The Beginning and the End

It's a strange world I walk in, strange of my own choosing, I know. So many times it seems to come full circle, only to start back at the beginning again anew. I've never been what society would consider "normal." My first memory is of the age of two, stabbing myself with a pencil just to see what would happen. I find it curious how our earliest memories help us define who we become. We are nothing but the sum of our memories, after all, they are what link us to our past.

When I was 9 I cut myself with a piece of glass. The first time was by accident. I was entranced with the pain, and the blood welling up out of my finger tip. The other 8 times were deliberate. My mother freaked out, and told me that masochists go to hell, did I want to go to hell? I didn't know what a masochist was, but I knew my mother was deadly serious, and I knew better than to argue when she was in one of those moods.

My dad was a bigwig in our local church. I think that might have intimidated a lot of the guys I went to high school with, since the only dates I ever went on were ones I instigated. That was quite annoying. I ended up hanging out more with my best friend than anyone else, which worked for me, because I was half in love with her as it was. She popped my cherry when I was 17, but that's another story for another day.

The point of today's story is pain, humiliation, and submission, and while that story truly started when I was 2, the background is far less interesting than the details, so I'm going to fast-forward to 18. I was a freshman in college, and doing my damnedest to experience all there was to experience. I was in the business of corrupting myself, and business was booming.

I was 18. He was 22. He was a grad student, teacher's aid for my Stagecraft class, in which I was the only female. I felt somewhat out of place, but it was a required class for my degree, so I stuck with it. Naturally, being the teacher's aid, he was ever so helpful, when it came to the cute, token female in the class. I flirted back, and scored a date the first day of class. (yeah, ok, I'm easy, get over it). Well, to make a long story short, he and I became frequent fuck buddies, no strings attached. I think he was quite refreshed to find a girl not interested in a relationship, and one who was gung ho and quite willing to do just about anything he wanted. I do try to keep an open mind, after all. His roommate was quite a lot of fun as well, but I digress.

He was probably the first man I'd screwed who truly took charge in bed. It was an amazing turn-on. He was always wanting to play little games, and if I violated the rules, he'd stop, and it would be over. Usually it involved me holding very still while he did various things to me, often blindfolded but not always. God, I wanted that man in the worst way, I wanted him to do all those things I'd read about in all those S&M books I'd read, things I'd never done before, and was too timid to outwardly pursue for fear of rejection, and I couldn't figure out why he wasn't taking things further, but I was also not about to sacrifice all dignity by throwing myself at him and begging, I was far too stubborn for that. I just couldn't figure out what his game was, and he fascinated me.

Things progressed slowly. We eventually graduated into light bondage accompanied by rough sex. There was nothing I had experienced better than being gagged and bound and fucked like an animal. But it wasn't enough, and still left me wanting more. I knew what I wanted, and it required pain, my pain. In the end, I did sacrifice all dignity by throwing myself at him and begging, essentially. It all came to head one cold winter night, a night I've relived in my head countless times since, I shall never forget it. We were up in the catwalks of the theatre at the university, like we often were, late at night. He had keys, and no one was around late at night.

He had me tied up on the floor of the catwalks, spread eagle, bound by cords to the railings, stark naked, the cold metal beneath my back, and he was looming over me. I looked into his eyes. He straddled me with his legs, and kissed my lips softly.

I held still, feeling slightly awkward, as I had nothing to do. He nuzzled his way across my neck from one ear to the next. Goosebumps raced across my skin. I shivered. "Hmm," he said, his breath tickling my neck, "You must like that. Otherwise you'd be holding still." He pinched my nipple hard to punctuate. I yelped and jerked. Oh god, my nipple was on fire, and so was my pussy, as if there was some intangible line tethered between the two, connecting them. It hurt so bad, it felt so good, my head was reeling. "Shh," he told me. "If you can't follow the rules, then we won't play." He ran his finger in lazy circles around the nipple he had pinched so liberally a moment before.

I whimpered. "You're making it impossible!" I hissed between clenched teeth, trying hard not to squirm.

He chuckled. "I know." He bent his head down, and chewed on my other nipple, just the way he'd learned I liked, and moved his other hand lower, pinching my clitoris. The sensation sent an involuntary spasm throughout my torso.

"Oh god, " I cried out, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He laughed wickedly. "Do I need to stop?" His fingers dragged down outside of my thigh, and slowly up the inside, stopping just short of my pussy.

"Oh, no, no," I gasped, "Please..." I trailed off. Thinking was becoming rather difficult.

"Please what?" he prompted, nibbling on my other nipple. He reached underneath me to squeeze my ass with one hand.

"Please do something," I groaned, not entirely certain I knew what I wanted.

"What do you want me to do?" He asked. He moved down my body slowly, and kissed my stomach. One hand massaged my thigh, while the other massaged my ass. I shuddered again. There was no holding still anymore, I couldn't help myself.

"Oh god, spank me, please, flip me over and hurt me, and fuck me, and make me suffer!" I think I stunned him a bit with that. Was that what I really wanted? I wasn't even sure, but it was too late to take it back now. He paused. I squirmed and whimpered. He only paused for a moment though, and I have to give him kudos for only missing a beat before stepping back into rhythm, and he did it so well too.

