Thursday, I am on the front porch, nude and cold. She said the thought of beating me has been crowding into her mind all day at the new office.
We have taken to the language, her and me, of calling it what it is, a beating, which is politically incorrect and so very wrong, except in the crevices of wanton need between a sub girl and her mistress. It is not a punishment for wrongdoing. It’s actually more humiliating than that. Because there’s no reason for it.
She had called ahead on her way home to tell me to make myself naked in tall heels and stand on the front porch, hands to my side.
So I am on the front porch, nude and cold. The weather has been warmer here of late, low sixties, but the sun has gone down beyond the treeline, and it’s now in the fifties, I’m sure of it. This makes me shiver. It cools the titanium barbells of my piercings, which suck the cold literally inside my nipples.
The beatings are a very recent development for us, and I don’t know how exactly they started. I remember a conversation, pillow talk — her commenting on Kevin and how he manhandles me and my reply that I thrill to a certain kind of treatment sometimes, rough and hard, corporal, thudding. At one point I said there was something about needing “my flesh to be hurt.” It blurted out of me as a confession of sorts, sounding like self-abuse, and I was ashamed. “It’s not like cutting,” I say to her.
“I know,” she says. “It’s OK,” she says, meaning I can tell her anything without fear of judgment, which I can. Somehow she has a hand free to stroke my hair. I say “somehow” because there are fingers of another hand inside me, in the act of some kind of intercourse.
On the phone she said four o’clock, and I didn’t want to cut it too close should she arrive early, so I assumed my nude stance outside at 3:50. Now I’m regretting it. The house is set back from the road, but I am still visible to cars passing by. There aren’t many, but some, and maybe they are neighbors. We don’t really know our neighbors yet. Maybe from afar with binoculars someone will ogle my bare breasts and shaven pussy. Maybe they’ll want me, or else feel sorry for me. No, people don’t really look while driving by, not with binoculars or even iPhones set on zoom. But you never know.
Amanda has said at different times she doesn’t want my body to be marked. My flesh, the soft pale of my skin, is somehow precious to her. She has argued against Kevin having me inked with a tattoo. She said absolutely not to Kevin’s fantasy thought of having me literally branded. And she’s kept him from caning me to a degree that leaves permanent scars. Not that I enjoy being caned hard, but I would perhaps counter-argue that the image of a slave’s fleshy ass cheeks bearing stripes is a beautiful humiliation. I might desire the effect of it while not the process to achieve it. Even having others see me as such, while another layer of humiliation, would feel like, perhaps, a red badge of submissive courage and put me into a delicious subspace. But Amanda has said no to those things.
Even so, Amanda has assumed control over my body, and she has an agenda for it, which everyone knows: having me pierced, narrowing my waist, putting me on a diet, retraining my ankles and feet into high heels, and (soon) subjecting me to permanent hair removal. She does want to leave her marks on my body, but in a different way.
So Amanda said a couple months ago, “Mind you, I have no reluctance to hurt you, girl.”
“I never doubted that,” I replied.
And that was the beginning of this.
On the porch, I am now beyond cold. I want to wrap my arms under my naked breasts and try to hug some warmth back into my core, but I know when Amanda’s car flashes into the drive, she’ll be looking immediately to see if my arms and hands are to my side, as she ordered, or if I am quickly assuming the position to make it look as such.
Just then, she pulls in.
She drives up close to the garage, then sits there, taking a long moment to watch me. I know it fills her dominant soul with warmth to see her girl there, naked, high heels together, arms to the side as she ordered. It demonstrates her absolute remote control over me.
Amanda exits the car, grabs her leather briefcase from the back seat, then retrieves a wool blanket she keeps in the trunk. When she comes to me, she slings the blanket around my shoulders.
“Happy to see me?” she asks.
She takes a finger between my legs and slides it along my pussy crease, pausing to slip it inside.
“I guess you are,” she says. She pulls her finger out, now warm with my wet, and pushes it to my lips. I open, and suck it clean, tasting our chemistry.
She ushers me inside, back into warmth. And more.
Times before, it just happened. Once and then again, then one more time, as I recall. This would be the fourth. I haven’t written about it before. (There’ve been a few other things happening in my life!). And then too, this isn’t a big event between us. It just has been happening of late.
We don’t talk about it ahead of time, it’s not scheduled. If there’s a signal, it’s her making me naked. Like this. For us each it’s an unspoken need, though as different, obviously, as alpha and omega, domme and slave. There are different cycles for her need and mine, yet they have somehow aligned in opposite, like skaters looping around each other on the ice. It has occurred to me that for both of us it’s prompted by absence. We are apart, and the needs are suddenly there. I need sub and she needs domme. Somehow we both intuitively know about the other. And when. Then it simply needs to happen.
Amanda goes into the bedroom to change clothes. I huddle under the wool blanket to recover some body warmth. After a while, I assume my position, standing behind the easy chair, spreading my legs just to a point my high heels can support me, then bend over forward at my waist. Doubled over as such, my ass and thighs are presented, my head is resting upside down on the the cushioned seat, and I stretch my hands to grab the arms of the chair.
