Swack

The first lash comes down and I cry out "one".

The agony in my voice is exaggerated. The tool of choice today is a cane, and though it delivers my least favorite sensation, the first one is a warm up and barely inspires a jolt. However I dare not let on to my indifference, as there are nine more to go and goading him on before he's even found his rhythm would be unwise.

The next comes quickly. Swack... "two"

This one I feel the sting, but it's more like a sweet kiss, causing me to writhe my hips against the bed. I groan and smile, not considering signs of delight might goad as much as indifference. This is to be a punishment after all.

swack... "three" and my voice cracks.

This one comes down on the precise point of impact as the two before. I am hoping this is coincidence and not foreshadowing.

Quickly another "four"...

And I accept it as no coincidence. I am wondering how his aim can be so true. Practice... but I quickly brush aside the thought as

swack "five" lands squarely on target.

The blow stings so much more than the four before it and I feel the indifference and pleasure melt away, replaced with pain. This one hurts. Bad. My whimpers must let on to this fact as there is a pause before the next strike. However, I peek up to find it is not kindness or true respite, he is merely moving to the other side of the bed to even out distribution.

swack "siiiiiix"... and this one is a scream.

His aim is not at all disrupted by the change in positioning. The cane makes contact against the welt forming across my cheeks. And now the pain is overwhelming. I realize that there are four more to go and they will not be as forgiving as the first four. This realization causes panic to coarse through my veins.

swack "seven" as tears start welling up beneath my eyelids, clenched tightly.

The sting is exponentially worse. The panic as well. How can I be letting this happen? How can I endure more? Fear is mounting in my blood, in all of my cell. The kind that tells you to get up and run. I can feel instinct swelling at the nape of my neck. My body wants me to leave, I can feel it trying to negotiate escape. I must be writhing like mad, but I am focused on dismissing the urge. I am focused on giving into the panic and the wetness dripping between my thighs. I can, and must, endure the next, and then the next, and then one more and I'll be done.

swack "eight" and it's an accusation and a question... can there really be more?

The adrenaline is out of control. I am crying now, truly crying. Knuckles white, clenching the cool pillow, preparing for a hot lash that I hope somehow will not come. My hips thrash in the air but I steady them. It takes all of me to bare down in wait for the next allotment of pain but will another blow even matter? The pain is sharp and constant and humming through my skin now. I feel frantic. Only two more to go but I wonder if I am at the edge of my tolerance. I doubt my ability to endure more. I am crying out with all sincerity "No... please... no more" though I know my words and so does he. If I truly wanted it to end I could stop it. I've come this far. This is not my limit. I take a breath and wait, whimpering quietly determined instead.

swack "nine" I think that I have made the count out loud but I can't be sure. This is where reason escapes me. Every swack from his tool shattering yet another layer from the veneer of my humanity. There is only one more left but I can't remember that anymore. I feel like an animal, completely trapped within thick clouds of primal chemicals released by my dormant lizard brain and there is no deciphering what they mean any longer. I relax into them, into the white searing light that is constant, enduring pain. There is nothing but chaos inside of my flesh, more violent in nature then any flick of a cane could be. That chaos becomes overpowering, any higher thought fleeing my headspace. It could be one or a hundred more lashes... I could take all of them. It feels like eternity, like I will live everyday inside of this white pain, clear headed and content within the storm.

swack "ten" and I crumble... trying desperately to grasp that it's over.

I curl up in a ball... not away from my abuser, but towards him. Which is a contradiction too profound to try to understand in the moment. All I know is that I need him. His gentle caresses and kind kisses are the only antidote. Pressing my naked body against his, his warmth the only salve to soothe my tender skin and heart. I whimper and shake as my body thrums under his touch. His fingers slide between my legs to find I am dripping wet. I still ache, I am still lost inside the chemical rush but his touch is bringing me back into myself and into him. "I am so proud of you" he purrs and the relief that spreads through my being is the most cherished, sublime contradiction.