Pain and I are not the best of friends-we fight and yell when we’re together and scream and shout when we’re not. It’s a difficult relationship that is always shifting and moving with the tide and I’m not quite sure how we can make peace.
I remember the first time I was ever ‘beaten’. It was with a cat of nine tails that splayed across my back. It didn’t feel particularly ouchie…in fact it didn’t feel anything at all. I had expected flights of angels to suddenly appear and sing me gently into subspace, but alas, they didn’t appear, and when my first beating was over I experienced my very first ‘WTF???’ moment.
Since that time I’ve been beaten with a variety of things both scary, like single tails and birches, and cute such as Master’s purple paddle (the cushioned side!) but sometime in the last ten months I turned extra wussy. Now, I’m not sure whether it was a reaction to the kindness and attention lavished on me by Master, or whether it was an ebb and flow thing, but beatings seem to hurt ‘more’ now and I’m less and less inclined to want to face the music made by Master’s rhythmic strokes.
Except the memorable MP3 punishment beating and the 300+ strokes of Mr Strap, that both made my ass resemble something straight out of the X-files, Master probably hasn’t beenparticularly harsh on me or my ass. Yes, he has made me cry on several occasions and broken skin, but at least he stops. For some others that would be when they rubbed their hands together with glee and really started getting medieval.
It probably sounds at this point like I’m complaining about ‘not being beaten enough’. Trust me, I’m not. I frantically scan for bugs and ranger rovers when my ass looks like it is about to be caned and I quite happily beg, wheedle, plead and trade with everything I have in order to save my tender botty from painful attentions. But at the same time, there is a gnawing feeling of disappointment when I do get out a beating.
Some of my most memorable moments in my slavery are trophy moments. Bruises that don’t fade for ten days, welts with beading blood, even my piercings are all things that I hold dear with a sense of fierce pride. Don’t ask me why. Maybe that I how I measure my worth as a slave, or prove to myself and others that I have ‘what it takes’ to make this slavery thing work. Whatever the reason, I find this facet of myself intriging.
I’m not a masochist, I don’t get off on pain whatsoever and the sad thing is that I am fully aware of all my faculties during the entirety of painful proceedings. I never get whisked off to blissful subspace, I’m always there in the flesh, fully aware, fully conscious of the ouchie things happening. Yet I’m also acutely conscious of when it’s ‘been a while’ since I’ve been beaten. It’s not a craving that I feel-not like wanting chocolate or a nice release, it’s more a consciousness of absence, a wistful feeling that something once there is missing.
Master has promised that my botty is going to receive a lot more attention from him from now on. I’m scared shitless of the prospect, but at the same time, comforted. A part of me feels that regular beatings are something that should be happening and if they do, all is right with the world. But then again, maybe being the attention slut and whore that I am, I’m just happy for administrations of any form. I’m lucky that Master is more than happy to oblige.