Catharsis 6

Author's note -- This is a story about the intentional use of physical pain to manage emotional pain. Which is a thing that happens, though not usually in this fashion.

I hope it's clear that these characters are in a longstanding, loving, mutually beneficial, S/m relationship. Nothing that is depicted would cause any significant harm, but is designed to be intense.

Thanks, Belle

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Catharsis -- a purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal or release from tension.

*~~* 1 *~~*

Drew knows that Kenzie asking him to meet her at the train station means something is wrong. Usually when she goes on a disaster aid trip she needs the journey home to decompress. She'd actually been angry at him the one time he'd surprised her at the airport. After that he knew; she wanted time alone between getting back into town and getting to their house to regroup and reintegrate herself in the normal world. So he'd been worried when she texted to tell him what time the train was due in and ask for a ride.

He paces around the platform, feeling the torture of each minute passing, his sense of dread growing. His mind spinning one possibility more horrific than the last with every step. She'd been assaulted, maybe. She'd been seriously hurt, perhaps. She'd found someone else, someone better, and was going home just long enough to pack up. It's ridiculous he knows, all of it; but Drew's mind won't stop.

To calm himself down he thinks about their life together, memories flashing as he walks. The long bawdy chats when they'd first met online. Her forthrightness; her willingness to own her preferences and see who responded. Her cute smile and wicked sense of humor. What she'd said to him the night before she left on this last trip. Then his favorite salve for his irrational fears; he called up memories of the first scene with her.

There had been long conversations and meetings in planning their initial session. It was months in the making, with clear expectations and limits. It was supposed to be a one time event, a weekend's worth of bondage, pain, and role playing. They'd made it highly ritualized, with specific postures, speeches, responses, and names. It was one of the few times in Drew's life that reality had lived up to the fantasy. Less than a day in, he'd started dreading the end of their time together.

His last command that weekend was for her to answer honestly whether she wanted to see him again. Her response had been to say that she didn't want to leave. So one weekend had turned into two; had turned into twice a month; then into weekend sessions, vanilla dates, and moving in together. Ten years later the kink was just the seed from which their relationship had grown. Now, Drew can't imagine life without Kenzie.

Suddenly the train is there, and so is she. She barrels into him, standing on tiptoe, leaning in, and clutching her arms around his waist. Her head buried in his chest, her fingers digging into his back, crawling along his skin, pulling her arms tighter and tighter around him. He tries to peel her off of him, but she holds fast, molding herself to him. He wraps his arms around her, rests his head on the top of hers, and waits. When she relaxes infinitesimally, he forces her chin up so she'll look at him.

Something is wrong, he is sure. She looks cold, hollow, more exhausted than he'd ever seen her after one of these trips. She lets him kiss her and hug her. She sighs deeply and allows him to guide her toward the parking lot.

During the drive home, she holds on to his knee but won't look at him. She stares blankly out the window, barely moving, and doesn't speak. Her quietude drains his desire for conversation. They ride in silence, Drew's hand covering hers and his heart pounding like a war drum.

Drew admires Kenzie's desire to help in these situations; he doesn't understand it, but he admires it. She's a counselor by training, with a small private practice, and a part time job at the local psychiatric hospital. Whenever he asks about the trips, she shrugs; she says all she does is talk to people. He can't imagine it, handling the grief, the unanswerable questions, the responsibility of figuring out who needs to talk, and who needs something more. Of figuring out how to get that for them. He knows it isn't as simple as she portrays it. He thinks he's made his peace with it.

As a mechanical engineer, Drew likes numbers, specific answers, concrete problem solving with one correct solution. This crisis intervention doesn't make sense to him. But Kenzie thrives in it, usually. Each time she leaves, typically to some place that just suffered a natural calamity, he hopes the communication systems get repaired fast, and waits for her updates.

This time was different. A disaster made by man; so much harder to comprehend, such different consequences rippling out. Like everyone else in the country, they'd watched the news reports with growing horror and seen the unfathomable destruction. He knew instantly that she was going. She had a bag packed before the aid organization she was affiliated with called her.

He almost tried to talk her out of it. For a split second, he'd considered telling her he forbade it. Then he realized that wouldn't work. She'd go anyway and he'd have ruined something fundamental.