He slapped my face. Not hard, just enough to stun me. My jaw dropped. "Bitch, I told you to hold fucking still, didn't I? You just can't stop squirming, can you? You have no self-control whatsoever, do you?"

He quickly untied my limbs. I thought for a moment I'd made a grievous mistake, and blinked back tears, hoping to god I could just take back those words I'd spoken. I sat up, looking at him, struggling successfully to maintain my composure, confused. He grabbed me by the hair, and yanked my head forward, pulling, until I was on my knees, my head close enough to kiss the metal grating. My scalp burned, my cheek tingled from where he had slapped me, panic fluttered in my breast, my stomach did flip flops, and I had never felt more alive in my life.

Kneeling right there, limbs unfettered, naked on the catwalks, he spanked me, barehanded. He took my breath away with the first blow. I arched my back.

"Get down, bitch, did I tell you that you could move?" He kept smacking my bare ass the whole time. I got back on all fours.

"I'm sorry," I gasped. My ass was hot, my pussy was wet, my head was reeling, and the spanks kept coming. I struggled so hard not to move, but I'm sure, in retrospect, that the pain had my ass dancing quite a bit that night. The pain grew sharper and sharper, my ass grew hotter and hotter, my breath grew more ragged. I'm sure I cried out at least once or twice before he stopped.

He pulled off his belt and began to whip me with it. Stripes of fire coursed across my flesh, consuming me.

Unfettered, unbound, the choice was mine, to stand up and leave and end the suffering, or to stay there and let him keep hurting me. There really was no choice, when it came down to it. I stayed. I stayed because he told me to, I stayed because I wanted to.

As he slipped his belt around my neck like a leash to choke me and hold me while he brutally fucked my ass and scratched my back raw, I cried out, and tears ran unbidden, unchecked down my face. Coherent thought was fleeting that cold, dark night 14 years ago, but the one solid thought that kept repeating through my brain was this: I was home.

I think we were both equally astonished by how we both felt after all was said and done. I knew I had found what I had been missing. I knew my mother had been wrong all those years ago. He had seen a side of himself I'm not quite sure he liked, and he never did fully accept. Our sex life never again matched that night, but I would find other partners as time went by to explore new heights and depths with, so I didn't resent him for it.

I have had a lot of sexual partners over the years, male and female alike, some names have been forgotten, some faces have faded into memory, but Leif's name and face will never be forgotten.

Years have passed, I've been to hell and back again, I've known the highest highs and the lowest lows, I'm not the girl I was back then, but life has a funny way of coming full circle sometimes.

I traveled half-way across the continent just to feel home again. Moments like that had become so rare and precious, it was worth the long trip. Maybe it was because I've gotten picky over the years, or refined my tastes to odd extremes, but it takes a certain kind of chemistry to inspire my submission, and few men have that, and I've yet to meet a woman who has. I know someone who does, so I'll gladly visit him when I can.

I arrived Saturday afternoon, and left the following Wednesday afternoon. By Tuesday afternoon I was sporting a slough of colorful bruises and I was criss-crossed with welts from my shoulders to my knees, front and back. We both laughed over my swollen "J-lo" ass. He found great humor in my discomfort – typical sadist. I found great humor in my discomfort – typical masochist. No wonder we get along. I just loved the glorious smirk that sprouted on his face every time I gingerly sat down and grimaced in pain. Oh, I love that feeling, its an endless source of pleasure and amusement, until the pain inevitably fades a few days later.

We went to the toy store to buy a new single tail Tuesday afternoon, he couldn't find his. I admit, the prospect scared me, and made me nervous, and oh so turned on. Just watching him watch me as he cracked the whip in the store made my heart pound and my stomach do flip-flops. My pussy throbbed.

He took his sweet time, too, letting me stew on the thought. We leisurely strolled back to his house, stopping at a couple other stores along the way, chatting and generally enjoying each other's company. Once we got back to his place, we lounged in the bedroom and watched a little television. I scratched his back and helped him relax. We had a late night the night before, and he wanted to rest a bit before playing.

I was a little torn between bringing up the subject of the new whip, or letting it drag out even longer. On one hand, I knew he wasn't going to forget about it and wouldn't use it on me until he was damn good and ready, no matter what I said about it. On the other hand, I was thinking about how much I knew it was going to hurt, and didn't really mind letting it wait a bit longer. I was both anxiously anticipating it and dreading it, and the combination guaranteed that it was going to stay on my mind and that I would stay turned on. So, I contented myself with leisurely scratching his back. I love little things like that, sometimes its so simple to please someone, and I do love to make people smile.

The moment I had been anxiously awaiting/dreading finally arrived. Burke sat up, and looked at me, a sadistic gleam in his eye. "Alright, I'm hungry. First I'm going to beat you, then we're going to go eat." My heart skipped a beat, my stomach jumped. Oh, sweet music to my ears. No matter how many times I've heard similar things, the effect is always the same.

"Yes, Sir!" I exclaimed. If nothing else, I try to match my fear with enthusiasm. He had me undress and lay face down on the bed, no restraints.

