Damian Ch. 04: NEW ROADS

04) NEW ROADS

The one where Dr. Anne drives Damian and Tara to get serious as he confronts his demons.

Damian continues his journey of recovery from his wife's brutal attack on his character and sense of manhood. His conversations have led him to a better understanding of what wasn't going well in that relationship... now he needs to find his new truth. And his therapist has come up with a really unconventional therapy.

The conversation with Dr. Anne is hopeful. I recap my emotions from group therapy and we spend half the remaining time talking about Tara, the events of the weekend and sexuality - she leans into the conversation and I suspect there's a bit of voyeur to her: she's heard it from Tara, now she hears it from me. She praises me for taking the leap and congratulates me on "finding my inner god" again. That feels too far, but I appreciate her gesture.

Then for some reason, she gives me another long lecture on BDSM culture: what's good, what's bad, what the protocols are, why people like it, why they hate it and the long, long list of ways "play" can vary. And she confirms the darker sides: the subversions, the usury, the dangerous people and personalities. How it can go wrong. I absorb what she's telling me, though I ask myself why she's on this tangent? I just react with how I feel about what she's saying.

Then we discuss how I might interact with Cassie when we finally talk.

Both of us - Cass and I - want the best for the boys and we're both convinced that what's best is not foster care. We've actually been working as a shaky team in this one thing; we're trying to keep the DCS people comfortable but at arm's length. And I've had to extend an olive branch on the ways I've portrayed Cass, but without entirely meaning it since I really don't know her anymore. DCS doesn't get to know any more than that. It's not their life and my kids are not their kids. They're maddeningly amateurs: minimum wage, overworked, unqualified government people. Some are more well-meaning than others, but none have judgment that either of us trust. Cass, especially: her professional opinion is not at all flattering. And her personal opinion: she says it's like being a sub to a dumb-ass stupid Domme: a metaphor I'm only just now learning how to understand.

Whenever I talk to Cass, though, the conversation is really restricted within some intractable boundaries. I did catch her once staring at me when she didn't think I was looking. It was that intense look she has when she's thinking super hard about something that's difficult for her. I think I even saw some sadness there, but when I asked her if she wanted to talk, she cut me off with a dismissive "I'm not ready yet."

I guess she's finally ready. Her text says so.

Anne and I agree on the plan of action: see what Cass wants to say, first and foremost. Listen as openly as possible. Think about bridges between us and save any wall-building I may need for after the conversation. And we discuss various ways that the conversation might turn and how to deal with them. There are very few bright paths through this forest, though most lead to quagmires, quicksand, swamp and even war. But if we are thoughtful, compassionate and wise, we could get out of the darkness eventually. Minimum: the boys need for us to at least tolerate each other.

Then Anne asks me a bombshell question. "What if Cassie invited you to the Lost and Found... would you go?"

My jaw drops. Where did that come from? It's like a Vietnam vet being invited to Hanoi as a tourist. I stutter out a "goddamn, no!" But I realize that my body might not agree with me as the little head thinks curiously for the big one.

She senses my conflict and smiles. "That's for another time. Your next appointment with Tara is Thursday night... Tara will contact you with details, but please keep the whole evening open. You don't have the boys, right?" I agree but point out it's my weekend with them starting Friday, Saturday and Sunday and we're going camping. She confirms: "that's a great idea, Damian. You need to get away for you too and build a new rapport with your sons."

After I leave Anne's office, I rip off the proverbial bandage and I make plans with Cassie to talk after I drop the boys from camping on Sunday night. Stress level: power up.

Usually, it's pretty clear how the appointments with Tara will connect. But this week she only responds "I'll get back to you." Curious. Thursday comes and I'm increasingly anxious as the work day progresses. On my way home, I finally get a text from Tara. "Look for a package under your door." When I get there, I tear open the envelope and there's a Marriott key card inside, an address, room number 418 and two sentences.

8:00 sharp... don't even think to be a minute late.

Your safe word is "pomegranate."

Fuck. What the hell? Safe word?

I down a protein shake: I need something on my stomach, but I don't know what for or why. I drink it early enough so that it will be well-digested before 8:00. I'm worried. And anxious. And... am I really a little excited?

The two and a half hours pass at a glacial pace; what is Tara up to? I decide I can trust her, but... with what? Safe word? Watching TV doesn't help: I can't concentrate. And I find myself heading toward the 'liquid courage' cabinet several times, but always step back before I get there. I need courage, yes, but I think I'll need a straight head. I practically wear out a pair of socks pacing the room.

