Content: flogger, whip, beating (fists), slapping, face slapping, suffering, skin breaking (brief mention of blood), biting, crying, catharsis, safewording.
They wanted to suffer. That’s what they asked me for.
To scream and cry and resist, to yell no, to beg for me to stop — and to have me keep going.
They have safewords, of course. “Yellow” and “red” and “safeword” will always be universal when I play, regardless of negotiations — if someone says those, I will at the very least pause to check in. But this time, they told me their safeword is “mercy,” and if they start begging for mercy, then they really can’t take anymore.
They asked me to be brutal. Be mean. Be unrelenting. Rain blows down on their body wherever they were exposed. Leave them bruised up, aching, in pain. To attempt to crawl away from me as I kick them with the biggest boots I own. To use my flogger and whip and my fists; to go after my own catharsis, the release in my musculature when I can put the entire torque of my spine, hips, shoulders into a beating. They wanted to show their devotion through suffering, through crying, through letting me give as much as I could.
It starts slow. They are against the wall, elbows braced, legs open. I warm them up with the flogger. It’s the nicest toy I’m planning to use today. After I find my stride, I pick up the pace, pick up the depth of the hits, pour more muscle into it. Whipping it between their legs, deliberately wrapping around to hit their chest. They start grunting with every blow; that’s how I can tell I’m starting to get to the right level of impact.
So I step it up.
They start flinching. Gasping. Curling up on their toes, convulsing their body and shying away from me.
I give them time to recover, sometimes. It’s best if they are relaxed, my aim is more true — but I can feel that edge in me that is ready to tip over and unleash the sadist I keep choked tight. That’s what they’ve asked for.
Just a little more, and they’ll get it.
They start curling up more, closer to the wall, twisting to escape me. I hook my flogger to my belt and start using my fists on their back. Slapping their arms. Pushing their head into the wall as I use my right cross to get my weight behind it. Twisting, torquing from my hips. Sweat starting to bead on my forehead, on my chest.
They don’t like the slapping as much; it stings. They flinch and cringe, making beautiful little “ah” and “ow” and “ouch” and “fuck” noises, little whimpers from their mouth when I pull back and wait.
I lean forward and bite the back of their neck, hard, slowly sink my teeth in. Hoping it’ll leave a bruise, a mark. I work my jaw a little to bite deeper, let up, then bite deeper again. They gasp, arching their back, hitting the wall with their hand, chest shoved into the wall now. Writhing against me, but they have nowhere to go.
I pull back. They whine, breathing hard. I punch into their back again, quick blows, left right left right. Their cheek is against the wall and they absorb every blow, I can feel their body loosen and quiver as they accept the pounding, accept the sensation. They’re getting lost in it now.
So now it’s time.
I get out the whip.
The first blows fall, harsh, like lightning, cracking against their back, leaving stripes. Their wingspan opens, hands open wide, palms against the wall. They start to wail. More blows. They gasp, “No — oh gods, oh gods, I can’t.”
“You can,” I growl in their ear, gripping their hair. Then I hit again. Again. Again.
They slide down the wall. Curl onto the floor, trying to protect themself, but just giving me their back as they wrap their arms around their face. “I can’t — I can’t — ”
“‘I can’t’ is not a safeword, pretty little thing.” I swing. Snap. Again. Crack. They writhe, cry out, wail.
“You need this,” I tell them. “You need to break open and bleed for me.”
“I can’t — please — ”
“Take it. You asked to see me unleash my strength on you. You wanted to cry and scream for me.”
“Please — Sir, please — ”
Crack. Their skin splits on that one and they twist, starting to shake.
“I can’t take it — oh gods, Sir, I can’t take it — ”
“You’ll take whatever I can fucken dish out,” I growl. I trap their legs between mine as I kneel, slapping their face, their head, their hands when they move them to protect themself. Their back, bleeding a little. They’re crying now, tears streaming.
“Oh, Sir — oh gods, please Sir — ”
“That’s what you asked for. That’s what you got.”
“Please, please, mercy Sir, mercy!” they finally wail in a long cry, a long guttural release.
I pause. Still my hands on them, as I hold them with my thighs. Stroke their arms, their hair. They cry, and cry, until there are no more tears, and I wait. Stay close. Wrap around them. Finally, they sniffle, wipe their nose.
“Thank you,” they say quietly, as they turn and reach for me. “Thank you.”
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