She doesn't talk the rest of the evening. She showers alone, standing under the spray for almost an hour. She eats very little, but stays close with him, even following him into the kitchen. She keeps touching him lightly, keeping a hand on the small of his back when she stands next to him, or leaning against him while they watch TV. The neediness in her every touch ratchets up his concern. Every glance at her hollow eyes pains him. Each time she shivers he wraps his arm more tightly around her, and the tension in her body makes him ache.

That night Kenzie doesn't sleep. She tosses and turns, never comfortable, never able to settle. She starts to doze off and wakes right back up again. The one time she does sleep, she starts moaning and thrashing in the bed. Drew wakes her. Startled, she slaps him and then cringes away from him in terror. Drew has never hit her in anger, and he is dumbfounded that she seems scared of him, even in her sleep. He sits up with her, as she clutches at his hands, shaking uncontrollably.

As she calms, he leans in close. "Kenzie, babe, what happened?"

She shakes her head fast and hard, staring down at the bed, winding her fingers in his. "I... I can't." She inhales deeply through her mouth, lets it out slowly through her nose. Shakes her head again. "No."

"OK." He sighs, slowing his breathing, matching hers, trying to physically guide her to be calmer. "Lie down with me."

She shakes her head again.

"Yes," he says, a little more sternly. "Lie down next to me."

She does, slowly and stiffly, on her back while he curls on his side facing her. She aligns herself with him and stretches her hand so that her fingertips brush his chest. She might have slept an hour then. She is lying in the same position, staring at the ceiling, when his alarm starts blaring.

It's Friday, and Drew spends his whole day at work worrying about Kenzie. Berating himself for not calling in sick so he could stay with her. He barks at his co-workers and word is soon around the office to give him a wide berth. When the end of the day finally arrives, Drew races home, still concerned.

Kenzie greets him with a soft kiss and a small smile. She looks tired, but better than the day before; like some of her spirit has returned. They order food and Drew hopes that whatever had caused her distress is waning. That she might even talk to him about it. But as the evening wears on he realizes that isn't so. She's acting. She's pretending to feel better, putting on a show of calm.

When she doesn't think he's looking, that same blank stare returns. The hollowed out eyes and the grim mouth. When her back is to him, he sees the set of her shoulders change, tensing, and her fists clenching. He listens to her consciously control her breathing, and knows she is calling on all her training to suppress panic. Every time he asks if she is ok, she nods.

He watches her like a hawk. Before they go to bed, he takes her by the shoulders and says, "Kenzie, I want to help. Talk to me."

She turns her eyes to him wearily. "I know. But I can't." She plucks his hands off of her and goes to the bedroom.

He wakes up in the middle of the night and she is gone from the bed. He reaches over to her side; the sheets aren't even warm. He finds her in the living room, sitting sideways on the couch in the pitch dark.

She looks up as he approaches, blanching at the sight of him. Her dark eyes in shadow, wet enough that he sees the glisten as the ambient light bounces around the room. Her knees are drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around. When he'd walked into the room her head was laying back on the armrest.

"Come to bed," he tells her.

"I can't sleep," she responds.

"I gathered that."

"I didn't want to keep you awake."

"You know the rule, Kenzie. If I'm in bed, then you're in bed unless I say otherwise."

"But... I didn't want to disturb you."

"I'm disturbed now. Come to bed. Sleep, or not, either way. In bed with me."

They are staring at each other, barely visible in the light from a streetlamp through the living room windows. He is mostly shadow to her, but she knows that tone of voice all too well. It brooks no discussion, no dispute. A glimmer of relief trickles down her spine. Her next breath comes a little easier.

She rises and he stands aside for her to walk past him down the hall. He waits at the doorway until she climbs under the covers and lays down. When he gets in on his side, he pulls her close to him, fitting himself against her and sliding his hand under her nightshirt. She listens to him breathing. When his hand closes around her breast, a possessive reflex, another trickle of relief coats her heart.

