fucking me with the pipe, I felt that way. It's panicky. I screamed out loud because there was no place left in my body for the reflexes to be absorbed. I'll be better. I'll learn to be better.

"Put your head back fucking down in the pillow or you're about to feel my elbow on your back," he said.

Specific threats. So specific. I used to wriggle when he used to fuck me years ago, what a quaint little trip down the worst memory lane this is, like a picnic in Chernobyl, he would keep me place but putting the tip of his elbow on the small of my back. It's very effective, because the amount of pain it causes is violently disproportionate to the effort. I like receiving the message that I can be annihilated with very little work on his part. I put my face down in the pillow again. I often try to think about how it feels to just have someone obey you, no matter the circumstances, is it a rush? Is it thrilling to watch your whims and words turn into someone's behaviour? Personality? Life? Nightmare? I get to nightmare so quickly. Like a one-trick pony that's not even great at the one trick. I swear I don't hate myself, it's dirty talk. These are the only filthy words that make me wet.

Wet is what got me to the place of being fucked with pipes. He was pushing them in so deep, it felt like I would throw up all over the bed. I may have apologised, I may not have, I don't know. It's not the apology he is after anymore, either. He likes it when I thank him for punishing me. I've been doing it. I like it too. It's just so helpless and sad, makes your clit swell in the kind of pride a bad mom feels when she finds out her fourteen year old daughter is taking diet pills. I thanked him and he rewarded me by fucking me harder, I respect it, he has to keep me guessing, if he softened each time I behave well, I would have no choice but to use it to try to manipulate him. He'd understand that too, he'd punish me for it, but he'd understand. Twenty minutes into fucking me, and it was twenty minutes because I keep excellent track of time because I am a schedule-neurotic, he took out the pipes and replaced them with his fingers. I could no longer tell if one was better than the other, I just wanted it to stop.

I started begging and promising to never be wet again. To never even think about being turned on again. I started to apologise like a chant of amends, begging to be heard, I just needed him to know.

"Will you get horny again when you are being punished?" He asked.

"I won't, I promise," I lied.

Though, not in the moment. In the moment I really wasn't horny, not even wet, it was drier inside me than the air in this city.

"Let me check that," he said, pulling out of me, "Get on your back."

I got on my back and he pulled by breasts out of my tank top, the moment I realised what he was intending to do, I felt the overwhelming urge to beg him not to do it.

"I just punished you for being horny in a state of penance," he started, rubbing my breasts and squeezing them just a little bit, not enough to hurt, only enough to arouse, "You shouldn't get horny immediately after if you have learnt your lesson. You won't, right?"

I begged and begged like a broken record that wasn't even playing a good song to start with, I begged because I was instantly turned on, and I wasn't going to be able to hide it.

"Spread your legs, let me see," he asked, using the honeyed voice he uses to declare my doom to me.

That voice makes me so wet and ashamed. He didn't touch my cunt but I could feel his gaze on it as his hands continued to play with my breasts. I think I have transferred all my sexual energy to them because I am giving you his touch on my cunt. It's the only place where he will still touch me to turn me on like a person. I tried to fight the arousal, I tried to fight it like an orgasm you aren't allowed to have but I could feel it growing between my legs.

"Oh my god," he said, half-laughing in distillation of cruelty to a tone of voice, "I can see your clit getting swollen."

He stopped touching my breasts and moved off the bed. He stood between my legs and with a single finger poked at my hole, he swiped at the wetness and rubbed it off on my thigh.

"Wet, again," he growled, "Do you never tire of disappointing me?"

I do. I'm tired of it right now but I don't know how to do better. I didn't say anything. I waited for the sentence I knew was coming.

"We're just going to have to try to teach you this lesson harder tonight," he said walking away, "Put your pants back on now, disappointment."

"I'm sorry master," I said, as I stepped off the bed to reach for my pants, "Thank you for punishing me."

I wonder if I should keep count of how many times I have already said that.

...

He put me in the corner. He made me scream, cry and beg until I lost control of my words and then he put me in the corner. He pushed my face into it and left me there. I wanted to be there. I have been wanting to be there all day. It's not a place to hide. It's not just a place to hide, anyway. From across the room he dared me to get wet again, he dared me to show him the needs of my body again, he dared me to be a pathetic, ingrate again.

I hate that every word he said turned me on.

I cannot be fixed. This cannot be fixed. He will keep punishing me for being a human being and I won't be able to stop. I'm sorry, please, I am sorry.

I wish I could be less.

I wish I could be less than human.

...