I lie naked on the massage table. Plastic sheeting protects it, covered by a sheet, covered by me. There is plastic on the floor as well. Welts are rising on my back and arse from the earlier flogging, and I wriggle – just a little – to feel the lines of burn.
“Stop moving,” Hygeia warns me, and I settle.
“Yes, mistress.” I have been saying that all evening. She likes to hear it, and I am happy to comply. Nike, her slave, has been saying it a lot that evening as well.
Hygeia and I have talked about cutting for a while now – how it turns me on, how it turns her on, how practical it is to actually do it. Despite that, however, I was surprised when she called me early last week to let me know that she was holding a play party on Friday, and was I still interested in trying it out?
(Yes! Oh, hell yes!)
Much more specific and detailed conversation ensued over the next few days. And each conversation left me exhilarated, frightened, and incredibly turned on. Somehow, such deliberation did not take away from the submissive frisson I felt – the care Hygeia was taking to ensure I was satisfied and safe with the play we had planned added to the trust I felt.
All sorts of pain turns me on. Some I’ve experienced, some I’ve merely fantasised about. Some I want to try, but haven’t had the opportunity. Some I’ve done on myself, but am restless in the knowledge that having someone else’s hands on my flesh would be much more effective.
I’ve imagined my flesh parting under a blade – opening like a small mouth, breathing exquisite pain and bloody words. I imagine the burn, afterward. I feel myself getting drippingly wet as I fantasise about my eyes being blindfolded, not knowing where the next cut will be.
I’ve been looking at feet, recently. There’s something terribly erotic about the curl of the toes, the dip in the foot, the curve of the ankle.
Lying on the mat in yoga, I watched the feet of the women in front of me, straining to reach the ceiling and then flexing back toward me. From where I was positioned I could see twelve different feet, six pairs. All were free from socks or stockings, all were stretching and bending. I watched toes – painted and unpainted – dip and skirl the air. I admired heels describing circles. And I saw the small bones slide under the skin as muscles flexed and moved.
The bruises on my breasts and neck are fading, and the marks from my arse are already gone. But the feelings of release, of restriction and torment and pleasure – they have not yet begun to lighten or disappear.
There are photographs: kneeling proudly next to Pet as Mistress clicks and compares our breast size with amusement. Bent over the spanking bench, trying not to flinch as the flogger comes down over my arse and back (‘don’t move, slave. You know what will happen if you move’). Lying on the table, white wax dribbled onto my skin, covering my pussy and leaving me a virginal snow white (‘you look like a doll. You don’t have a cunt, just smooth roundness. Can you feel it?’). There are photos of Pet tormenting me with her clit, hovering just out of reach above my straining mouth (‘Don’t you lick. Just look, slut-slave’). Of Mistress placing a bright blue dildo on my forehead and laughing merrily. Or me helpless with the giggles as my clit and thighs are tickled and stroked to tremendous, messy release (voice cracking as I beg: ‘please Mistress. Please let me come. Please?’).