This is part of the Lifestyle Masochism series. I consider these to be stand alone non fiction examples of the lifestyle sadomasochism we practice within our irrevocable consent framework, as discussed in the explanation post here.
I’m in my office, sitting at my desk, though I’m turned to the side and my laptop is in my lap, doing research for a writing project.
Mistress comes in and I don’t think we make much if any small talk—I can see the Look, and set my laptop safely out of the way—before she tries to slap me hard across the face. Not quite quick enough—my hand flies up defensively, reflex, and she ends up hitting me solidly in the wrist, which still kind of hurts.
And so comes the taunting. “Do you think that’s the appropriate response?” and others.
Well, no. My answers are scattered; I’m getting shoved around in the general direction of the bed—my office is in the aptly named master retreat, a room with no door to the hallway, but double doors into the master bedroom. We call it the Hannah Habitat. I land on the bed on my back with my feet still almost on the floor, my hands pinned, but she can’t seem to keep me pinned enough one handed to hit me again without that flinch reflex in the way. She pulls me to sitting up. It goes roughly like this:
“What are you?”
“Your slave.” She asks me this several times a day. There is only one correct answer.
“And what does that mean?”
“That you can hit me when you want.”
And so on. “So stay still. You like being owned. You like me hitting you. You should be thanking me for it. Not all this wriggling. Now keep your hands down.” She keeps trying to nudge me into position, hands out of the way, shoulders down, head up and straight, but every time she so much as twitches, reflex kicks in. Still, with more force, she manages to hit me again, hard, several times—I’m starting to wonder if it’ll leave suspicious bruises—as I’m shoved back onto the bed, pinned, choked, degraded, and of course hit again.
She pushes me onto my front, pulls my clothes down, notes the marks remaining from the toy I made mostly of barbed wire, some tape. “Did you like that?” she asks. “Did you like getting beat with barbed wire? Did you like telling people about it, and how the barbs with your blood on them fly off?”
Yes, I did.
She spanks me. “See, all this wriggling when I try to hit you in the face, but on your ass, you practically beg for it.”
I’m completely still. I have begged for it. For both, probably.
“Can you imagine all the wriggling you’d be doing if I tried to hit you in the face like this?”
She probably shouldn’t hit me in the face like she’s hitting my ass now.
With a few more shoves, she demonstrates this point by hitting me in the face again despite my wriggling. “What can I do to make you stop with that?”
Actually, I’ve done a decent amount of research into that, mostly for applying it to fiction because I doubt she has the patience for it, but my answers are kind of scattered from slaps and the struggle and not enough oxygen with her fingers around my throat.
At some point she tells me to stand, that I can fix my clothes. She finds my pager, slave bell, where it came off of my leggings, but it’s intact in its clip case thing, unlike the old clip that she broke by shoving me around like this.
I do. My body finds the position easily, the right placements of overlaps of toes and fingers and details, just like it does several times a day, with that and other positions.
“Thank me for hitting and abusing you.”
“Thank you for abusing me.” It’s amazing how easy those words are to say. I think they are more awkward to hear myself say than to feel, than to want to say, because I know how many people would think it’s sick. Others, hot.
She moves her own clothes and orders me to worship her; I do. It’s not for long, though; she grabs me tight by the hair like a leash and pulls me towards the master bathroom. Rather than sliding straight along the floor like I sometimes do helplessly when she drags me by the hair, I largely manage to cooperatively crawl, though unsure if that was what she intended.
She orders me to undress again.
I know what’s coming. I make a helpless, small sound of—despair? dread?—but undress.
“Kneel in the shower.”
I do. The bathroom light isn’t even on.
She pees on me. The stupid thing is that wasn’t even really what the distressed sound was over. I just don’t want the hassle of showering after right now, of emerging cold and wet. We all have our pet peeves.
“Clean me up.”
I do. I don’t really object to that part, either, swallowing droplets without complaint.
She fixes her clothes. “Thank me again.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
She makes a vague gesture. “You may do whatever you want in the shower.” Which means I don’t have to shave, present for inspection afterwards.
One more time, required, but genuine, “Thank you, Mistress.”
“You’re welcome, slavegirl.” She leaves. I shower.