I thought I was past all that I-need-scenes-and-pain-to-function newbie slave bullshit. I thought I was evolved and enlightened and properly enslaved and had risen above such selfish and self-centered needs.
I? Was wrong.
Do try to at least pretend to be shocked, would ya? Allow me a smidgen of dignity, you old sour pusses.
It’s been since last August that Master’s beat me. Probably since late September since we’ve had rockin’ hard dirty sex. We’ve had sex, but not monkey sex. You know the kind I mean.
August was camp time. Camp was good. Camp was GREAT, from a bdsm standpoint. It always is. Camp=happyhappyslave.
In early September my daughter had a baby. Cue surge of sappy hormones where all I wanted was snuggles and kisses and love- from the baby. Master? Who is that again? Look! A BABY!! Newborn baby smell!! GIMME! MINE!
Later that same month, that same daughter was packing up to move across the country. Not across town. Not across the state. Across the COUNTRY. 1,732 miles to be exact. AND she was taking that newborn baby that I’d just fell hopelessly, head over heels in love with. AND she was taking the 3 year old that I’d raised and loved as my own since the day she was born. Talk about pain. All consuming, belly aching, heart breaking pain.
The silence in the house was palpable. Oppressive. I was in so much emotional pain that the very thought of feeling any outside pain was more than I could bear. I was already crying about every ten minutes, who needed a nipple twist to hurt anymore?
Master gave me time to grieve and to miss them and to reacclimate myself to this quiet, dreadfully empty house.
Round about the time I was starting to appreciate some parts of this mostly-empty nest of ours– things like the house still being clean 10 minutes after I’d cleaned it– I started having pains of a different sort.
Oh, Master will insist that I own my part of what necessitated the butt surgery, and I do. I’m not blameless. But, c’mon, have you seen the size of his dick? Do you remember the 24 hour a day, 7 day a week njoy? Or how about the butt plugs of all shapes and sizes, the ones that vibrate, the ones that inflate, the ones that come with little games attached. Or how about the 2 hour long attempt to insert the giant black cone of impossibility? Yeah. ‘Member?
So he has to own his part in it, too, god dammit. I insist on THAT.
It was at his demand that I suffered the humiliation of putting my asshole on display for an entire surgical team and had two internal and one external (thrombosed and ulcerated) hemorrhoids removed. (No. I have no shame left. I had surgery on my asshole. Honestly. What’s left, I ask you??)
The doctor said the recovery would be anywhere from 2 to 8 weeks. He wadn’t lying, either. Dude, that surgery was on November 7th, it is now the end of January and I’m STILL bleeding occasionally and sore during certain…activities. Much MUCH improved from those first few weeks, and it’s not consuming my every waking thought anymore, but the very IDEA of him poking his finger in there, let alone his monster penis, and I do a pretty acurate Lorena Bobbit impression.
I birthed 3 children, two of them without so much as an aspirin. I’ve had nails hammered through my flesh. In short, I’ve been through some painful experiences and nothing but NOTHING has compared to that butt surgery pain. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. I’d be hard pressed to advise anyone else to go through with it. It was beyond ouchie.
So. Needless to say, I was once again in so much pain that a simple nipple twist was more than I could handle. We couldn’t even have boring sex, for weeks and weeks, let alone hot, dirty, monkey sex. I was already counting the hours between pain medicine doses so pardon me for not salivating at the thought of a spanking. Because, no. Just… no.
But now. Here we are. Present day. I’m 99% healed from the surgery and about 75% over the trauma of having my babies ripped from my bosom to go live in motherfucking-far-away Texas. It’s the way of things, the circle of life, the birds fly the nest, yadda yadda, blah blah. I get it. I’m okay.
Well. I’m not “okay”. What I am, actually, is grumpy. Angry. Resentful. Feeling put out. Ignored. Irritable. Every request for service makes me huffy. I’m argumentative, nitpicky, nagging. I give “the look”. I scoff. I sass. I’d gotten obstinate. Bossy. Impertinent.