Kenzie lays in the bed, dreading sleep. Dreams are too hard to control. She makes herself lie still, focusing on Drew's breathing, the warm air flowing over her as he exhales. She notices the weight of his arm across her torso, and the involuntary twitches in his fingers as he falls asleep. She practices her self soothing, concentrating on the smoothness of the sheet under her hip, the tickle of Drew's pajama pants against her thighs, and his sharp elbow pressing into her shoulder every time he adjusts.

She drifts off and startles herself awake. There had been flashes, snippets of conversations, an image of a young girl. She sits up, choking on it, now assaulted by memories of sensations: the oppressive sun beating down, the roaring infernos not yet quenched, the hot tears of a man who'd collapsed against her. She pulls her knees to her chest, curling over herself. She feels the sob stuck in her throat, the tears locked behind her eyes. Then come the smells: coppery blood, acrid oil burning, sweat and urine soaked sheets. She coils in tighter, each hand digging into the opposite calf, tapping her forehead on her kneecaps.

She feels so full she can't breath. So full her heart can't beat. Each memory batters her, swelling inside her mind like a pus filled cyst, bursting and killing off pieces of her. She trembles, holding onto herself, begging her body for tears, for sobs, for some human reaction before she disappears. Her fingernails biting into her skin, desperate to find nerves that still respond. She turns her head, locking her cheek against her knee, and regards Drew.

He is deeply asleep. She watches his chest rise and fall with his breath, jealous of the easy movement of air. His eyelids twitch in a dream, his lips briefly curling in a smile, and she craves the whimsy his mind creates for him. As she watches him, she fights to dredge up happier memories. His tongue in her mouth. His voice vibrating against her neck. His foot on her cheek grinding her face in the carpet. His laugh. His gentle caress along her back. His fingers clutching at her throat. The sharp crack of his hand against her vulva. She clings to these thoughts. She clings to memories of sessions that left her wrung out and boneless. Of laying in his arms afterward, throbbing, exhausted, blissful; so sure of her safety and so completely content.

She gazes at him and the plan forms. He could be her answer; he could save her from the infection of what she'd witnessed before the numbness consumes her soul. She repositions on the bed, and wills him to wake. She stays there, unmoving, until he does.

Drew opens his eyes to the sight of Kenzie kneeling next to him on the bed. She is staring so intently he thinks her gaze alone has roused him. What he sees only inspires more concern. Where her eyes had been dull previously, now they are fevered. Where she had been too still, now she is vibrating. Where her breathing had been measured, now it is shallow and rapid. She reaches out to touch him and her hand shakes. She is raw need, and his first thought is that she will devour him. He sits up slowly, inching slightly away from her, keeping his expression as neutral as he can manage.

She puts out a hand and her trembling fingertips brush his arm. She croaks, "I need a session, Drew."

The statement hits him like a junky begging for a fix in a fetid alley. He takes her hand and grips it tightly. She's never seemed so desperate before. He looks at her, staring back into her eyes, trying to gauge the depths of her need. He is torn between his carnal desires and wanting to protect her from herself. Their long history and her haunted eyes make his decision for him.

He jabs a finger toward the floor next to his side of the bed.

"Ask properly," he growls.

She scrambles up and over his legs, tearing off the nightshirt that was her only clothing. Her auburn hair cascading down her back, she drops to her knees and presses her face to the carpet. Drew swings his feet onto the floor a few inches from her head. She crawls forward and kisses them.

For that first encounter all those years ago, they'd decided to be highly ritualized and formal. He'd had her memorize a petition to him. He'd used it to elevate himself and to reinforce her subservience; to get them both into the headspace they needed. Over the years, they continued to use it sometimes, for special occasions, or to center themselves when they wanted a heavier scene.

She kisses each foot three times, and places her hands, palms down, so that her thumbs barely brush their sides. Her knees are spread wide, ass down on her heels, arms bent with her hands and forearms pressed into the carpet. Her face hovers an inch or so above his ankles.

She speaks softly, her voice dull and hollow, "Sir, grant the service of my body to your pleasure. I beg you, favor me with the opportunity to prove my worth. I pray you, allow my body to be marked by your hand, to draw your satisfaction from it, to bend it to your use, for so ever long as you deem."

