An essay with regard to why I crave my owner's whip.

(written back in 2002)

I am often asked by people in both the M/s and Gorean lifestyles why I "crave the whip" so to speak. There are folks to ask if I am a masochist and others who have the misconception that I enjoy being punished.

Before I begin to explain, I would like to take a moment to define two very distinct aspects of our chosen lifestyle. They are: Punishment and Discipline.

Punishment is meted out when I have been displeasing to my owner. It is not a source of pleasure for either of us but within the parameters of our relationship, it is an integral part of who we are and what fulfills us. If I have committed some error that caused my Master's displeasure, he then decides how to deal with it. I cannot begin to explain how poorly I feel when I have done such a thing. Oftentimes, he has found that due to my own conscience and need to please him, I have internally punished myself far more effectively than he could do himself.

My owner has various forms of punishment. It could stem from a simple terse word all the way to being ignored by him and being denied his presence. There are times when it includes physical punishment and that is what I will address here.

If he decides to beat me, for example, as a form of punishment, It makes little difference what implement he chooses. It is not the method that gets me but rather my knowing of its purpose. With each lash or stroke I am reminded that I suffered a failure in my service to him. I find no pleasure whatsoever in this - in fact, although I need that upper hand, I have no desire to feel it in that manner as it wounds far more than my flesh and pains me further than on the surface.

Discipline on the other hand is when I am being tested, trained, or beaten in a fashion that is designed for his pleasure. It is not because I have been displeasing but rather because he enjoys the journey that it takes both he and I on. Discipline comes from the word Disciple - meaning student.

Before begging his collar, I was aware that he was a sadist (for lack of a better term). Although I do not enjoy pain for pain's sake, I craved to be beneath his hand in such a profound manner - not in punishment but in discipline. It brings me to a place that I cannot fully describe. I have heard it called "subspace" but I cannot seem to identify with that term or the descriptions I have heard it given.

When engaging this type of activity, slaves and submissives are often given a safe-word.  There seems to be a common misconception out there amongst many people that a safe-word can be used to get out of anything at any time for any reason.  Throughout my lifestyle journeys, I have never known this to be the case.  I have never heard of a submissive saying "RED!" and getting out of doing the dishes, having sex, or serving dinner.   It is meant to be reserved for specific situations.  For some, it is a word that they can use when their comfort levels have been severely breached.  For others it is a word that is used only when severe safety issues are present.  In my case, I am not permitted to use any safe-word for the purpose of ending my discomfort or pain.  I am, however, permitted to communicate to him when something of an important nature is wrong, i.e. chest pain, dizziness, numbness or pain unrelated to his actions.  To not allow this type of communication, in my opinion, would be foolish.  I may belong to him but I will do him no service if I am incapacitated or worse.  This is something that was achieved because of how well my owner knows me, knows my body and also because my trust in him is absolute and complete.  When I am beneath his hand, I know that my limits are defined by him and him alone and I find great comfort and serenity in the knowing of it.

I will give you an example of one of our journeys, walk you through it somewhat and try to offer those feelings that I experienced throughout the event.

Recently while at a lifestyle gathering at the home of some friends, Master took me aside and into a private room - a dungeon of sorts. There were various implements hanging from the walls and the decor and atmosphere was extremely intimidating to say the least. I had an intense fear of being nude in front of other people and when he instructed that I was to strip, I felt that familiar fear deep in the pit of my stomach. I obeyed, however, and with that action I felt a certain pride that I was able to overcome that obstacle in order to please him. Even though no one else was present in the room at that time, I knew that at any moment, any one of the many guests could enter.

He proceeded to use brilliantly colored rope to tightly bind my breasts and body and then drew my wrists up and with arms spread, he locked them into hanging cuffs, leaving me vulnerable and exposed to him and to any other who happened by. My heart was racing with both fear and again, pride. Here I was, exposed in a manner that I fear so greatly yet with trust so implicit, I still felt safe and so completely his. He asked me then, "What do you want, girl?"

I hesitated a moment, knowing that my words should be used wisely and then with a fear-tinged voice, I begged him to mark me. My body and skin do not bruise easily nor is it an easy task to raise any welts or even cause my skin to grow warm or turn pink. My owner often says that it amazes him how much my flesh can take without exhibiting the signs of his attentions. The lack of physical evidence on my flesh does not preclude the amount of pain that results from the deed itself, on the contrary I feel just as much pain as someone who gets bruised from a light tapping.  This is the reason that I have often begged him to mark me. It is because I know that in order for this to occur, he must push me harder and that I must endure so much more. I crave this in such a abstract manner that it is very difficult to explain the nature of the root from which it stems.

He then looked at me with that intense and all-too familiar glint in his eyes and said, "You should be careful in what you wish for."

He decided that his focus that evening would be on my breasts. They were, at that time, tightly bound and lifted, making his access to them much easier. He retrieved two heavy-suede floggers and began to brush them gently across my flesh in a sweeping motion and then his strokes deepened, each one becoming a slap and increasing in intensity. Here is where it gets tricky for me. I do not like pain. Pain hurts. Pain does not get me off nor does it make me horny but to be so literally beneath his hand, to be his object and to offer myself in such a vulnerable and profound way so that he may take his pleasure from me  in any manner that he should choose - This is what moves me.  It is what drives me and it is what I crave from the depths of both my psyche and spirit. It is terrible and glorious at the same time. It evokes in me emotions and feelings that are both sacred and profane.

