The Whipping Girl

I have a confession: I don’t love the singletail, at least in W’s hand.  There are implements I do love, even ones that hurt, that even as I am hurting I am getting something from them, something that when he stops using them makes me disappointed for that half-second: “No really, stopping now?  But why?!?”
The singletail is not one of those. Every moment it is in his hand, I am praying he will put it down.
That said, I don’t think I am supposed to love it.  I don’t think he wants me to love it.  I think he may even want me to fear it.
He could wield it in a way that I enjoy the experience. He has. Intermittently, in between slashing me with it, he does. So I know he can. He just…doesn’t.  He uses it precisely as it was designed to be used: slashing pain, punctuation, something harsh and brutal.
And, yes, contrary to what I just said up there, in a fucked-up way, I do love it.  Not so much the whipping itself–it hurts in a way that I definitely do not like–but psychologically,  it trips some messed-up trigger in my head to have him do that to me, knowing that he could be sweeter, that he could do it in that almost-kissing way that I so love, but chooses not to. He chooses to hurt me that way, knowing that I enjoy it the other way, knowing that it truly truly is pain, and that my body will show the evidence of my suffering later, in angry slash marks criss-crossing my tender flesh.  Slash marks that I will later cherish.
Yeah, fucked-up.
There’s always that moment of fear, of dread, the moment when he is getting ready to strike, when I don’t know which it’s going to be. A moment when I want to wait for it, in case it’s that feeling I love, the zing and heat; but truthfully, if I could just run away at that moment I would, because I am so sure it’s not going to be that, and waiting there for it in the off-chance that it is just seems stupid. Or stupidly hopeful. Or hopelessly optimistic. Or incredibly masochistic.  Whichever, it doesn’t matter.  I can’t run away.
Except when I can.
This past weekend W and Ad put a rope around my neck, and, giving me a long line, looped it around a pole and made me a tether ball.  They bounced me back and forth between them on that rope, around and around the pole as they chased me, or I ran from, whichever one was wielding the “lesser of two evils” implement.  It fits that W’s weapon of choice, at the end, was the singletail, with its history in the brutality of slaves, because the “game” was inspired by W’s impromptu photo session in the hotel room a short time before, where he posed me as slave being auctioned off.

Down in the Day Dungeon, they continued that theme.  At the end of it, Ad had a cane in his hand and W the singletail, and it was my choice which was the worse implement to endure. I chose the cane pretty consistently, as W almost lazily flicked the whip back and forth, taunting me with it.  That is, until Ad decided he’d had enough of me trying to dodge them both and decided to hold me against him as W whipped me.
The image of that is burned into my mind’s eye: Ad with one arm across my chest, the other holding my arms where they were tied behind me; holding me against his body, so big, so hard and wide, his legs in a V, trapping me; the rope stretching from my neck to the pole, and W in front of me, watching me struggle, flicking that devil whip lazily back and forth.  Until he wasn’t, because then he was slashing me here and there, flicking it against my belly and thighs, so incredibly precise, never coming close to Ad’s bare legs just beside mine.
There is something very primal in being held that way, clearly against my will, by human hands instead of by rope or leather.  The feeling of being overpowered was intoxicating.  It reminded me of laying in W’s bed between the two of them, and feeling one of their sets of hands on me, holding me down, while the other fucked me with mouth or fingers or cock. It reminded me of Ad reaching up and grasping the back of my hair as I fucked W in the girl-on-top position, holding me there, reminding me that while I may be physically “on top” at that moment I would never, ever be psychologically on Top, and even physically I was only there because he and W permitted it.  It reminded me of W’s hand on the back of my head as he fucked my throat while Ad fucked me from behind–I was not pleasuring them, they were using me, using my body, using my holes.
Goddamn it was hot.
And yes, I cherished my slashmarks.

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