I requested permission to remove the Ring of Steel collar. I don’t feel like a slave so I couldn’t stand looking like one. Every glance in the mirror, seeing that shiny circle of steel around my neck, so chattel-like, so bullring through the nose-esque, so…*slavish*… just highlighted how far away I was in thought and spirit. The collar was choking me. Metaphorically and literally. I needed (wanted) it off. I told him I was being strangled, he rolled his eyes at my dramatics but offered a trade from the RoS to the old, vanilla-friendly necklace I used to wear. I grudgingly agreed(!! Like I had a choice??). But at least I didn’t look like a farce of a slave in the mirror. Now I look like a farce of a cat (it has a bell on it. D’oh!)
A few days ago, I suggested to Master that we drop all this master-slave nonsense. Who needs it! It’s the ordering around that is making me angry and resentful so why not just drop the whole silly shebang? Made sense to me, in a kick-the-wall, fuck-this-shit sort of way.
I was even fantasizing about this life of independence I was going to reclaim. I’d get an angry job! Maybe go back to angry school! He and I could become angry partners and friends, lovers and angry equals. Sure, the thought made me nauseous! Sure, it made me quake with fear! No, I hadn’t quite managed to give all those thoughts a voice around the dry click in my throat. And why was I so fucking angry ALL THE TIME?!
But I did manage that simple suggestion. “We could be vanilla?” all quiet and meek (and not quite the strong, independent feminist that had taken root in my head) and petulant. In response, he snorted dismissively, flicked me in the forehead and said, “I don’t fucking think so, cunt. You need a beating more than you ever have in your life.”
I was…. relieved. Not just relieved, but OMGFlooded with relief. Which confused me. Surprised me. I wanted my stupid, ugly freedom, didn’t I? ~kicks the wall~
And then- after the relief? I got all squishy in my privates. I mean, I pretended I didn’t. I shrugged and said “Whateverrrrr!” like the mature adult I am but then I walked away and realized I was squishy, and later, for the first time in months, I masturbated to some bdsm porn.
Then I sat and chewed over HIS observation. You need a beating more than you ever have in your life. Need? No, see. I was past “need”. Once upon a time I needed it. Back when I was green. Back when “this” was still as much about me as it was about him. Back when I equated being beat with ‘fuel’ and ‘currency’ and a system of checks and balances and motivation. Back when I swore I had never been, and never would be, a service slave, that I was purely in this for the force and the dominance and the control and the pain and that the service was merely a way to get what I wanted and needed.
But I’ve grown and matured since then! I’ve become one of the cool kids who has dropped all thoughts of self and risen to the level of selfless martyr.
Haven’t I? o.O
Apparently not. Heh.
It was a slow flickering light bulb, because, to be honest, I was really clinging to the never-getting-beat-again idea. Pain hurts, you know?
But the fact that pain is my currency is an undeniable fact. I have never been a service slave. I’ve never liked service for the sake of service. Why was it working before? Because he’d managed that wonderfully heady delicate balance of giving me what I needed to get what he needed. He rocked it. Like a BOSS. So good, in fact, that I didn’t even notice it. I was all sorts of content thinking I’d transformed into this epitome of aquiscient-ness, all by my lonesome, oblivious to the fact that he was behind it all the while.
It IS fuel and all my crankiness and resentment is because I’m running on empty. I can’t wish away being a masochist, no matter how hard I try, nor how much it hurts (<--pun alert).
I'm sure, if he never did beat me again, whether by his choice or by circumstance, I'd eventually claw my way into that place of selfless service. But I'm so not there yet. Maybe because I don't have to be.
Now what do we get to do with this amazing epiphany? Why, nothing! Haha. Life's a frigid bitch. In a couple of weeks, I'm back under the knife for an abdominal hysterectomy! More Pain! More recovery time! More no beatings!
ps. Funnily enough, Master called me just a minute ago. I told him I was writing. “In the blog?” he asked, surprised. (I’ve been absent, you see. Did you notice?) Anyway. “Yes,” I replied. “In the blog.” “Well,” says he. “I hope it’s a good one and not some ‘I quit!’ bullshit. Because you’re not quitting. Ever. I know what you need better than you do.”
Well then. I guess I’ve been told. Again.