This is part of the Lifestyle Masochism series. These are stand alone non fiction/memoir examples of the lifestyle sadomasochism we practice within our irrevocable consent framework, as discussed in the explanation post here.
Morning inspection happens at 10:30 as always; Mistress checks my morning service tasks, looks me and my uniform over in Inspection Position, approves; I apply sunscreen for her.
When we’re done today, she says, “When you’re ready, come to my office.”
I have a few chores to see to, packing up and planning to do, before I’ll be ready to head out for a few outside things. I clean the litter box, move the laundry to the dryer, so on.
I know, somehow, by her tone, that she has some unpleasant thing in store for me before we leave. I turn over guesses in the back of my mind as I do the chores.
On her daily planning template, there’s a section labeled “How to Harass Hannah Today”. This amuses her. The whole joke of it’s not like I wake up in the morning and plan how to screw up your life today. Except, she does. In her morning planning, something gets penciled in. Last night, I noted that her page for the day said, Make knell (sic) on rice, though that hadn’t happened. My best guess is that it got pushed to today, and that’s what’s coming, though it occurs to me that her carpeted office is an odd place for this.
When I get to her office, I wait in the doorway silently as required. She beckons me in, and I note a large, sturdy but relatively thin wooden cutting board on the carpet, bearing the anticipated rice, before she says it. Ah.
She has me take my leggings and underwear down to below my knees, but generously not off entirely, since I already have shoes on; at her order, I set my pager that was clipped to my clothes to the side. I’m right here; she doesn’t need to page me. She tries a few things with my shirt and bra for more aesthetic exposure, but they’re not staying in place; they come off entirely.
I kneel up on the cutting board. We’ve mentioned the rice a lot, but oddly I don’t think we’ve ever done it. It’s uncomfortable, but not the utter agony I’ve heard about in FetLife writings, though few things are for me, which is a fun challenge.
Just the rice isn’t exciting for her, either. She yanks on my hair, pinches my nipples hard, hits me wherever’s accessible, tries to get me to go down on her, but the angles don’t really work, and it’s brief. I squirm, but stay on the rice.
Today’s lecture is, “You know, if I did this to someone else, I’d be like, in jail. But you, you love it.” But me, I beg for it. But me, I can handle whatever she throws at me. But me, I’ll do anything for her. But me, I’m incomplete without the suffering.
She picks up a metal ruler from her desk. It’s there for drawing and such, but it’s handy. She traces the front of my left thigh and selects a spot, tapping it. I tense and wriggle in anticipation. “Stay still,” she reminds me. “Keep your hands out of the way. This is metal; if you move your hand, I’ll break your wrist.”
I’m wringing my hands behind my back. I keep them there. She hits that spot on my thigh with the ruler, hard, enough to leave an almost immediate, distinct welt. I hiss and writhe; it does have an unexpected bite. She picks another spot right below it. Same thing. Paces around to my other side, right thigh. Two more to, “Even it out.” One, two. Oof.
Shortly after that, she lets me go. I stand, dress, and, unasked, clean up the rice. Some has ended up on the carpet, brushed out of my skin, where it left indents, and it’s quite a job to find all of the tiny white rice in the thick white carpet, though I quickly discover that if I brush my palm over the carpet, the remaining rice jumps up.
And soon enough, we’re ready to go.