Marks of Another Sort

He’s gone now, attending to family matters in another state for a week.  But before he left he wanted to leave his own mark on me…  Sometimes I wonder if he knows how deeply I am marked by him, body and soul. This day, the day before he left, I found that I had time between work and another commitment. I asked him if he wanted me to come to his house or meet somewhere out for dinner.  Half joking I said, “Or stay at your house and let you do bad things to me?”

“I’m actually inclined to beat you up,” he said. “I quite got into it last night. Perhaps we can do both – a brief but severe beating followed by dinner.”

We never made it to dinner.

He took me into the basement. The night before he had taken me back into the basement for the first time since the fall before, when I had come to his house the first time. He had tied me with my legs splayed open and caned my inner thighs until I sagged against the ropes, then had abused my cunt with his hands as I pulled futilely against my bonds. I wore the stripes from that session still when I went down in the basement with him this time.

This time there was no elegant, intricate tie. There was rope around my wrists tying me to the post. Without a word  he shoved a ball gag into my mouth.  If his email had not been enough to warn me of his intentions, the way he shoved the gag callously into my mouth and yanked the strap tight around my head, then casually, sharply, slapped my breast as he turned away, should have. Maybe I didn’t appreciate the phrase “beat you up” fully.  I soon would.

He turned away for a moment, and I had time to contemplate my situation…he had that intentness he gets sometimes, when I know he’s going to hurt me, really hurt me.  When I know he might just break me.  He said one time that I bring that out in him…but it works both ways.  That he does it, that he wants to…brings that need out in me.  We feed on each other’s desires, on our reactions, our energy.  This day, however, I wasn’t thinking anything so esoteric as all that.  I just knew, without a doubt, that I was going to hurt.  And I thought I was ready for it.

I don’t know how anyone could have been ready for that first strike though.  How can you be ready for the first sharp smack of the flogger across your breasts, the ends cracking across your nipples, no warning?  I screamed into the gag at the first blow, stunned by the ferocity of it. But he didn’t let me catch my breath–he hit me again, and again, over and over on my breasts, until I was gasping and heaving into the gag. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t like my tits beat, slapped, flogged or caned. It hurts, goddamn it.  I was trembling all over when he stopped-but he only paused to focus on another part of my body.  My thighs, my belly, my hips and calves and my groin…he used that damn thing nearly incessantly for I don’t know how long. It probably wasn’t that long, but it seemed never ending.  No warm up, just hard, fast, vicious blows. I squirmed, I jerked against the rope, I cried out, stamped my feet and tried to protect myself with legs that he had not tied down.  He pinned me against the post behind me and used the flogger harder.

Then he switched to the cane.

He had to pin me tighter this time.  I am no obedient submissive, standing still and being quiet because he wants me to (although truthfully I would try to be if he did require that.) But he doesn’t…he lets me be me, and I struggle, I try to get away, I fight it. I curse and scream into the gag…and all the while he doesn’t stop, at least until he is ready.  And it is a catharsis.  I can’t scream and cry and rail against anything, anyone, else in my life. I don’t get angry, I don’t fight. I learned not to fight back in my first abusive marriage.  To be able to, even a little bit, is a gift. And he gives that to me. Someday, he will give me tears, and that will be a gift as well. Meanwhile, to know that I can fight him and still be safe…that he would never harm me, never become enraged or even get angry, no matter how I fought…is an amazing gift.  But it hurts. It’s a gift with a sharp edge.

He never gave me a chance to go to that special floaty place. He used the flogger, cane and dragon’s tail on me in quick, hard succession, until I was trembling all over, gasping for breath.  Then, suddenly, he stopped. I stood there, head down, finally, finally, floating free, sure that he was going to take me down as he moved behind me and began to undo the ropes.

A funny thing happens to me sometimes as he unties me.  It’s like I come half aware, and realizing I am still bound, but feeling the ropes loosening, I start to struggle again, desperate to be free, afraid maybe in some animal-brain part of myself that he won’t free me. I have come to myself pushing at him, shoving him away as he undid the ropes. It takes an effort of will to quiet myself, to let him untie me without struggling against the ropes and making it harder for him to undo them. I have to remind myself that of course he is going to free me, it’s all over now, soon he will hold me and stroke me and love me again.

Except when he doesn’t.

Sometimes, he merely ties me up differently, and hurts me again.  Maybe that’s why I struggle.  As though there is a chance in hell that I will actually escape.  As though I actually want to. God no, I want him to tie me and hold me and keep me…but wait, that’s now, in thinking about it afterward.  During…I am still in that non-thinking state, where all there is is sensation and reaction.

This time was one of those times when he untied me only to re-tie me differently.  When I realized what he was doing, that I wasn’t going to be let go, I did start to struggle again.  He grabbed me harder and whipped the rope around my wrists in front of me, then shoved me to the basement floor.  Once there, he held me down and tied my wrists to my ankles.  And suddenly I just gave in…docile and simply accepting.  Relieved to be unable to fight anymore.

Until I felt the first hot stream of piss on my back.  I jerked back, shocked. “No!” But just as with the beating, he didn’t stop. And, eventually, I gave in…I could only huddle there as he urinated over my shoulders, my back, my head.  Piss dripped into my mouth and ran in hot streams over my tender breasts and over the sore spots on my inner bruisesthighs. This was not the warm shower piss that I had been subjected to in another life. This was something so primal, so unequivocally “marking” me as his that it wasn’t even play anymore. Later, pulling my face up so I could meet his eyes, he said, “I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I met you.” And all I could feel was joy.  Joy to be his, to be owned so thoroughly by him that even that indignity was a mark of the depth of our relationship.

And these other marks? The ones on my thighs and breasts? They are just another beautiful reminder that I am his, his to do with what he wants, whether it is beat me, fuck me, love me or piss on me.

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