The Uber ride is interminable and my dark fears are about traffic. "Don't even think to be a minute late." That's what she said. But happily, I get there with plenty of time and find myself outside room 418 at 7:48, wondering how literally to interpret the word 'sharp.' I pace, consider knocking, then turn away. Then I settle for a text "I'm outside the door... may I come in now?" and I get nothing back.

This is a bad idea.

At exactly 20:00, my RFID card is over the room 418 lock sensor. At 20:00:04, I open the door slowly. "Tara?" Nothing. At 20:00:11, I walk in, close and lock the door and turn around. There she is, standing with her cute half-smile, but trying to project severity with her eyes. I guess she's dressed as a casual Domme...? Department store haute couture again. She's wearing a cute white business blouse which is a little frilly around the shoulders, and that pencil skirt again. But her blouse is open down to her navel and she's wearing black lacy lingerie underneath. She has one leg planted aggressively to the side, her body balanced on the other hip and she's slapping a belt or some piece of leather against her other hand.

"Strip! Now!"

I'm still surprised at what I see... and weirdly turned on. I don't react fast enough, so she thwacks her hand with the leather again, loudly, and asserts in an aggressively quiet voice "now!"

OK, I'm game. I take off my clothes awkwardly and throw them on the TV stand. I don't even know If it's 20:01 yet.

"Kneel!"

I kneel.

"Come worship my feet!"

As I start to stand to walk to her, she says "no! Crawl!" ...and cracks her leather thing again.

I crawl to her and settle in front of her, then start to kiss and then lick her feet. She definitely has a feet thing. She finds her way to sit on the edge of the bed so I get full access, and I give her feet the same worship she gave mine last week. As I work, and between her moans, she engages me in conversation:

"You've been a very, very, very bad boy."

"I'm... sorry...?" I suck her toes harder, afraid of what that belt thing might feel like.

"Sorry for what?" she starts dragging the leather thing along my back, up and down. Teasing me. It feels heavier than I expected.

"I... I don't know. For not obeying fast enough? For hurting Cassie? For fucking up our lives?"

"No." the strap comes down on my back, not hard: but even as a 'tap' it hurts. "But close. You hurt someone. Who?"

I inventory everyone in my life. No one comes to mind... Cassie: wrong answer. Lily: doesn't matter. Robert: wasn't me. I try to be a good, just person. I've been great for the boys. I care for people. I look after the team. My job is provider. Rock. Giver. It was, anyway, until it all crumbled.

Then, epiphany! I see where this is going and look at her.

"Me?"

She strokes my head and smiles "that's a good boy." But you've still been very, very mean. Don't you think you need to be punished?

I know I'm supposed to agree: it's like in a script I'm reading. But I can't find a desire. This elusive "subspace" Anne talks about is not even in the building, much less in room 418. But I decide that if this is my therapy - if Anne and Tara think it's my next step - that I should go with it. I need to trust this bizarre process.

"Yes."

She reacts sharply, "Yes, WHAT!?!?!" a gentle slap of the leather on my back.

"Yes... mistress...?" I've seen enough porn. I think that's the right answer?

"Correct, pet." She pulls up her skirt and pulls my face to within an inch of her womanhood "do you want this?"

I smell it. I want it. My little friend wants it. "mmmhmmm..."

"Then you have to earn it by being a nice person. That starts with being nice to WHOM?"

I laugh to myself about her excellent grammar... she's trying really hard to be an aloof, sophisticated mistress, though it doesn't seem like it comes naturally to her. It feels a little playacted. But if this is what I'm doing, let me put my sceptic to rest and do it.

"Me, mistress?"

"Yes, you. Lay over my lap! No, the other way, I'm left-handed!"

She places me in a perfect position to grasp my cock between her soft thighs. "Do you know what this is?"

"It's a leather... belt... thingy? Uh... mistress."

"It's called a 'tawse.' It's a whip that was invented in Scotland to punish bad schoolchildren.

"Now what we're going to do is to name all the ways you're bad to yourself. For each correct answer, you'll get one swat just because you've done it to yourself. For every cop-out answer, you'll get ten hard swats. I don't want anything superficial. If you clam up or don't get all the ways, I will start swatting you once every ten seconds until you figure them out.

