I apologize for not writing more this week. While I’ve been given time and permission each day, I haven’t always mustered the energy my mind needs to string words together.
So… let’s just say it’s been a “heavy” time with him this week — physical in bodily ways and an extended lesson in corporal discipline.
Yesterday he had me change clothes four times. He likes my various outfits but likes even more making me get out of them. There’s a pattern — I dress, model for him, we talk, and then he has me strip naked.
In the Great Room, there are cables that mechanically drop down from the vault ceiling. These are usually used to hang a video screen on which to project Powerpoint presentations at board meetings. Apparently they have an alternative use: to shackle my wrists above my head.
In such a way, I am strung up, in high heels and a slave collar, standing naked in the middle of this immense and empty room. He leaves me there as he goes elsewhere in the house. I hear him talk to the caterer in the kitchen. He re-enters the Great Room, but now is on the phone with a business partner. He wears a bluetooth ear piece to keep his hands free.
Master M continues to have his phone conversation as he begins to flog my flesh.
Earlier he has talked with me. He has coined the term “corporal humiliation.” Not corporal punishment or corporal discipline. He redefines common understandings.
“True punishment,” he says, “has to be based on an aversion a submissive has — if she enjoys being whipped, then it won’t work as a deterrent to an unwanted behavior.” Master M, I am convinced, could have been a teacher in another life. He often speaks in logic and definitions. “Whippings can be useful as a punishment if the girl hates the experience, but generally a submissive likes it in some way, and so corporal treatments are not real punishment.”
“True physical discipline,” he goes on in his professorial tone, “is the training of a girl to physically behave as the dom wants her to. I have already applied to you, slave Shae, corporal discipline by training you how to sit, stand, and walk. That’s the true meaning of corporal discipline. For me to whip you doesn’t actually ‘discipline’ you to do or not do anything.”
He sits in the leather easy chair, and takes a drag from his cigar. I sit at his feet. I spend a lot of my time at his feet.
“I prefer the term ‘corporal humiliation,’ he says. “Which is the same act of hitting your flesh, but for different purposes.”
“And what are those purposes?”
“Your humiliation and my pleasure.”
The humiliation of being hit is complex, I am finding. D/s brought to public awareness is always humiliating in its way, But there’s the matter of a man hitting a woman — especially in this day and age — its sheer social impropriety that looks to others to be outrageous. Somehow I imagine I may have to confess this in some vanilla conversation someday.
But the deeper shame lies in my allowing him to hit me. The cables holding up my wrists are not restraints, actually. They are simply to pull my hands out of the way. I am not “in capture.” Any onlooker could figure out that I am able to stretch the cables together so to undo my wrist cuffs. I could get away. I could walk out of the house. But I don’t. I stay. I submit. I give my body to the ignominy of being flogged by a man — which becomes my humiliation.
Each stroke of the flogger lands heavily and jolts my body. Hit this way, I cannot help that my flesh recoils into ripples and jiggles. My breasts judder, and my ass cheeks bounce after every hit.
“Stop squirreling around,” he commands, interrupting his call. I don’t know what “squirreling around” means, and at the same time I realize the client on the other end of the call must hear this and knows.
“I’m not squirreling,” I protest faintly.
“Stop dancing around. Stay in one place.”
He flogs me again, and this time I don’t shuffle in my high heels. It’s instinct to try to avoid the lashes, which was what I was doing. Staying put is harder, mind over reflex, but I do it.
The pain of it is not the main thing. Each stroke hurts some, but is absorbable. The pain comes later in the accumulation of the blows, and then after, when the sting rises to the surface.
And he knows how to do it.
For him it is a kind of art, a form of human painting. Instead of body paints, he uses implements that bring out the reds in my skin, and there are degrees of the color — from pink to rose to cherry to crimson to Cabernet — that become his palette.
Monday, he painted my ass. He flogged my ass cheeks into a “deep rose” — and I dared not think about what Cabernet would feel like. I could not sit down at dinner. He said it was just like my doing makeup in the morning — layering my face with colored foundation, concealer, blush, and eyeshadow. I guess for him it’s likewise about bringing out “colors in my skin,” but I told him I failed to see the analogy, and he laughed.
I’ve been whipped before, of course, but, in the way he does me, it is a new kind of humiliation. It’s not a sexual event, cum and done, as it is with Kevin, but kind of a way of life.
So, as he said, it’s not a punishment at all, nor even any kind of training, but simply an action done by him because he just damn well feels like hitting me with the ends of things called floggers and whips and cat-o-nines. It’s simply his pleasure. And my humiliation — that I have submitted myself, my body to him, for these, his heavy paintbrushes.
This is just a quick fly-by report of this part of my week with Master M. I have much more to tell and write.
The “professor” has also taken me through a whole unit on spanking. And I have some experiences to report out on that, one particularly notable.
And there was an interesting instruction (in the category of “manhandling”) on “how to be thrown against a wall.”
I am okay, I should mention, well and happy, albeit rather sore in certain places. I’m not concerned about my treatment at his hand. Yes, it’s intense, even severe at times, but he made a rather beautiful statement ahead of time that there is no room for violence in the D/s lifestyle. Violence, he says, is reckless anger wielded against a woman’s body. The art of corporal discipline, he says, is actually in its restraint — knowing the precise boundary between hurt that will heal and injury that won’t.
Just when you think you’ve experienced everything in the slave life, you find out there’s more.