On Beating a Woman

When she put the collar on and handed me the handle of her leash it was like night into day. It flipped a switch: that is to say, my switch was flipped.

I have never been a violent person, even when I'm domming, I generally prefer more psychological treatments to the physical. But there, but then, with a leash in one hand, a belt in the other, and her at my feet, it all came up in a shock wave of electricity, running from my hands (holding the instruments of her destruction) to my brain. It was time, and it was on.

I don't know how long we were there for, how long before we entered our fitful sleep. I don't know how many things we tried, how many times I drew blood, or how often my hands fell down onto her body. I do know that I loved looking into her eyes, holding her chin up with two fingers, gazing at her affectionately - and then slapping her. I do know that there was a certain charm, a certain effervescent effect upon my mood when I walked her around, when I made her sit, and then when I spanked her for not doing it well enough. Pulling at her hair, exposing her throat, leaving marks still visible the next morning with my nails. My nails which had not tasted blood in so long, which drew patterns and messages in geometric strata on her back, on her front, on her ears.

Bending her over my lap, grabbing whatever was at hand - the aforementioned belt, a sandal, the very same handle of the leash that became a whip in my eyes - bringing it into contact with her body. Stopping stopping and thinking, for once, pure bliss, pure unadulturated doing-for-the-moment-ness. None of the husbandryish listmaking, none of the doublethink, of the whatcomesnext that generally plagues my sex life, that causes me to reach for the drink (or a State of the Union) to dull my thoughts, to allow myself to concentrate on not concentrating.

Not this time, not now, doubleplusquick as the leash went into my hands, my mind was reformed. Action for actions sake, orders for their own sake, eyegazes to check on status, to find understanding. No counting of lists, no remembering fieldpositions, no focusing on whyhadnticomeyet-damnbetightersoicancum. None of that, not here, not when her flesh was under mine, when kinetic forces transfered between us (her softhard flesh always coming out of it worse off, though my muscles were sore the next morning) there was none of the distractingness that often distracts from the somethingness.

When flesh met flesh, when soundbarriers were broken by impromtu whips on their way to a target, my mind was at ease. The corollary of the causing-of-pain was the understanding-of-enjoyment. But a dichotomy too. For while I hurt, I cared. While I called bitch, slut, mongrel, I sought her pleasure. While I was vicious, I was tender.

Sometimes the question becomes less how can you hurt that which you love, and transforms itself (as if by magic) to how can you not? How can you not hurt that for which you are entrusted to care? If a paper threatens to blow away, is it not proper to spike it, for your use and its betterment?

When the desire is pain, wouldn't it hurt more to be kind?