~ Soregasm

mas'och·ist n., someone who obtains pleasure from receiving punishment



There are days when we just don't understand one another. i look at Him in awe and wonder why anyone would want all of the responsibility that He willingly takes off of my shoulders. i feel in those times like He gives more to this relationship than i do; that i'm just a mooch, living under His good graces. i think this lack of understanding is more on my part than His, given His natural ability to understand and grasp facets of the psyche, what motivates people, even ones so fundamentally different than Him. So it was a rarity when i found myself trying to explain what i felt to the one who can usually put my feelings into words more succinctly than even i can, who knows me at times better than i know myself. But that is what i'm endeavoring to do, for His sake.

my Master has said that i'm a masochist and while aspects of that definition might certainly apply, there is one key difference. For me, there is no sexual gratification, simply for the receiving of pain. Standing there as His crop struck me, there was no gratification in the moment of impact, the searing pain that caused me to double over to keep from stepping back, that caused my voice emit a strangled cry and tears to flow down my blotchy cheeks. Were that the case, i could simply flog myself in a sort of pain masturbation and cut out the middle man. i could control the area of impact, the degree of pain. i wouldn't have to place my trust in someone who had me bound and helpless, knowing at that point, there was nothing i could do to protect myself from Him.

There is so much in what i just said that's against my core being that my Master would probably chuckle right about now.

It is not the pain that keeps me standing there, stubbornly accepting the abuse, both craving and dreading more of it. The pain is so intense that i have to wonder myself, at times, why i'm still standing there. And then i look in His eyes and see the satisfaction, the pride, and i know. But does it really please Him, i wonder? And then He lifts a camera and snaps a photograph -- not of the pornographic form that's bound, naked, before Him -- but of my face, my tears. And my body stirs in response, the wetness quickening, not from the pain, but from His own gratification in inflicting it. i see His hand move to His own arousal and my body aches, longlingly this time, knowing that it was my pain that was moving Him so. And then, He finally moved to use me, His hand coming down sharply on my backside, intentionally hitting a spot He had abused most harshly. This time, i didn't dread the pain. i welcomed it eagerly, ripe in the knowledge that it would bring Him to climax. And i craved more of it.

When He was done, He moved away. my own arousal was never addressed. But while i had been denied an orgasm, i lay there feeling satiated, satisfied. Without His pleasure, i cannot feel that. Without His satisfaction, i cannot feel satisfied. i had fulfilled my purpose, i had served His pleasure, and in that moment, having been used and my body abused, i was content.

Today, He is having a hard day. i know He is frustrated and aggravated. And i wish i could be there, to bring His crop to Him. To offer my body as His whipping post to take His frustrations out on. i wish i could bring Him that satisfaction that we both felt that night, the calm tranquility that comes from having beaten (and been beaten), wearing Your muscles out until all that You can do is rest and relax, feeling satiated.

Ten more days, my Love, my Master, and that will no longer be a rare oasis in the dessert, a single night's dream from which we awaken. It will be the fabric of our lives.