We managed to navigate our way through the first use of my safeword relatively unscathed. Our miscommunication might have been a sign we should explore more carefully, but it was one we ignored.
That night, after a full afternoon of playing in solitude, we teased and tempted each other. Sore and on my euphoric cloud I hopped on Pinterest and found an amazing number of tantalizing photos of women gloriously marked by their partners/Doms cane.
With every image, with every glimpse of this previously taboo idea, my heart skipped a beat. By the time he led me into his room I was beside myself with anticipation.
I wanted this, more than anything. Forget that just before dinner his daughter had arrived, and was now sleeping on the other side of the apartment. Forget the fact I had sworn to myself I would never risk her finding out.
I knew it would hurt, I knew that I would feel a pain unlike any I’d felt up to this point. He had told me once before he would have to hit me much harder to leave the kind of mark I wanted to see. I didn’t care, the fact that it would be his mark on me, a physical sign of his possession of me was enough. That thought excited me so much, I knew I would take any pain that meant I could bear that gift.
I lay down on his bed in nothing save my shirt and bra, nervous and excited, and not quite sure how to contain myself. Like it does every time we play, his voiced dropped and he promised me three strokes. I wasn’t to make a sound, we couldn’t risk anyone hearing.
The first stroke I again flew off the bed, but no sound escaped my lips save a gasp. The second came a few minutes later and I moved away from my place on his bed. With my head buried in his pillow, I fought the tears. I felt him lay down beside me, and when I had gathered myself, I turned my face towards him.
I should have known at that moment. He was watching me with such worry in his eyes, so much concern for me it should have been clear. You see the man behind my Dom is a champion for those who find themselves in a troubled place. It’s his job to look for signs of abuse and care for those who may not be able to care for themselves.
It is for this reason I find it so easy to love him, but this side of him also makes it a struggle for him to cope with the more sadistic side I seem to require.
We talked, about what in particular I cannot remember, but one or two things stand out to me. At one point I said I could handle more, as much as each stroke hurt. I smiled up at him and teasingly said, “you did promise me three.”
There was a pause before he told me that he would do one more, to see if he could do this. So I lay back down, my already aching ass bared for him.
The last stroke was clearly the undoing for both of us. I’m sure I elevated off the bed, I buried my head in the blankets, the tears falling down my face as I listened to him pace behind me.
Snippets if what he said as he paced beside me still linger in the back of my head.
“Is that enough of a mark for you? Does that make you happy”
“This has gone beyond submission.”
“Do you really want me to beat you? Because that’s what this is.”
As I listened to the angry tone of his voice and those sharp, unforgiving words, my euphoria slipped away slowly…..behind it flowed every fear I had ever imagined, however briefly, when I contemplated entering this relationship with him.
I felt sick, disgusted with myself because at that moment it felt like he was right. I was asking him to beat me, abuse me. Was this some twisted shadow left behind from a childhood I’d rather leave behind?
Before I finished the thought I launched off the bed and gathered my clothes. My head down cast, I moved towards the bathroom. When he met me at the door I slid passed, too blinded by tears to even look at him.
For the first time I felt like he thought I was sick, which hurt more than I care to admit even now. For everything else, he had looked at me with lust not disgust in his eye. I was convinced we were over, how could I ever look at him again, knowing he thought that way about me.
I locked the door beside me and sobbed as quietly as I could manage. I turned to examine my marks in the mirror and felt nothing but shame.
Stepping under the hottest shower I could muster, I scrubbed my self furiously. When my skin was red and my tears eased, I leaned against the wall and felt a little of my shame wash away under the searing water.
No matter what we did now… Nothing would ever be the same again.