It has to hurt before it gets bette

It has to hurt before it gets better.
That’s what my friend used to say
while rubbing my neck and shoulders.
It has to hurt to work out the kinks.

Little did he know,
my kinks grew from that hurt.
I welcomed those minor pains,
an intrusion on my thoughts,
a reminder that I was really here,
really real.

It wasn’t enough though,
just an insignificant annoyance.
And the pain never lingered.
It stopped when the massage did,
leaving me longing for more.

The first time a man struck me
was at my own request.
I asked him … no …
I begged him
to beat me with his belt
simply because
I wanted to experience it.

I stripped and
bent over the mattress,
my hair bound back
out of the way,
my pale flesh bared
to his eyes, hands and belt.
I was restrained only
by my will.

I was frightened,
but excited
as I heard him
removing the belt and
taking position behind me.
Uncertain of what to expect
I waited, barely daring to breathe.

He gave me no warning.
The first bite of the leather
was a surprise.
A red flash of fire
racing across my nerves.
Before I could recover,
a second and third lash fell.

I refused to cry out,
a sign of weakness in my mind.
I hid my face against the comforter,
Biting my lip until I tasted blood.

The first sound that
ripped free of my throat
was a choked sob,
muffled against the bed,
as the seventh lash fell.

Still, I dared not move,
did not attempt escape.
I clutched the blankets
now damp with my tears,
holding on tightly as I
felt myself letting go.

At some point,
I uttered the
safe word
through the sobs,
through the pain.

My world a blurry haze
of red and black,
I climbed up the mattress,
collapsing in a pile
of tears and pain.

Hugging my knees to my chest,
rocking softly as I wept,
the pain still flowing through me,
I was broken, beaten, humbled.

As the last tears fell,
and the trembling ceased,
I felt calm, at peace.
I felt cleansed and refreshed.
A traumatic catharsis,
baptized in tears
and purified by pain.

I had to hurt,
before I got better.