He then picked up the pace slightly, my flesh now burning and deep inside there was as voice that whisper-screamed in my head, telling me that I should beg him to stop but I knew at this point that if he were to cease his attentions, I would only beg for more and that even if I did indeed beg him to sop, he was not obligated to cease.  As if reading my very thoughts, it was then that he paused and after laying his implements down, he took a moment to touch me gently, tenderly, and to kiss my brow, reassuring me that with each lash he was loving me and that I had nothing to fear.

He then picked up a set of riding crops and without hesitation, began to strike my breasts in a staccato rhythm, lightly at first but quickly becoming harder. I closed my eyes and reveled in his loving of me, the pain becoming secondary now to exhilaration in the knowledge that he could love me so gloriously, so fiercely and yet so tenderly at the same time.

Then the marking began. His strokes became further apart but I could hear the crops whistling through the air with great force before they struck the tender flesh of my breasts. I could no longer stand still or keep the deep, guttural sounds from escaping my throat. At times I would just make strange, animal like sounds and at others, I would tell him how much I loved him. Sometimes, I would simply whimper, "Master..." but all the time, I was writhing before him, my body now moving of its own volition.

I opened my eyes a few times and looked down at the bruises and welts that were emerging from my usually pale skin. I felt a great pang of fear then and looked up at him, not knowing when he would stop and how far he would take it. He paused and stroked each mottled bruise lightly with his fingertips and pressed his mouth close to my ear, murmuring words of reassurance and with his other hand, he gently stroked my hair, calming me and bringing me back to an internal place of safety. I closed my eyes slowly and I heard the tell-tale whistling of the crops curse the air again, this time with more force as if to let me know that he will choose when it begins and when it ends. I do not know how long this continued - I only know that when it ceased, he was there in front of me, soothing and telling me that he was proud of me, that he loved me, and that he had taken me further that night than I had ever gone before.

I thought that it was over and both relief and disappointment washed over me. This love/hate relationship I have with these moments puzzles me to no end. While I am being beaten, I wish for nothing more than for it to stop and when he stops, I wish for nothing more than to endure more for him.

He stepped to the doorway, leaned out and began speaking to someone. I couldn't make out his words but before long, Master B and Master F appeared in the doorway. I felt so exposed and so self-conscious, not only because of my nakedness but also because of the new bruises that Master had painted upon my breasts.  My ears and cheeks were both flushed with warmth and color.

Master asked them both, "Tell me, do they look even to you"? He indicated my breasts with a waving motion of his hand.

I closed my eyes and knew that he was reminding me in his own way that although I was his, he could subject me to the scrutiny, use, or discipline of anyone he chose. I was frightened yet the constant chord of safety was being struck deep within me as I knew that he would not allow anyone to bring me harm.

Master B chuckled and told him that the right side looked as if needed more attention and I heard the crop tear through the space before me as it again struck my right breast, twice in rapid succession. Master stepped back and then Master F spoke up, saying that he had overdone it and now the left side looked as if it needed more. Master then struck it as well, going back and forth a few times as each man pointed out the differences and lack of symmetry in my bruising.

When it was finally over, Master instructed me to thank them for their help. I did as commanded, expressing my gratitude and then Master B and Master F left the room and my owner came to me and unlocked my cuffs. It was then that the genuine relief washed over me. I craved no more and as he always has been able to read me well, he knew it. It is remarkably strange and magnificent, this symbiosis we have - each of us needing, receiving and giving equally yet from different ends of the spectrum.

With strong arms, he supported me as my legs gave way beneath me. He took a moment to cover me with my clothes and then walked me with great tenderness and concern to a nearby bedroom. He sat upon the bed gently guided me to the floor where I half knelt and half laid across his feet. He gave me a bottle of water to drink and when I was through, he placed it upon the end-table and with my cheek pressed to his knee, he stroked my hair and with a gentle voice again told me that he was pleased, proud, and that he had taken me so much further than I had gone before.

I bent down to kiss his feet and said to him, "Master, I would endure anything for you."

We spent some time there, quietly coming down from that place we had both journeyed to. A place that had nothing to do with kinky sex or games of "spank me daddy, I've been bad." This place is something so far removed from those cartoon-like assumptions and cliches. The depth of what transpires in that realm far surpasses any other experience I have known between myself and any man and it is that depth that I crave. It is the totality of being so utterly used, loved, and owned that feeds the roots of my submission and while those feelings are with me always, it is during those times when I am tested and pushed on that journey that those roots are sated the most deeply.

I do not know if the above words will help to better explain why I so deeply crave his whip but it is the best that I can do given the limited resources that common words provide. If I could paint it for you on canvas or play it to you with a symphony, it might be clearer at least in emotion and abstract feeling. Perhaps I shall lay it all down someday in artistic form. Until then, this is all I can offer.