The Gift

He gives me pain like a gift.

Other men give flowers or lingerie or chocolate.
These gifts do not have the power to move me,
to make me sing and cry and soar,
not the way his gift does.

He gives it so gently,
his quiet voice encouraging, until
I know that I will do anything he asks of me.

And the things he asks of me…

His commands are often a single word,
and before his breath has cooled in the air I am obeying.

“Kneel.”

“Stand.”

“Open.”

“Suck.”

His commands are gifts too, singular precious pearls
for which I hold my breath, waiting.
It is the most exquisite torture, this waiting...
every cell in my body tuned and ready for what he will ask of me.

Sometimes his command is simply “Receive”.
Receive this pain, receive this pleasure,
receive whatever gift I will give you.

And then he plays me like an instrument,
his hands confusing my body and mind.
He hurts me so tenderly, then
gives me intense pleasure…
pain, pleasure,
pain, pleasure…
until my satiated brain is capable of knowing only one emotion.
Bliss…bliss…bliss.

He paints his signature upon my skin,
my body a canvass for his art,
the soft brushstrokes of flogger and paddle and hairbrush leaving behind
a moving, living testament to the sway his gifts have over me.

And for each gift he gives me,
there can be only one response:

Thank you, Sir.

Thank you, Sir.

Thank you.