Yesterday, at about 2:30, from about ten yards away, while playing [[World of Warcraft]] and blaring the stereo so loud it was difficult to hear ourselves think, we had this conversation on M’s super secret high-tech and quadruple encrypted private [[Jabber]] server:

(2:27:45 PM) rayne: i’m all depressed and oogy today
(2:27:50 PM) rayne: i’m sure it’s just the end of PMS
(2:27:59 PM) rayne: but telling myself that doesn’t make me feel any better :/
(2:28:23 PM) Master: maybe you need to suck cock
(2:28:30 PM) rayne: maybe
(2:28:54 PM) rayne: it’s probably more likely that i just need to be slapped around

At 4:30, still playing WoW and blaring the stereo, I was singing a different tune.  It’s not so much that I changed my mind or mood.  Just that… well… See?:

(4:32:12 PM) rayne: i still love you way more, you know
(4:32:16 PM) Master: nope
(4:32:24 PM) Master: I’m going to paddle your ass 20 times with the new paddle before bed
(4:32:28 PM) Master: see if you love me then
(4:32:35 PM) rayne: wait what?
(4:32:36 PM) rayne: heh
(4:32:47 PM) Master: reading comprehension issue?
(4:32:57 PM) rayne: well, i mean, no but… why?
(4:33:05 PM) Master: because I feel like it
(4:33:14 PM) Master: and you need to be beat

I opened my mouth to say something.  I even typed a few things.  And then backspaced them.  Thankfully, He’s long since stopped asking what I was about to say.  Cause the stream of thought would have upped the ante, I’m sure.  And I did that all by my lonesome by withstanding well beyond what He’d originally prescribed without my head falling off or involuntarily kicking His teeth down His throat.

I mean, it was nothing bad! Unless you take into consideration the fact that I’m supposed to take what I’m given with gratitude regardless of what it might be.  But that’s damn hard when you weigh in the biggest mitigating factor: The studded paddle fucking hurts.

I cried just because He told me He was going to hit me with it.  The only other thing I’ve ever done that with is the cane.  I bawled when He hit me with it.  I think I cried when He was finished hitting me with it.

So He says He’s going to beat me, and tears start sliding down my cheeks.  While a smirk tugs at the corners of my lips.  And streaming through my head are things like, “He’ll get tired and forget.” and “But when I said I needed to be slapped around, I meant I needed to be… slapped around.  Not paddled with Satan’s Suitcase*!”  and “You don’t get to choose how and when He hurts you, ya dumb cunt.”

Wait… what? 

I think that’s the single shitty thing about being married to a heavy-hitting sadist.  The fact that I’m pretty enamored with just about every kind of pain He can dish out does not dictate that we will always be on the same page when it comes to how much pain (and with which toy) we should subject my body to.  Matter of fact, quite often, I’m looking for a medium-strength flogging and He’s pulling out the Delrin Cane and Holy Wooden Paddle (which I suppose I need to take a picture of since it appears no one sells it anymore).

After a while, He told me to start dinner.  So I blew off the paddling, got the steak (That I overcooked.  Idiot.  I didn’t burn it or anything.  Just, last I checked, medium rare and medium well are on opposite sides of the spectrum.) prepped and did a load of dishes.  About half way through the dishes, I hear, “Go kneel on the bed with your ass hanging off.  And put your cuffs back on.”

You know that uncomfortable, warm shock that shoots from your throat to your stomach and then back up again to get lodged in your esophagus like nobody’s business? It makes your asshole pucker and leaves just enough sludge in your stomach to make you feel all queasy and you just know danger is lurking around the corner you’re about to turn? Yeah… that’s about how I felt as I started wondering why the hell He wanted me to put my cuffs back on.

So, I trudged into the bathroom and dried my hands off while I tried to decide whether or not I should pee before He started beating me.  Then I found my cuffs and decided that I prefer peeing in the toilet to peeing all over myself, so I buckled them around my wrists as I dilly-dallied.  And after I finally climbed on the bed, I still ended up waiting a good five minutes or so for Him to be ready and follow me into the bedroom! How is it that it always works out that way?

