I dressed up like a high class whore. He slapped me across
the face. It was sharp and sudden and my instincts flew to the surface in
defense. I became the unfearful. I became the girl who can stomach the pain without
a flinch. I became the defiant one who glares her prosecutor in the eye,
refusing to react with weakness.
I did not plan on becoming that girl. I did not suspect he
could yank her out so immediately. I did not think she would manifest as such
as I hinged my corset together, as I slinked into high heels. I did not think I
would ever see her again.
He resurrected her. But she dissolved fast. Because then soundless
tears fell, turning my face into a ramshackle charcoal sketch. There were tears
like inky punctuation marks. I’ve reached a point in my life where I am more
alive than numb. Alive with tears, alive with contrast. Alive and bleeding
mascara on the floor.
My kink-tastes are evolving. Pain has been such an integral part
of the exploration; the impetus, actually, of the exploration. But the pain has
started to shift its hues, started vibrating in a pitch that is hard to hear. How
this evolution impacts our playdates after dinner, I’m not sure. I suspected
yesterday that he needed a stomping ground, an arena that could mirror back his
prowess. His tastes are violent, cruel and real, when he feels like that. And so
often I love him like that. But the pain has started to change its definition in
my skin. It’s started to be a thing that dwarfs needs I cannot seem to every
directly address.
In the end, it seemed a loving thing to do: to sacrifice flesh
to his wishes. To let him leave his mark even it burned and left my face and
figure distressed.