This trinity of times before, I have made myself spread behind and folded over an easy chair. Ready for my beating.
Amanda emerges from the hallway, dressed in a vintage red shirtdress and matching heels. She looks amazing, like Donna Reed in fifties retro carrying a flogger. So much to like about that image, and I catch my breath, feel myself go a little limp, and think about how in hell Jimmy Stewart could ever imagine taking his own life while married to such a piece of heaven. “It’s a wonderful life,” I say, still bent over the chair, ass high, splayed an expectant.
“Not here tonight,” she says. She unfolds me from the easy chair and leads me into the entryway, scene of one of my earlier defilements. “I have a surprise for you,” she says.
As I’d written before, Amanda had done some decorating while I was in Pennsylvania. In the entryway at the site of her prior sexing me, she has had installed three sconces, in a gentle arc, each carrying pillar candles.
From the drawer of a side table (she’d planned this long ago) Amanda produces my titanium slave collar and titanium wrist cuffs, and has me put them on.
Then, as I am watching, she lifts the top sconce out of its mooring hook, and sets it on the floor against the opposite wall. Then she repeats it for the other two set farther down on each side.
What’s left are iron eye bolts deeply embedded into wall studs.
She tells me to stand with my back against the wall. I obey. My neck is perfectly aligned with the top eye bolt, and my arms, outstretched, are even with the side eye bolts. Amanda fastens my collar and cuffs to each of them.
I look at her in awe and surprise and amazement. “How did you—”
She doesn’t answer, just steps back and admires her handiwork. “I had help,” she says. “Blake.”
It’s a heavy flogger. The leather fails are wide and thick, thus weighty. It’s a thudding flogger not stinging. She has been using this on me these times.
She seems to believe this does not damage my “precious flesh,” as it doesn’t break the skin or welt, but it reddens me in a pink glow. She says it’s good therapy for my skin. I don’t think she really knows that, just tells herself that, a kind of permission to beat the hell out of me.
Which she proceeds to do.
She starts on my midriff and abdomen. Donna Reed swings the flogger with all her might and it lands on me solid, making me grunt. Truth is, as she has said to me another time, it doesn’t matter much how hard she swings it. The flogger still lands a strong blow. She just likes pouring all of her torque into it. And into me.
There is no talk during my beatings. We didn’t decide not to, just settled into the silence of it, knowing it was beyond words. My responses are not cute or quaint, decidedly unfeminine, a language of moans and grunts and a lot of gasping.
Amanda executes my beating with a goal — to make all of my flesh red and rosy. I think she has this as a strategy to give her a purpose in it. We both know there is no purpose and that she simply gets off on it. In any case, the flogging touches all of my skin, all of my parts. She flogs my thighs and knees and ankles, even the upper slope of my high-heeled feet. She does my arms and shoulders.
She then lands the flogger on my breasts, which elicits from me a yelp. She spends some time on them, changing her angle so the flogger comes up from below and lifts my tits slightly, making them rise and then fall back down. Side to side then. She enjoys making me jiggle. She likes watching.
She swings the flogger down, hitting my abdomen and scraping across my vulva. She repeats that, and while it doesn’t hurt terribly, it roses me pink and makes me tremble for what is to come.
She swings upward between my legs. Just one time. Always just one time. She aims it. The flogger lands square on my pussy, leather slapping my labia and one leather fail gracing my clit.
This is the one thing that makes me scream.
That is the first movement of a two-part symphony.
She unhooks me from the wall, turns me around, and then refastens me, my back and ass facing out.
And she wails on me again.
It is a physical hurting but it’s not profound pain. More, it is the hurt of shame, each flogger blow representing not so much the ignominy of giving myself to this, but the humiliation that somehow I need it.
If she didn’t give it to me, I would beg for it. That is my disgrace.
Amanda roses up my back then the back of my legs. She is nearly done pinking me.
Finally, the crescendo to the symphony is my ass, the one place she can be violent without regret.
Being chained to the entryway wall was a surprise, new. The aftermath is as usual, our wordless ritual.
She leads me by my collar into her bedroom. Makes me stand there while she undresses before me, then slips to the bath, where she showers. She takes her time. As always.
Later, with me still standing, she takes a bottle of lotion and applies a thin coating over all my body. I think this is her atonement. So she needs to beat me from time to time. She loves doing it, but doesn’t like herself doing it. Later she wants to make me feel better.
That’s my theory. Maybe I’m wrong.
She takes me into her bed. We lie, naked, side by side. She holds my hand. With her other hand she masturbates herself.
It’s a beautiful thing. It’s a wonderful life.
As usual, I ask, “May I make myself come?”
As usual, she replies. “No, you may not.”
These are the first words we’ve spoken since the beginning of my beating.
Later, as we are falling asleep, I ask, “Who’s Blake?”