“Hands behind your back.”

You have no idea how difficult it is not to get up, walk out the bedroom door and tell Him to fuck off when He says that.  But by that point, I wouldn’t have gotten far.  He was already between me and the door.  I hate, Hate, HATE my hands behind my back.  Hate it.  Seriously.  Like, wanna punch puppies, hate it.

First, I’m an inflexible fat chick.  My arms don’t go behind my back.  Comfortably, anyway.  Second, it leaves me defenseless.  How can I catch His hands before they connect with my body if my hands are behind my back?

Not that it would have made a difference in the position He wanted me in.

That I was out of in less than ten strokes, and then again every single time He hit me.  That whole “holding position while someone’s flaying your backside off” thing? Yeah, not as easy as it looks.

We wrestled around with my wrists coming together for a while, and then finally, I heard the snick of the padlock closing on the d-rings.  “Put your face in the bed.”  And I started to panic.

That’s always my downfall.  If I go into it with a clear head, I can withstand almost anything.  But if I allow myself one iota of fear, I’m lost.

I decided that if I could be quiet, putting my face in the mattress wouldn’t be necessary.  Surely, if I managed to keep myself from sobbing, He wouldn’t be too upset if I turned my head to the side.  In truth, He probably wouldn’t even notice.  And concentrating on being quiet kept the fear at bay.

But I was thrashing all over the place almost immediately.  And I started making this strange humming sound caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh.  Whatever it was, it was music to Master’s ears, because He pumped His cock into my cunt harder and faster and grabbed my hips with both hands.

Master’s only concern was that I didn’t pull my cunt off His cock.  And when He was beating me without fucking me, if I twisted away, He’d just yank me back and reposition me.  He finally gave up having me on my knees, though, and positioned Himself accordingly.  I ended up wedged uncomfortably between the mattress, the wall and His thrusting pelvis with my hands locked behind my back and no way to right myself.

He’s positively pleased with Himself.  I’m betting, had I been laying face up, there would have been a Cheshire Cat grin toying with His lips.  Those soft, beautiful lips.  The ones that keep repeating things like, “Poor baby got put in an uncomfortable position.” and,  “Aww.  Poor baby got her arms locked behind her back.”

I lost count around eighteen.  Somewhere between concentrating on keeping my mouth shut and not screaming, and remembering to breathe, I tried to count in my mind.  But at eighteen, I realized I wasn’t sure if I was counting strokes or my thrashing.  I was clawing at the sheets and trying to climb the wall and wrenching my body out of His reach, only to find myself hopelessly pinned by His legs or a well-placed knee or His reflexes.  At least four whacks later, but maybe as many as six, I realized He’d passed twenty and tried to get away again.  Another futile attempt.

He made me ask for more at some point after He’d passed twenty.  Whether or not I was enjoying myself wasn’t important.  And asking for it wouldn’t have mattered.  Except, I’m sure, it would have hurt more if I refused to ask for more.  And as much as my body fought to get away, my pussy was dripping all over His cock.

When it was over, and He was finished using and beating me, He asked if I wanted to cum.  And then the evil bastard beat me from tits to knees and back again while I tried to get myself off.

I keep wondering if this treatment could have the effect He’s aiming for if I reminded myself what He’s trying to do while He’s doing it.  But I don’t think I’ll ever know.  Because I can’t even concentrate on fucking myself when He’s doing it.  The only things that exist are His control, His pleasure and the pain.

A little while later, after we’d both cleaned up, and while I was sauteing the vegetables, He said, “Tomorrow I’m starting with thirty.  Obviously, you can take twenty no problem.”

Which brings me back to: I upped the ante all by my lonesome by withstanding well beyond what He’d originally prescribed without my head falling off or involuntarily kicking His teeth down His throat.

But that paddle fucking hurts.

<3
~pig whore

*The first time M hefted the studded paddle He said it was like hitting someone with a suitcase.  It’s pretty heavy.