Friday, May 4, 2012
Yesterday when I came into His room and saw the variety of floggers and implements on the bed, I stopped breathing for a moment. Involuntarily, my legs clenched together, my thighs dampened, my nipples hardened and then the fear rushed through my mind. What if its too much for me to take? What if my pain tolerance is low today? How much can I take for Him? What if it hurts so much that I cannot remain in position?
Master had me put my hands behind my head and face Him, legs spread. He whipped and flogged my breasts, stomach, hips - and ever so gently, my face. It always terrifies me to have my breasts whipped. That terror though makes me deeply enjoy submitting to it for Him. There is something sacred to be found for me in submitting to acts that please Master and yet terrify me. (in a delicious way, naturally) Then He placed me facing the wall with my stretched hands above my head and proceeded to flog my back and bottom.
I find it entrancing, how Master always goes for something different, each time He whips me. I can feel the difference in His intent, in how the pain is spaced, in the rhythm of the implements He uses on me, and I can hear it in the melody created by the cut through the air, the impact on my skin and the gasps and cries that escape my lips. I can see it in the marks, always placed so differently, like a new painting each time. When Master told me I was His canvas, the rushes of fear and thought vanished, and I became just that for Him. A canvas to paint his strokes upon. I opened further to the pain and became a part of the flow of movement from Him through the floggers, piercing my flesh, jolting down to my pussy and trickling its way up through my heart, through my breath, through my life until there was nothing but Master. Master and His desire, Master and His pleasure. Master and His dreams. Master and His canvas.
He told me to cry for Him, to cry for my Master and I obeyed. The intensity of the lashes demanded I comply. The shocking pain of the impact demanded I comply. The burning trickles of the lashes previous marks on my flesh demanded I comply. Sacred tears from deep within me, freely given to my Lord and Master. A token of my submission and devotion, of the unconditional love and surrender that excludes nothing, not even pain. And when the beating stopped and Master allowed me to worship and pleasure Him, my tears trickled onto His flesh like an offering and the beauty and intimacy of the moment overwhelmed me.
Master, You are the artist painting and blending and conjuring your slaves life. The pictures You paint mesmerize me to the core of my soul. I am deeply blessed to be Your canvas, Your clay, Your masterpiece, Your devoted slave.