Author's note: This is a gender reversed version of the story Being the Hurt.
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He was devastated.
He had been rejected. He felt his vulnerability, despite his tailored suit and regal statuesque demeanor, his vast wealth and intellect . He felt on one hand an almost overwhelming desire to flee into the protection of such things; but felt even more strongly the pull of staying with the hurt, of going into it.
The hurt took him by the hand and led him away to its secret place. As they moved through the darkness he discarded all his non-essential companions, walking naked and barefoot; he discarded his defenses, letting the hurt place chains on his limbs. The hurt told him to proceed on his knees; he obeyed it. It locked a collar about his neck, and only it had the key; it attached a leash to the collar and led him forward, his ankles chained together, his wrists chained behind his back. He realized it was now driving him forward with whips; the hurt lashed his back and ass, lashed behind his legs. He struggled to move faster on his knees.
Suddenly he was hoisted up, a chain raising up his arms behind him till he was bent over and on tiptoes. The whipping continued more intensely - back, ass, thighs behind, thighs on the sides, and thighs in front, between his legs, his stomach, his breasts, his shoulders, arms, legs, torso, penis and ball sacks, all randomly assaulted till there was no patch of skin that did not bear repeated blows.
When his beating finally stopped, he hung there exhausted; fitfully half asleep half awake. He felt more chains tightly enwrapping his painful torso, and then eventually he was lowered and harnessed to a heavily laden cart, to become a beast of burden, mercilessly whipped into pulling his unbearable load forward with straining legs, no stopping or slowing for hours at a time, only brief pauses for rests during which he was helplessly made available to be brutally used by anyone around.
'Yes, this is how it truly is, how it truly feels.'
Yet he somehow was still the same as always, still himself in all those familiar places of his life as he always had known it, with all those familiar people around him, everything just as it had always been.
But he was also there as this abject slave to it all, this beast of burden, this whipping post - the bearer of himself as hurt and nothing but hurt.
He lived alone in his penthouse apartment. He took to sleeping naked on the kitchen linoleum floor. The hard surface felt right on his bare skin. He would also crawl on all fours to get around, and never used the furniture. He did not understand what was happening to him, or maybe he understood the only thing happening to him that mattered.
When he needed to go out, or greet someone at home, he would make an effort to suppress his constant awareness of the hurt, and assume his old mantle of power; his returning old aura would appear to embrace himself. He would stand tall and statuesque, lithe and strong, magnificently dressed. And so it was tonight, at this party on the grounds of this estate. And yet inside the hurt remained.
The party swirled around him and he indifferently moved along through it. Until he felt her eyes on him.
