A Penitent Season: Day 3

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 3

I am not sure if he woke me up in the middle of the night, if I woke him up in the middle of the night or if it happened before we went to bed. My issue is about semantics, really, I don't know if this should have been the ending of my last chapter or it's okay for it to be the beginning of this one. The intervening night is hard to classify. When we went to bed he was very, very kind to me. I know why. It's because I went quiet after the beating on the floor, I don't think anyone in my life knows how to handle that kind of silence from me. It never happens either. I can be quiet for the hours that I am being fucked, tortured or beaten, but immediately after, I will start talking again.

I couldn't talk last night.

He asked me afterwards if there was something I wanted to say about what had happened and I told him that I had a lot to say, but that's all I said for the next few hours. I was in shock. The panic I experienced when he was kicking me and crushing my fingers, toes and face last night, reminded me of the panic of a different period of my life. I actually felt the desire to get up and run. I haven't experienced the reflex to flee in a long time. I am not sure how I feel about that. I have also not experienced this level of intensity in a while. I do not mean I have not been experiencing intensity, honestly, intensity is a habit that is entrenched bone-deep and evenly across every aspect of oneself. It's like my friend Bel. She had a meal once after smoking her first joint ever, then she started smoking joints before every meal to enhance the experience and soon enough Bel couldn't eat if she hadn't had a joint first because food just didn't feel like enough of an experience without it. Intensity is placebo for would-be junkies.

But last night was an intensity that scratched a realm of fear I had forgotten. A panic to get him to stop because I sensed a mortal fear and the constant reinforcement of the knowledge that I couldn't get him to stop. I kept wishing with every single blow that it would be the last, I cried so much, but he just wouldn't stop. I don't remember when he did, or why, but I was so grateful I leapt at his feet to thank him for it. The rest of the evening passed in my silence and his attempts to ensure that I was okay, I was okay, I think. I was just quiet. Then at some point in the night, I found myself tossing and turning. Yearning to be touched like a person. The humming in my cunt was fatidic, like it foretold a chronicle I had already written.

"I wish you could touch me," I found myself saying at some point.

He put his hands across my abdomen and stroked my skin. I moaned even though there was no pleasure to be found in that part of my body. I wanted his fingers on my cunt so badly, in only two days I found myself in a place where the thing I had given up was so difficult to resist. How weak and pathetic.

"Not for another twelve days," he told me, "You won't feel my fingers to do anything but hurt your cunt, for twelve more days."

Someone has to be strong for the sake of the construct. Surely, that's insanity. For two people to be denied at the same time, one to be denied the pleasure they seek and for the other to be denied the fulfillment of the urge to placate and pacify their partner in a state of hurt, who does that serve exactly? I don't know, yet I am glad he wouldn't touch me.

"If you can't touch my cunt to pleasure me, hurt it please," I begged, "I'll take the harshness of your fingers inside me just to feel them."

I didn't know I meant it, but I meant it.

"I feel so sorry for you," he said, pulling the covers off me and repositioning himself to be able to stab me with the flesh-toned knives attached to his hands.

"May I get on my stomach please?" I asked.

I don't know why it had to be that way but it did. I turned over to my stomach and lifted my hips upwards so he could. He put his fingers inside me and waded around a little bit. I don't know what it is about being penetrated in that position, it makes everything hurt more. I have forgotten what it's like to be fucked on my back of why anyone would do it, but usually, when he puts his fingers or a dildo in me, I literally cannot stand it when I am on my stomach. It's a physical pain so potent, I start to shake in anticipation. Still, I seem unable to accept there will ever be enough suffering for me.

"Please," I beg him as he fucks me with his fingers, slower than the last time he did it.

"Please what?" He asks.  

"Please master," I muster from the depths of my shame, "Please punish."

And then he did.

Who did that serve?

...

I think doing edibles changed my personality. Look, I know how that sounds but hear me out. I've been struggling for a while with the right to recreation and enjoyment. I believe I do not deserve it. I believe that if I am not completely functional and productive at all times, I do not have the right to exist. You know that hour between the gym and having dinner? You could sit around in your house and just talk to people. Or the concept of hobbies? Like painting a picture but not because you want to turn that into a business? I don't get that. You could be shelling peas or responding to some e-mails in that time. I'll smoke a joint, right? But all I do when high is work or write. Relaxation is okay until it is still productive but doing edibles quietened the part of my brain that is hard-wired to constantly seek tasks and wrest responsibility for myself from the entire world. It was amazing and it had a lasting impact. It's been ten days or more, but I still feel a level of calm, maybe it's because I didn't actually believe prior to this experience that being relaxed was real. I really just thought everyone was saying it but not really feeling it. Felt like a scam, truly. Then I actually experienced it and now I think everyone wasn't lying and I am a real moron.

