“You are going to entertain me.
You are going to tell me a story.
It will involve power, and terror.”
I watched his instructions appear on my screen, feeling a familiar mixture of heat and fear rising with each command.
Heat at the power and easy confidence behind those words, in his knowing that I am compelled to obey.
Fear at the challenge of weaving a story out of thin air, in the moment, having had no forewarning at all.
And fear of the prompt:
“You are going to tell me about the next time I pierce you.”
My heart leapt at those words. It is no secret that I hate needles. The sickly drag of metal under skin; the twin pricks of pain as my skin is opened up and made vulnerable; the dull throb and enflamed swath of skin that persists long after the initial piercing; these are things that I cannot process.
It is also true that he pierces me on occasion. Because he can. Because it amuses him. Because it is an unmistakeable statement of his ownership. And, to further drive himself deeper into my psyche, he has trained me to come from being pierced.
I licked dry lips and cleared my throat nervously. How do I even start this? Where is the setting for the story? The context?
But even as the questions ran through my head, I was already beginning to visualize the scene. I could see the low, warm glow of his nightstand lamp. There is a body there, on the bed, lying face down on crumpled sheets.
After a few false starts, I finally began.
We are in bed.
We have been playing – just as hard, and as primally – as we often do. I am lying facedown. My hands are tied in front of me – my wrists bound together with the remaining rope lashed around my waist, so that my hands lie between my legs.
I hear you move away, and the mattress shifts as you get off the bed to grab something from off the floor.
I hear and feel your body as you return. You set the object down on the bed. My heart begins to race when I hear the familiar “pop” as you open that black box. That terrible, black box.
I hear the soft crinkle of plastic as you withdraw 5 needles from the box. I turn my head away. I can’t look. I never can. You separate the needles, letting them fall onto the bed beside my body.
And, all the while, my lizard brain is screaming at me to move, to run away, to hide from the pain that I know is coming.
Instead, I hold very, very still. You’ve taken out the first needle, and I hear your voice above me, low and soothing. Speaking of your ownership. Reminding me that I belong to you.
I belong to you.
I belong to you.
I feel your fingers on my back, grasping for a chunk of skin.
I belong to you.
I try to mentally prepare myself for the sensation. It never works.
I belong to you.
It’s all I can do to not move, to not flinch at what’s coming. I breathe, breathe, breathe as you slide the first needle. In.
It’s all I could do, even in the telling, even in the imagining, not to cringe away and hide from that mental image.
I could feel the skin on my back responding, tingling and sensitive, as if in anticipation.
I don’t want to keep going. I don’t want to be pierced. But, at the same time, I do. It’s very confusing, Sir.
I let out my breath in one sharp exhale. My skin burns. It always takes me by surprise, the sharpness of that pain. I never get used to it.
It never gets easier.
Even as I am collecting myself, the second needle is in your hand. You slide it. In. Through. And back out, underneath the first. I groan through it, still holding very still.
With each needle, it’s harder to not move, to not thrash around and relieve the burning pain in my back.
With each needle, I feel myself growing wetter. It is almost impossible to ignore, and my hands are right there, between my legs.
As you slide the fourth needle under my skin, you tell me that I will come when the fifth needle is embedded in me. That I will come. Because I belong to you.
You take the fifth needle, rest it against my skin.
Come, you command, as you shove it in.
So I do.
I haven’t had much time or frame of mind to be at the computer the past few days. First, I spent Wednesday through Friday last week finishing my first kangaroo hide whip. Saturday, Max arrived in San Francisco, and I gifted him the finished whip that day. And now my weekend and week is all about Max, which means I am barely connected to my phone or computer. It’s a glorious feeling.
With that, we are getting ready to head out for an evening of leather hoods, sushi, and rope. Yum.
Continuing with the theme of whips, here is part of a journal I wrote about Max’s visit, where I describe our scene with my whip. It was a … breathtakingly powerful scene.
Standing there, facing you, I felt awe at the way my whip came alive in your hands. It was a beautiful sight: your body and the whip moving together; the whip flying and curling in the air towards me; the liquid electricity flowing down your arm and through the length of leather, making the silk cracker hiss. At that moment, I stopped seeing the whip as an instrument. It became an extension of your will, your touch, and your energy. I could feel its yearning to make contact with my skin.
And with each throw, I could hear the whip sing – an expression of pure joy at fulfilling its maker’s purpose. Finally.
I watched my whip, listened to your words, felt the sensuality in the first few light touches – almost caresses. There were not many of those. Time sped up as I felt the whip hit me like a punch to the gut, or a blazing trail of fire. Time slowed down between strokes, as I emptied my lungs and fought the instinct to curl into a ball and hide from the searing pain. Holding my arms above my head only made my belly curve outward like an invitation. I could not see through the white-blinding sensations. All that existed was your voice counting out each stroke and telling me not to move, the force of the whip across my body, and the throat-shredding sounds being ripped from my lungs.
A lifetime later, you reached “20,” and it was over. There are no words I can really use to describe my relief at hearing the finality behind that “20” – seeing you coming towards me, wrapping your body around mine, bringing me down to the floor while I clung to you – combined with the ecstasy I felt at being able to withstand the pain, hold still and keep my arms raised while you whipped me. The two states, relief and ecstasy, merged and expanded to fill my body, and were exhaled out through the sobs that I could not hold back.
The pain faded remarkably quickly and just as quickly was replaced by giddy pride. Pride in taking that pain, but also pride in my whip flying straight and true in your hands, and the delight and joy you took in wielding it. Knowing that the catalyst of this electricity, and heat, and power, and magic, was something I created with my own hands made me want to laugh through the sobs, to exult in our connection.
You told me you’d never done a scene like that – never used a whip on the person who’d made the whip. I could not stop grinning. Neither, of course, had I. I felt high as a kite; I suspect you felt similarly.
It is not an insignificant thing for me to be proclaiming a relationship, or any intimate connection, after guarding my independence so closely for so long. Yet here I am, announcing not just that I am intimately connected to another, but also owned by him. It’s been a long while since I’ve been in such a relationship.
The beautiful realization now is that I am no less independent; rather, my life is made the more enriched by this addition.
A phrase that I learned quickly through the poly byways was “new relationship energy,” or NRE. Because of our distance and thus infrequent visits, I found that the NRE has stretched out over a longer period of time. It makes the time between visits more difficult, but certainly builds up the anticipation and desire for each next encounter as well.
This status change, while changing nothing of how we have interacted together from the very start – my wearing his collar, him filling me with his will and power – does signify the continuation of our encounters, each time bringing us deeper into the other’s bodies, and hearts. I could not be more thrilled by the thought.
Thank you, Sir.