As she finishes, Kenzie leans down to kiss his toes, and raises her ass to within striking distance. Drew doesn't move. This is all wrong. She is a wooden, monotonous, lifeless caricature of the woman he loves. He's used to hearing the desire in her voice. Either a wanton huskiness that makes him instantly hard or a rushed giddiness that makes him impatient to start spanking. He thinks of times he'd made her start over because she'd giggled in the middle of the speech. Of all the times he'd stopped her after the first sentence so he could bury his cock in her. He doesn't know what to do with this ghost in front of him. He reaches down, and lightly runs his finger across her buttocks, the rarely used sign that she has not earned his favor.

Kenzie's next breath shudders out of her. He waits, unmoving. She kisses his insteps, and whispers hoarsely, pleading, "I beg you, Sir, my Master in all things. I supplicate myself to you. I entreat your mercilessness. Wring your pleasure from my pain. Create your satisfaction from my obedience. This heart, this mind, this body belong to none but you, exist for naught but your desires."

She leans down again, her ass rising again. She presses her mouth onto his feet and her breath puffs along his skin, hot and fast. She moves her hands slightly further away, her fingers curling into the carpet as though to pull her down. She tenses, every muscle trembling. He holds himself still, expecting to feel tears, expecting a sob.

Neither comes, and Drew is flooded with conflicting emotions. He needs more from her to understand what the situation really is. His worry overrides his arousal, barely. He's missed her; he's been planning a session for this weekend the whole time she was gone. But it was supposed to be a joyful defilement. Not a desperate need. In the darkest recesses of his psyche, his sadistic streak sits up and takes notice, calculating how much more she'd be willing to endure like this.

Her back is arched, her breasts flat on the floor but her hips high in the air. Drew's competing needs argue in him. He loves looking at her like that, and his inner sadist tells him the only things missing are his red handprints. He wants her and wants to use her body. But he loves her heart more, and there is still something wrong. He reaches down and grazes her buttock gently with one finger.

She reacts as though that digit is made of flame. Her breath gusts out and she arches away from him. She presses her forehead onto his feet and her hands shoot out to her sides. Arms now straight out from her shoulders, her fingers crawl in the carpet finding purchase to pull her down even farther, to press herself against him, to prostrate herself before him.

There is nothing else memorized. She is out of options. She'll either give him something real, or he'll get up and walk away. For a long, long moment neither one moves.

Then Kenzie shifts her head just enough that she can speak. The whisper comes so softly he barely hears.

"Please," the word limps from her mouth and expires on the carpet. "Please."

She trembles, her breath hot on the top of his foot. He wills his heart to slow, afraid he won't hear when she speaks again.

She exhales and the last few molecules of air bring the words to him. "I'm dying," she breathes. "I feel like I'm dead."

*~~* 2 *~~*

The pieces fall into place. Like a light illuminating a dark corner, Drew sees the emotional armor she is wearing. He knows something she experienced in those three weeks, in that wretched place, necessitated it. That the layer she donned, once impenetrably protective, is now suffocating her. She's forgotten how to take it off. She's crying for him to crack the shell and help her slide out of it, back into her normal life. She trusts him to deliver her. His heart breaks open and flows on to her. He reaches out and smacks her ass with both hands. He intends just a few slaps, to indicate that he agrees. But the first concussion of his palms dislodges his own sense of control.

He beats a fast staccato rhythm on her ass and she pushes up to meet his flying hands. Each blow forcing another breath from her and sending reverberations up his arms. Her hands snap back to his feet and she clutches his ankles, pressing her head against his shins, even as she begins gasping. Drew unleashes two days' worth of worry and heartache into the battering he delivers to her backside. He loses track of the number of strikes and counts down from ten seconds, lest he completely forget himself.

As abruptly as he started, he stops. Kenzie holds his ankles, her forehead grinding into the top of his feet, her whole torso shivering. Drew sits back, looks down at her, and then reaches down to tap her left shoulder.

So many years, so many different ways to communicate. Kenzie moves back a few inches and sits up. She settles her butt on her heels, knees still spread as wide as possible, and straightens her back. She laces her fingers together behind her head, elbows out wide, and then arches her back slightly. She orients her face to Drew, lowering her eyes so that she is gazing at his crotch. She takes a centering breath, and finally slightly parts her lips.