not the way i planned
Sir was brisk in His instructions for me.
- Clean the floor of the bedroom.
- Bag up laundry to be taken to the cleaners.
- Make the bed.
- Put together the toys and put them on the bed.
- Be in panties or less when He arrives.
On His way home, He text messaged me to put the blindfold on and kneel on the bed. He asked me if there was anything that I thought about doing in particular.
I admitted that I thought about Him hitting me with His fists. Thumping. Punching. Whatever the BDSM euphemism is.
It was a blur for a while after that. A punishment caning for forgetting my metal collar the week before. Sir’s voice stern and commanding and it made me feel good inside. Some nice rope bondage. Nipple clamps, brutal ones. Him thrusting us back into the intense relationship. No excuses any more for slacking off on the duties that I agreed to under the contract.
This is me reminding you what you are. This is me owning you. You don’t get a choice.
There was a nice moment, a moment that made me feel really submissive, and that Sir would later disclose made Him feel really good too:
Me naked, metal collar around my throat, rubbing His feet. Ass sore from my caning. Just something about the moment made me feel amazingly good as a slave, as His submissive and really made me feel like His cherished pet.
But then, later, after clamps, canings and bondage, He ordered me to sit on the bed.
He steadied me.
He balled His fist.
The first punch was a dull hurt. So was the second. He was tentative, careful, but some of them did hit tender spots and I cried out in pain. He kept going.
I felt myself slipping away as He punched me forcefully, rhythmically on the chest. I felt submissive. I felt put in my place. I felt myself slipping down into a different place. Almost like I wasn’t paying attention. Which disturbed me, because I felt like that moment, letting someone hit me with their fists, would require my utmost attention. Instead, I felt my eyes closing, and Him pounding away, and myself, who I was, floating away. It wasn’t subspace, it wasn’t a floating bliss or an escape from the pain. The pain tethered me to the moment, the dull throbbing and the sharp pain when He hit certain spots.
It wasn’t giving up, giving in, giving out. It was something bottomless and frightening I can’t adequately describe. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t even fighting. The expression on His face was intense, focused. I didn’t recognize Him. I didn’t recognize this person that was beating my chest with his bare hand. He looked genuinely angry at me, angry for something I did. I started to fret, then panic.
I started feeling angry, but then I just felt helpless. He would tell me later that He could sense my anger. It bubbled beneath the surface, never really coming up. I whimpered that I didn’t like this any more. He leaned me forward and hit my back.
No. I get to put you in this place. This is what you signed away to me. This, right here, this is what I get to do to you.
I was slipping into a space I didn’t want to be in.
I wanted out.
I wanted back in, because I didn’t want to face the moment after that, realizing what had happened.
I didn’t know what I wanted.
He pulled me to my feet, and I felt like I was going to crumple at His feet. I didn’t want to play this game anymore.
It’s real now, isn’t it? The pain is real. He had said that earlier, as He placed clover clamps on me. But the words rushed back to me as I stood in front of Him, limply. This wasn’t what I planned, what I wanted. I thought the beating would make me feel good. Not like this.
I don’t remember how I ended up on the bed with all the rope off. I remember wanting to fall, I remember holding myself up with the bed. I lay on the bed and He hit me a few more times. Then He told me to go on my back.
Then He told me that it was over.
I could feel my anxiety growing inside me, and my hands instinctively covered my chest and collarbone. He loomed over me, then climbed into bed with me. Sir’s tone of voice changed, and when His hands when up to stroke my hair, instinctively, I pulled away. He was trying to soothe me, and I was still filled with anxiety. I was in a defensive space. I didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t want Him to look in my eyes. I shied away from Him, whimpering. I curled up into a ball on the bed. “I just want to make love to you.” He said softly. I shook my head no. “No? You don’t want that?” He said, worried. His eyes were full of concern. I shook my head no again.
I wanted to run. I wanted Him to hold me. I was shook up, terrorized. Any joke He made at this state made my voice boom in a whine, “That’s not funny! Don’t say that!”
I felt unsafe. I felt scared.
In a tiny voice, I asked tentatively, “You would never hit me in anger, right?” My eyes wide.
He assured me He would never do that. He kissed my body all over, my sore breasts. Telling me He loved me.
He would imply later that the beating triggered something. It probably did. I’ve never been hit as a child, or as a teenager in an abusive relationship. There was always the threat, the danger of it, during out of control times. C balling up his fists until the knuckled turned white. But it never happned. I wanted Him to hit me. I told Him I had thought about it since our discussion about it, one muggy morning a week ago.
But afterwards, I faced away from Him, curled up in a ball.
He rolled away from me and stared at the ceiling, upset.
I asked Him to hold me. I needed to feel myself relax in His arms. I can’t describe the uneasy feeling I felt that night. The fear, the desire to run far away from Sir, but the desire to have Him hold me and tell me He loved me. I didn’t feel like crying. I didn’t know what I needed. This was something I couldn’t name. I still don’t understand it now. We’ve talked it out, almost to death. We are willing to try it again, after I fully process everything. Neither of us was expected the way I reacted.
All either of us knew at the moment, was that I was uneasy and I needed Him to take care of me.
I asked Him to touch me. I asked Him to hold me. He spooned with me.
I needed to feel safe and secure again.
He kissed the back of my neck and held me as long as I wanted.
“Sir?”
“Yes, pet?”
“Make love to me.” He slipped His fingers into my cunt. I was soaking, sopping, noisily wet.
We kissed. I eased myself back into His touch, touched Him greedily, grabbing at Him, His smooth skin easing my weary heart. I kissed Him hard, asked to orgasm as He made love to me. He said yes.
I orgasmed.
I held Him as close to me as I could. Squeezed Him. I told Him I loved Him, very much.
I don’t think I could have loved Him any more at that moment.