This state of calm, though, it has enabled me to think about and confront issues I had previously deemed unproductive. I classify my emotions in this way as well. I refuse to wallow in them. Either there exists in a situation an action you can take that presents a solution or there is nothing to be done so you just have to live with it, but there seem to be other options if you think of yourself as a person entitled to a little care and consideration for your pain.

Who knew.

...

Droplets of blood from my back splashed onto my arms as he flogged me. I was unperturbed when I saw the flogger because, come on, it's a flogger, what is the worst thing you can do with a flogger?  They're like masochist massages. Your shoulders will always be more sore than my back if you flog me. Except he brought a scalpel and cut the word "repent" into my back before he beat me. Way to bring a gun to a knife fight. I respect his commitment to weakening the opponent before stepping into the arena. Not that I think of myself as his opponent.

This is his style is what I mean. When we first got together and the "play" was a lot more physical than it was contextual and emotional, he would run a sharp wire-brush over my skin before he cut it with a blade because that made it worse, or he'd carve me with a dull knife before he took a belt to me. It is the same thing as what he does to my cunt for days before he fucks it. He changes the conditions of the terrain so that a little bit of strife feels like a lot. A five-kilometer walk is not that bad, but if you have to do it through snow, it could be a real ordeal. A flogger is nothing, but it can be terrible if you're cut and bleeding.

The blood splashed all over me as he beat me. It was beautiful and it was the kind of pain to which my reflexes are already eroded so I was able to be quiet and poised the way he likes me to be. I've used the word eroded twice today. I said it to him a couple of hours ago because I was sitting at the dining table and complaining about being hungry, willing the stove to cook the food faster, and he suggested he distract me by hurting me. I stood up instantly and walked to the room. He said he was surprised I didn't bat for food, or momentary respite, that I didn't even give him a look or take a beat before I walked towards the bedroom. I don't think it's surprising at all. My defences are eroded. They were on the way to erosion but last night hastened the process and as he beat me on my bloody back this afternoon I realised exactly what is different about him within this construct. I am testing the limits of my guilt and he is testing his extremes.

Each beating is the worst possible rendition of itself because my commitment to penance means that he doesn't have to cater to the caveats of my masochism that are in varying degrees of play depending on what is happening between us. My misery is contingent upon his extremes and so he isn't doing the things he usually does to make my pain last longer, he doesn't have to start gently and escalate, he doesn't have to be mindful of my emotional state of being to the goal of stability (which is entirely by design and not at all by lack of consideration), he doesn't have to use only the tools I really like, he doesn't have to go slowly, he doesn't have to spread the pain out. In fact, the opposite of all of those is the fastest path to suffering, not pleasurable suffering of the style of "i own my masochism" but terrible, unbearable suffering. Though he is frequently cruel in all kinds of ways over the past three days I have come to see how much consideration he gives me on most days. He may not stop when I say stop, but he is listening and he knows what it means in terms of my ability to last, now I feel so helpless. I thought I was helpless before but now, with awareness of his total lack of leniency, I realise I used to have more power.

Is this reversible or is it like the price of goods? When the inflation has passed, will it go back to normal? Don't answer that.

...

I feel like a fool each time I apologise. It's not just the inherent shame of being so susceptible to a concept of right and wrong that you genuinely feel like you have to answer for it to the extent of actively suffering for your failings throughout life, it's also because, I have said it so much, the word has lost all meaning. It's the same word but when it comes from my mouth, in his direction, it may as well be empty noise. It's weightless, it's almost meaningless, does it mean anything when you are always sorry?

I am always sorry.

To him.

Only to him. In general, in life, i manage making and not making amends well, if I may say so myself, I take responsibility and I identify unnecessary blame as such, except in relationships that were traumatic and abusive. For those relationships, I am carrying around such a hefty volume of responsibility, it's as if I don't want to admit the perpetrators had a part to pay at all. That kind of helplessness, even in retrospect, is uncomfortable. I'd rather feel like I was the cause of all of it than feel like they did something to me.

