One sentence from the following caught my attention. To me, and perhaps to you, this sentence stripped from context seems almost absurd the first time you see it:
“It was garden variety whipping, a knife and sex as far as that goes.”
Whipping, a knife, sex. Garden variety. Picture me dressed as a Capital One barbarian growling “What’s in your garden?
It’s the “garden variety” that got me. I’m hard to surprise; that people mix whips and knives and sex is neither news to me, nor in the least dismaying. (But it’s not for me; I was raised in a place without much in the way of doctors and nurses and antibiotics, so I’m wired to react to knife wounds, even superficial ones, as minor emergencies requiring immediate application of disinfectant and bandages. Sure, you could have sadistic fun if you used a good old fashioned disinfectant — iodine, anyone? — but getting all those little bandage packages opened would kill the erotic flow, and who wants to find herself covered with Winnie-the-Pooh BandAids after sex?)
When you’re used to thinking of a kink as a point of departure, a “thing” that some other people do for sexual fun, it’s illuminating to be reminded that the “thing” is not just one experience oft repeated — it’s an activity like any other, with the full range of variety and differential experience and days when it’s wild and days when it’s mild and days when it works better than other days. Which means, some days it’s wild and some days it’s “garden variety.”
“Are you too tired to hurt me?” I asked in a very small voice.
I don’t think the words had stopped being spoken before He was out of bed, the lights were back on and I was face down on my belly in the middle of the bed.
Apparently He was not too tired for that.
I think it was a whip. I think it was two, one after the other, front and back. I know it was the knife. I know the knife was not the blissful out of body experience it usually is. The knife was mean that night. It scratched and hurt me over and over again. It was blissful in a different way. I don’t know how long He whipped me first. I know He stopped several times and drew His finger along some part of my body. Following, I assume, a mark He had left upon me.
I cannot recall any words He spoke to me but I know He did. I know He said things, I know I answered Him. I do not know what those things were. I do know that the whip marked me and left it’s sweet, sweet kisses everywhere. I remember Him having me reach behind me and spread my ass cheeks wide for His whip. The damned whip that insistently struck me again and again in the same sensitive spot and not only did I accept it, but I held myself wide open for Him and truth be told, I desired it.
I remember the order things happened. Whip, knife, sex. I think. I think I came with His hand deep inside my cunt, His fist plunging in and out of me the same way His cock does. I do know that it never ceases to amaze me that each time He fills me with His cock it feels like the first time and each time, I am filled with wonder and happiness that He is a part of me. That it just feels so damn good. That it feels so good, so wonderful each and every time that my world suddenly seems manageable again. That everything just seems right when He slides His cock inside me. I think I sigh with contentment when He does.
I do know He whipped me hard, that He used me hard and rough. That His knife was hard, that His use of it rough. There was nothing spectacular, nothing elaborate. No dramatic restraints, no meticulous plans followed. It was garden variety whipping, a knife and sex as far as that goes. But something about it made it so very wonderful. If I were more arrogant I would say that asking to be hurt helped fuel a fire already burning. I know He does not need an excuse to hurt me or even a reason. It may have possibly added to that though.
Who would have thought that one little sentence would be so very difficult to say? Or that saying it would have such blissfully wonderful results?