"Have you ever played with a single tail?" he asked, probably hoping the answer would be no, he loved doing firsts, and firsts with me are rare.

"Only once, and that was three years ago," I answered honestly. I closed my eyes, forced myself to relax, taking even breaths, anticipating the first sting. As the whip cracked on my already tender flesh, and bit into my skin, my ass was on fire. He took my breath away, he has an uncanny ability to do that. I gasped, and clenched tightly at the sheets. The whip cracked again, and the white-hot fire spread. Over and over he lashed out.

Oh, the glorious, terrible agony! Single tails are by far the most elegant, exquisite pain I have ever experienced. I tried counting to keep me focused as I laid there trying not to writhe. I lost count at forty, when he had me flip over. The soft sheets made my freshly whipped backside burn with fire anew. The fire spread to my front now, as the whip cracked everywhere; thighs, stomach, chest, nothing was spared. At one point I cried out, trying to block it with my arms.

"Move your arms, bitch," he growled, as the whip snapped across my bicep. I yelped, and moved them. He directed me into the living room, ordering me on my knees by the ottoman."

"Yes, sir," I said. He grabbed my hair and shoved his cock in my mouth. I sucked deep and hard, grateful for the respite from the beautiful, terrible agony of his whip. It didn't last long, he wanted to break his new toy in more. He had me turn around and lean over the ottoman. How many lashes were we up to? Sixty? Ninety? One-hundred fifty? I had no idea anymore, they all blended into each other, and I didn't even try to count further.

So there I knelt, unfettered, unbound, staying of my own volition. The choice was mine, to stand up and leave and end the suffering, or to stay there and let him keep hurting me. There really was no choice, when it came down to it. I stayed.

I find great comfort in bondage. The inescapable provides security, and takes the choice out of my hands, and allows me the luxury of laying the blame elsewhere. Its not my fault, if I can't escape. I'm in pain, and it's the ties binding me keeping me in pain. I can struggle against them to distract me, or let go and let the bondage cradle and hold me. There is an interesting and very humiliating thing about playing without bondage, because then I have no one to blame but myself. He was hurting me, and I could have stopped him simply by walking away, but I didn't, I surrendered, because I wanted him to hurt me, and I let him do it, blow by blow, driving home that point.

As he drove that point home, humbling me with my own volition and surrender, I felt home. He continued painting raw stripes on my backside, as I writhed with the sheer fiery agony of it all, trying so hard to take all he had to give.

Coherent thought was fleeting, that lovely November afternoon, but the thoughts that raced through my head brought tears to my eyes, and combined with the intensity of the moment, I broke, and I cried. I cried because I felt whole again. I cried because its not fair that I have to go to such extreme lengths just to feel complete. Mostly, I cried because I was leaving the next day and knew it would be months before I felt this whole again.

The pain stopped while I regained control of my emotions. I was grateful for that.

Once I'd regained my composure, the game went on. "Now we're going to play 'guess what toy I'm hitting you with!" He announced. I laughed. I couldn't help it. The comic relief was well-timed. He went through his entire arsenal, toy by toy, taking my breath away, as I tried to identify each by the touch of pain alone. Having felt nearly all of them at great length, I nailed most of them pretty quickly, a few even before he had a chance to swing a second time. He was pleased that I guessed them all so quickly, but I think he was a bit disappointed that he didn't get to whack me more with them because of it. There was one cane that stumped me, because he had never used it on me before. I had to peek to get the answer. He caught me, of course, and gave me 100 whacks with it for peeking.

Once we made it through all his toys, including the exquisite fire of the single tail and a baker's dozen strikes with his favorite evil rubber whip (oh, what lovely welts that evil toy leaves), I got to suck his cock again. I love doing that. I was on my knees, my flesh on fire, front, back, and sides, with a wonderful man's cock shoved down my throat, and I haven't felt that alive in ages.

He laid me on my back across the ottoman and fucked me. Oh, my poor raw back and ass, with ever thrust the ottoman shifted beneath me, and the leather upholstery rubbed against my welts. The pleasure of his cock deep inside me, combined with the pain of fresh wounds, was almost too much.

Afterwards he allowed me to take a slow, hot shower to wash off the blood and sweat. Terry cloth towels are a torture all unto themselves.

We went out to dinner, and then played some more, before finally crawling into bed, exhausted. I fell asleep curled up against his shoulder, feeling more peaceful than I had in a very long time. I woke up quite a few times that night because it was hard to stay comfortable long, but each time the pain woke me up, it brought a smile to my face.

My plane the next day came too soon. I was so glad I had come, I felt balanced again, but I was so sad to be leaving because I knew it was a fleeting feeling. I also knew I'd find it again, even if I had to wait a few months until I saw him next.

From the first spank to the last, twice I've cried, the circle has cycled. It will again, I know, that gives me comfort and strength. My needs are strange, I know. Sometimes I wish I could be happy with less, but I wouldn't change me. Suffering and surrender makes me whole. Is it fear, or trust that leads me, and does it even matter? It is about trusting someone enough to surrender to them and letting them push me through the fear by suffering.

Everything else is just gravy.