"And then, when it's all done, you will be punished more until you recant that evil bullshit. Do you understand?"

"Y... yes mistress" Oh SHIT! I'm wondering what psychology course taught this technique?

"You may commence."

"I... I cry a lot"

SWAT! (it's hard this time, across my meaty buttocks) "OW!"

That's a cop-out but I'm giving you a free pass while you figure this out... that's what you do, but not what you do to yourself. GO! You have ten seconds...

"I blame myself for Cassie's behavior."

SWAT! It stings badly... I think she hit exactly the same spot so it's pain upon pain. I try to take it like a man

"Good. I'll accept that one. The swat was because you do it, but the whipping would be much worse if you didn't admit it. Again! ten seconds..."

"I lie to everyone that I'm okay. I lie to myself. I'm not okay."

SWAT! (they're getting harder, I jerk, which yanks my cock trapped between her thighs, which encourages my erection) "Very good! Another?"

"I let her hurt me."

And then it happens. Ten is a row, but it feels relentless. I'm crying as the tawse burns my flesh - five times on one cheek and five on the other. This isn't funny anymore. Pain on pain on pain. Why do people like this? I consider using my safe word, but choose instead to trust the process.

"Cop out. That puts the blame on her. What do YOU do?"

I wonder: am I wrong? Is Tara enjoying this? Is she not playacting?

"I... I stew on it. I replay that horrible night over and over. I reinforce the feelings of hurt and pain..."

SWAT! Another kind of pain but one I deserve. I am bad to myself. They're right! "Good one. More!"

"I use... no I... I oh, fuck..." I almost confess to my suicidal thoughts... But that's mine... that's my darkest place.

SWAT! The pain is searing! I think I'll be scarred for the rest of my life. I wonder if I'm bleeding - how can something as soft as leather hurt this bad? "Time was up... again!"

Okay. I deserved that one for the suicidal thoughts... hard to think with a time limit "I deny myself! I deny myself pleasure... I deny myself my curiosity... I deny my feelings."

SWAT! "Good pet. Very good. What did you deny yourself today?"

Thinking. Thinking is hard.

SWAT! "Time was up."

Every smack of the tawse is an agony. But when I jerk, my cock gets jacked by her thighs... mixing pain and pleasure. Her thighs are so soft and pillowy.

"Love, mistress. I denied myself love..." And I have to pull back my tears. "People are trying to help. I'm not letting them... I just keep thinking they're laughing at me inside. They aren't, are they? Tell me they aren't..."

She strokes my forehead and says compassionately "Answer yourself. You know the answer, little one. Don't be mean."

My breath shudders... "They aren't, mistress."

After we sit there like that awhile, she breathes in deeply, then reminds me about the rest of the punishment. I will have to endure pain again to rid myself of these demons. She gets up and surprises me - she pulls hidden straps from under the mattress, then straps me down, face-down, with wrist and ankle cuffs. She goes to her duffle bag and ... oh, my god! ...pulls out a cane... I know what that's called. I've read how painful they are. She looks at me over her shoulder with pity and says "you think the tawse hurt...?"

Then she puts a blindfold on me and then a ball gag in my mouth "we don't want to get kicked out of here.

"I put the blindfold on you because this is all inside you. Looking at anything else is just a distraction. I put the gag on you to keep you quiet. And to remind you: you can say anything you want to me, but you can't lie to yourself. I'm going to cane you until you can honestly tell me that you're legitimately wrestling the demons of self-abuse. Maybe they won't leave tonight, but we can weaken them, you and I. When you're finished or if you just can't take any more, then let go of this ball." She puts a ball in my right hand. "I'll be watching it. If I see you let go, I'll stop.

"Tomorrow will be better... Are you ready?"

I'm ready to be done with this. I'm ready to use my safe word... But I hate to admit it to myself. They're right. Anne and Tara are right. I deserve this. I need this. I need a catharsis. And some part of me... oh god!... some part of me likes it. Or, at least likes the fact that Tara likes it.

"Yes, mistress. I submit to your justice and wisdom. I submit." But with the gag in my mouth, I think the only intelligible part I said was "Yes" - and even that sounded like "yucchhh".