...

A couple of hours after he flogged me, he came to me and bent me over the bed. He pulled my pants down to my knees and started to fuck me with a dildo. I guess what started with an overwhelming erotic itch to lay on my stomach last night is now going to be the convention. I can see the future and in it I am rolling into my stomach in dread of routine torture; I am rolling into my stomach in because this is how I must be positioned to be punished.

"You're wet," he accused me as he fucked me.

I was wet. I have been mindless with the need to be touched, dripping with the anticipation of more pain and ensorcelled by intensity of this interaction. It's been a long time since I have had the courage to be this indulgent, to be this open to the unrelenting grit of human sexuality that will go to any extent if you take it there.

"I'm sorry for being so wet," i told him, "I'm sorry for being horny."

"You should be sorry," he said, tightening his grip on the phallic appendage he wields like a machete, "It doesn't seem right for you to be so horny when you are being punished."

My mouth went dry because it was one of those things you don't want to admit to thinking, you don't want to be known to think, you don't want to hear out loud but you secretly long to be caught in a situation where you're allowed to feel it.

"Maybe you should punish me for being horny," I whispered into the quilt.

"Maybe I will," he whispered into my ear.

...

Our night together started off so friendly I almost forgot, for a moment, what we have been doing. I was occupied until ten so by the time he was able to get his hands on me too many hours had passed for him to beat me again. Or maybe that was just his benevolence. Instead I got naked and lay on my stomach, two pillows propped up under my pelvis, lifting my hips just high enough to be accessible, but not so high to be inviting. He ran his hands all over my body, all over the parts of it that he has beaten over the course of the last three days. I was so thrilled to have his hands on my body, I lost myself in the comfort and familiarity of this touch. For a long moment, I completely forgot to fear him and worry about what was being done to me.

Until he started to squeeze instead of rubbing.

He squeezed my aching breasts, then he squeezed the bruises on my arms, he scratched the carving on my back and started to make these sounds like he was saying he felt so much pity for me. He moved up behind me and ran his fingers over my ass. It made me shudder, I worry that his fingers and his cock interacting with my ass is also an inevitability and I don't want to think about it right now. I don't want to think about it at all. I want to live in denial right up until the moment I feel the tip of his cock against my asshole.

"If I find that you're horny, I will punish you right now," he said putting his fingers against my hole, "Every single day, I will check, whenever I want, if I find that you are horny, you'll get punished again. You should not be horny when you're in repent disgrace, it's disgusting."

As he said the word disgusting, I felt his fingers meet the wealth of wetness aching to spill out of me. He *tutted* and then instantly began to fuck me so hard with his fingers, I started to cramp. Even as I write this, I am lying in a foetal position in the darkness because when I move the pain feels like a scream trapped inside a room, like an echo that reverberates endlessly.

"I'm sorry," I said again, but realising its hollowness followed up with, "I deserve to be punished."

I must repent so I tried to remind myself I deserve it as he fucked me, thrusting into me as if trying to shove his entire arm inside me. The moment he would stop, he would go back to touching my body, leaning into me from behind and cupping my breasts in his hands. He would squeeze and rub them until I forgot about the pain and began to moan again, lost in the trenches of arousal as if I wasn't hiding from the war, and as soon as I would begin to round the peak, he would bear down and remind me that I wasn't allowed to be aroused. He'd draw his fingers back to my cunt and pretend there was a real diagnostic procedure involved in determining whether I would be punished again or not. For a few seconds, I would fight the change in situation, begging him to see how much he was hurting me, but the self-pity disappeared quickly each time, replaced by a fervent and loyal need to prostrate myself for penance. I begged to be punished, until he stopped and went back to he rest of my body. Over and over again until I couldn't keep track of what I was supposed to be saying. Supposed to be feeling.

Finally he climbed off me and began to play with my breasts again. Slower and more gentle. His breathing deepened as my state of arousal got more and more intense.

"Are you still getting aroused?" He asked, disappointment sewn into his syllables like buttons on a well-made shirt.

"Yes master," I confessed, "I cannot help myself, I am sorry, I don't want to be horny."

"You're going to be punished for this pathetic, shameless display," he said, "Tomorrow, just know, you're going to think all of this was so sweet and gentle."

I would have apologised again, but it seemed pointless.  I already knew what was going to happen. I wasn't going to stop it. Tomorrow, I will be punished again.

...