Demanding, exacting, extracting
Stuck in the back of the leather bound journal is a folded piece of paper. She
smooths it with her fingers and reads her thoughts from some time ago, then
tucks it into its rightful place in the book.
I woke in the middle of the night crying out in fear, my shoulders curved
forward protectively, hands covering my head. I bit my lip then, not wanting to
wake him. I was still curled on my side, facing away from his bed, but I must
have shifted, rolling onto a tender, reddened spot. The silence in the room was
as complete as it was last night before the sound of the whip hissed through the
air and then that echoing crack as it struck my flesh.
I lay there for a time waiting for daylight to break, but perhaps I had not been
sleeping as long as I thought. It remained dark and eventually I must have
fallen off again.
When I awoke the second time, thin, pale light came through the window. I was
sticky from fear-sweat, paga and the evidence of his use. I crawled from the
room, only pushing to stand when I reached the hallway. My hips and thighs still
stinging from that broad, five-tailed whip... a peculiar pulling sensation at
the tops of my thighs as I walked, slowly ... slowly first to the kitchen to
make sure the fire will be ready and the dough risen enough for bread. Slowly
then to the bathhouse and the small tub. I remember looking at the greenhouse as
I passed it, almost wishing there was just a tiny bit of kanda left behind and
forgotten.
Laying in the tub, soaking away the pain and stickiness, I thought about last
night. Paga was poured on my head by someone, not my Master, for no reason other
than that I happened to be the one who served. He said I served well. My
"reward" was paga in my hair and dripping in my eyes and the laughter heard
behind me. Later, kneeling behind my Master, who did not seem to be in need of
anything, I looked at a friend several times, teasing silently. In his room, I
was beaten ... whipped ... and had no idea why. Laying in the tub, I realized
that he was under no obligation to tell me what I had done to cause him to whip
me. It was enough for me to know only that I was not pleasing.
He marks me well so others can see his ownership - bina at my wrist and silver
hoops in my ears, a hammered shut collar at my neck bearing his name, the iron
belt when I am in public. He is not my boyfriend, husband, lover. He is my
Master - demanding, exacting, taking what he owns and then extracting more than
I thought I had in me.
And I love him. I could not look at him last night because buried in the
exhaustion and hurt was the knowledge that had he asked me to confess my love
for him, I would have done so ... and meant it.