SNAP! OH MY FUCK! It is like the blade of a sword slicing open my raw flesh. I count and another one comes. SNAP! Harder yet! OK I know the interval, it's about ten seconds. Why did I waste my time counting? So I concentrate on the task at hand or this will never end. I talk to myself about the SNAP! Noooo... ...about the demons and try to reason with myself. This isn't working.... I can't approach it this way...

But it isn't about SNAP! AAAGGH... isn't about intellect ... these are emotions... so I reason this dialogue has to be the way I learn... by doing.

Tara says "maybe if you visualize...?" Did she know what I was thinking? How does she read me so clearly? She takes a minute to readjust the bindings on my wrists which gives me time to reset.

I try to visualize and then SNAP! Some part of my brain knows I'm thrashing now as I get hit.

I name the demons in my head. Blue: Denial, Red: Anger, Green: Hate, Putrid yellow: Self-... SNAP! FUCK! I feel like I'm going to throw up.

...Self-pity: that's yellow. I take my imaginary sword and fight SNAP! ...I can't take this... And the cane's cut becomes the slashing claws of the demons I'm fighting, my sword play SNAP! ...

My sword play poor at first, but I get better into the groove. I finally slash Self-Pity, picturing myself in bed with the gun in my SNAP! The slash was on my thighs this time... fuck! A whole other hurt!

... back with the gun in my mouth. I turn on Denial and get a good jab in his heart while thinking about finally cumming down Tara's throat SNAP! I deserve that.

It was so good to cum again... Damn Denial! I deserve to feel pleasure! SNAP No more... please no more...

Then I see Anger, with glowing red eyes and jab one of them out with my sword. Miraculously, Anger sits and mellows, one eye dangling from its socket and I SNAP! OH, FUCK!

I turn to Hate. Hate is wearing Cass' face.

It's a revelation... I hadn't admitted, even to myself, how furious I am at her betrayal... and how furious she is at me SNAP! I no longer know what I'm feeling from the punishment... my brain refuses the calls my body is making.

I remember Tara's words; that anger... at its deepest level... it is really about love SNAP! I can't take any more. Just like pain can mix with pleasure, Anger, Hate and Love can be all parts of the same thing SNAP!

Then I just collapse on the mattress, resigned to be whipped unconscious. I won't let go of the ball - I can take it, dammit! Tara sees me wilt and after a long pause interrupted only by my breathing and sobbing, I hear her voice by my ear, "is that it? Are you done?" Am I? Am I? I haven't released the ball. What else is there? Weakly, I nod and release the ball. She gently unties me, rubbing her sweet hands over my raw ass and thighs. "I brought something else for you..." I hear her rummaging in the duffel bag again and fear courses my brain, not knowing what it is, but weirdly, along with a rush of lust (what's that all about?)... and then I start to feel a cool, soothing gel rubbed over my wounds. Tara is cooing the sweetest things. Reassurances. Praise. Admiration for what I just did "for her." Appreciation.

And... her love. She's not in love with me... but I believe she has love for me. Love is infinite, right? And at this moment, that is enough.

Was this experience cathartic? I don't know right now and I don't care. I just want to submit to this sweet creature and let all my worries go away. She soothes me, rocks me, cradles me. And I start regaining my composure...

"Do you want to fuck me?"

As I inventory my body, she continues:

"...you earned it and I promised it to you..."

Again, she doesn't give me time to overthink it... my little head has already made up his mind. I can't believe I can perform after all that was done to me, but Tara rolls onto her back, knowing there's no way I can lay on my back now, and carefully guides my cock to her pussy for our first time. I feel her nether lips part... she's gloriously wet. Apparently, she actually had enjoyed that experience: what we just shared together. It brings me pride that I could do that for her. And I slide in slowly. It feels like the first time I ever made love... something amazingly magical. Her pussy definitely feels different from Cassie or from Lily. Maybe less... disciplined... but at the same time more experienced? She moans something complimentary about my size, but I suspect that's just pillow talk, and then she moves actively under me.

I'm proud that I didn't use my safe word after all. It wasn't me who stopped the scene.

I was going for a slow, romantic fuck but it ain't going to happen that way: soon, she's humping me hard. In BDSM culture there's a thing called "topping from the bottom." She's doing that literally instead of figuratively and setting the pace. And, my god, she's a minx! She cums and doesn't stop, then cums again, watching me hard. Finally, as I cum into her, she grabs my raw ass hard, splashing pain all over my pleasure and making my orgasm explode in ways my brain doesn't understand. Sparks and lightning and waves...