What Became of Me

“The other toy in the basement needs a bathroom and water break,” Petra finally said. “If you need to, you can take one, too. Through the door over there and then take the next door on the right. But hurry up! I expect you to be back here and in position by the time I return.”

I hadn’t even noticed that Petra had ended her phone call. For the first time, I had actually managed, for a significant while, to focus entirely on maintaining the required posture. I felt as if the little house in the charcoal drawing had been burned into my memory forever. My usually overactive mind had been quiet in the meantime.

Still, I was glad for a break – to be able to move around and stretch a bit. My leg muscles and shoulders, in particular, ached from the unfamiliar strain. “I should go pee, too,” I thought. “Who knows how much longer I'll be here or when the next chance will come.” After all, Petra had told me to keep the whole day free.

At home, alone, I liked being naked. But it felt weird to walk around in a stranger’s house without clothes. Even the toilet seat felt unusually cold.

I washed my face and paused when I straightened up and looked into the mirror: not because of my tear-stained, reddened eyes, but because of the four thin, bright-red stripes on my upper body. Three of them ran almost parallel and at equal intervals across both of my breasts. Of course, I hadn’t forgotten them. They still stung. But seeing them triggered something inside me. The skin hadn’t broken anywhere. I gently ran my fingers over the welts, feeling their heat and sensitivity. The skin was swollen; I could feel the slight elevation.

I would have liked to look at the welts a little longer. I would have liked to rub myself because my greedy cunt was loudly begging for attention at the sight of my marks. But I didn’t want to risk being late getting back to my post and assuming the required position.

It took a while before Petra finally returned, but I didn’t take my eyes off the charcoal drawing, my point of focus. Petra settled back down on the sofa, clearly pleased to find her toy just as she had left it. She began flipping through a fashion magazine.

By now, at the very latest, I was certain that this day was a test of my patience and perseverance. I wasn’t going to fail that test. I was confident I would pass, because by then it felt right to be standing here, on display, at the mercy of Petra, without any discernible will of my own. At least for this day, I no longer had any expectations. My muscles would ache even more, and with every passing minute it would become harder to concentrate on holding the position. But I would do my best to do exactly that – and only that.

And suddenly it dawned on me why looking at those welts had moved me so deeply. It wasn’t really a thought, but rather a feeling that manifested itself in my nearly silent mind. Those welts were a badge of honour. An achievement. The fulfilment of a promise I had longed for but had always been denied until then.

I had a little experience with D/s relationships. Some had been good, and some had not been so good. One of the most frustrating experiences was that I always felt my partners held back when it came to inflicting physical pain – if they went along with it at all. “I love you; I can’t hurt you.” I had heard that a few times. Sure, it was a declaration of love. But for me, as a masochist, it felt like a slap in the face. “If you really loved me, you’d hurt me!” We were always talking past each other.

Petra hadn’t held back. She had struck with all her strength and conviction. And that felt exactly right. It wasn’t just empty talk that she expected me to suffer for her. She really was a sadist. Probably a pronounced sadist. That was frightening, but the no less pronounced masochist in me rejoiced. In the case of the four welts, the suffering was deserved. After all, I had disobeyed Petra’s orders. But that didn’t matter. I was willing to endure even undeserved pain. More precisely: There was actually no such thing as undeserved suffering for a pathetic creature like me.

I didn’t want to be loved. Love, affection, kindness – these were nothing but obstacles standing in the way of what I really wanted: unbridled physical and psychological abuse. In my mind, the right word for it slowly took shape. Torture. I let the word drift through my thoughts, turned it this way and that, and examined it from every angle. And the longer I did that, the more right it felt. I was usually afraid of my self-destructive impulses. But at that moment, I was completely at peace with them.

Most people long to be loved unconditionally. I wanted nothing more than to be exploited unconditionally for nothing more than a little pleasure. The promise that still was unfulfilled so far was to find someone who could guide me fearlessly along the path of self-abandonment, of ego dissolution through pain and degradation. Maybe my expectations were too high, but ... maybe … just maybe Petra could be that person?