I don’t even think I want to post. Bah.. like *that* ever matters.
I’m way over the three a week requirement lately. I should count them. I deserve a gold star or *something*.
This.. emotional nakedness is exhausting!
Okay… enough lollygagging.
Last night…. seems a lot of posts start that way.. “last night”… I’ll have to google-thesaurus on “last night”.
Yesterday evening…(heh).. Master beat the hell outta me with His crop.
No…. see. That’s not right. Well.. it IS true. But it sounds icky.
Okay okay… He was absolutely relentless with the crop. If I could have maintained any rational thought I would have counted the strokes. A thousand? Ten thousand? A millionbazillion! At least! The pictures just don’t show it. I’m telling you, my ass was on FIRE and it barely looks pink in the picture. And not many marks today either which truly burns my ass. I love marks.
He was… sadistic (way too mild a word here)… I was sobbing within the first ten minutes I think. Hard hard strokes.
And more! than the crop… the face fucking.. making me gag myself (what a fucking mind bender THAT was). And, did I mention, it was one of my best and most favorite masturbation fantasies? One that I don’t recall even talking about before. To be ordered, which entailed being trained enough, to throat fuck His cock. Now I’m sure that I wasn’t completely satisfactory… but still… I was proud of myself.
I puked. It’s not that Master or I have any kind of puke fetish by any means. It just feels to me, that throat fucking past the point of puking.. not stopping for *any* reason… is…. extreme? I don’t know. You are all probably just thinking it’s gross and here I am practically bragging about it.
Anyway.. I puked. He wiped His messy balls and cock in my hair. He whipped me some more with the crop. Did I mention they were hard strokes? I’m surprised the crop isn’t broken. I think my ass is..lol.
He spit on me.. He pissed on me. I can’t even imagine how lovely I must have looked.. with slobber and puke drying in my hair and on my face, spittle running down my cheek, urine soaking me. I will never, in a million years, understand what fuels a sadist. Never.
We showered, thank the lord for that. He tied me up to the wooden pony and cropped my tits… I was done, though. Exhausted, mentally and physically, and still sobbing at this point. He didn’t leave me there for long (thank You Master), letting me down and pushing me into the cage.
The cage.. my refuge. And yes Sir, I was thinking that as You shut the door. You mocked it as You locked the door, mocked me feeling safe in there. But I did.
Adrenaline overload.. mental fatigue.. whatever the reason… as soon as You walked away, I was out. It was a brief nap.. probably more my mind’s attempt to revamp than actual sleep. When I woke, You were gone.. my head was pounding.. I felt cramped and stuffed and I hurt in places I forgot I had.
And I was afraid.. afraid that You weren’t done with me yet. Afraid that calling out to You would kick things up again. I didn’t like that. I didn’t like feeling like I couldn’t count on You. I had to talk myself into it.. to convince myself that no matter what the scene, no matter what the activity, if I *need* You.. You are there. And You were.
And You weren’t done with me yet. You did let me out for an aspirin… and back into the cage. I don’t know how long… I was sooo tired. At that point, I just wanted.. needed.. to know that You still loved me.
How can You… or anyone… be *in love* with a person… and be as sadistic as You are. I’m glad it happens that way, or masochists would be SOL… but I don’t get it.
All the crying and sobbing that I do.. has not too much to do with pain. I don’t think. After all, I gave birth to three kids and shed not one tear and as bad as Your toys are, they ain’t shit compared to labor pains! It has more to do with Your attitude… Your cruelness towards me. That’s what breaks me.
What are You thinking… what are You feeling.. as I lay there at Your feet crying? What thoughts run through Your head as You raise the crop to strike me again? Do You hesitate? Inside, do You? What is it, what happens to You, to me, when You decide You are done?
Does it take You awhile to come back to me? It takes me a long time to find my way back to You. I’m ashamed … embarrassed.. humiliated. I’m mortified by my bodies reactions… still fighting the old demons… aroused by such inhumane treatment…worried… that You are changing Your opinion of me every time my pussy clenches and squirts.
This morning though… I was back, You were back. You still love me. I am more in love with You. Gentle hugs and tender kisses… those are nice, after a night like last night.
And did I… did I honestly *ask* if we could do this again tonight?? I will never in a million years understand what fuels a masochist. Never..;)