9 April 2015
The memories of our two days in London have invoked a number of thoughts. This email refers to one of them.
“Red?” she asked. “Red?”
It was more than a question. It was a great deal more.
There are unwritten rules. Maybe they remain unwritten because they cannot easily be put into writing. The essential component of consent gives the slave choice. Choice by its very nature is power. The two words “slave” and “power” are, and should be, irreconcilable.
The choice, and therefore the power, open to the slave, is effectively to be a slave or not. The individual consents to be a slave. In so doing they deny themselves choice and any power.
“Red?” she asked. Well, I use the term “asked” because that’s the only appropriate verb but, as I said before, it wasn’t really a question.
I knew fleetingly that if I said yes, “red” and stubbornly maintained that answer, she would have ceased. There was a price however and a price I could not bear to pay. That price would have been to disappoint her. I’d already disappointed her and to do it twice is more than any slave can bear.
The blow that had caused that colour to spring from my mouth had hurt or stung so fiercely that the though of a repeat blow felt inconceivable.
“Red?” she asked.
In those fleeting moments the previous sting had died and my ugly arse was hers again as I regained my previous position. I can’t recall if I said “No, not red”. It wasn’t really required.
This unique interrelationship was emphasised as she later turned her attention to my genitalia and inner thighs. My balls, whose retreat is imbued by the plastic securing ring of her chastity device, bulge unnaturally between their confines. In so doing, they not only create an inviting target but are effectively tenderised for her pleasure. I would suffer as much as I could bear but periodically a well directed, or sometimes a particularly badly directed blow, would sting so severely I felt compelled to call “red”.
Sometimes she would ask as before, other time she would merely pause ready to strike, as if she knew that I didn’t mean “stop” I merely meant “pause”. On these occasions I would actually thrust my genitals forward, exposing them and making them an easier target. In addition to merely inviting her to continue the punishment, it was my way of saying “they are yours”. It was my way of saying “they have no other purpose or use”.
A sense of failure and inadequacy are almost essential traits for her slaves. She requires and she induces it. I’d failed badly earlier with my attempts to wear different gags. I can’t remember whether the corporal punishment ceased because I’d called red and failed her again, or whether she had grown tired and had her fill. My sense of inadequacy means I am inclined to believe the former.
In the dark confines of the hood in which I was to spend the remainder of my night, I heard her settle into her bed. Her quickened breathing betrayed, what may have been, a short frig. My sense of inadequacy and failure were not expunged by this. Maybe its very need was born from my failing. Maybe I’d merely not failed her as much, but had failed her nonetheless.