Masochist.

Here I find myself bound by wrists.
Cloth fills my mouth, gagging the screams that tear from my chest.
The bruises deepen, the welts swell, the blood frees

Here I revel in the pain you give me, joy in the tears that you give me. This is my solace. This is my therapy. My suffering washes away my guilt, scrubs away my fear, and cleanses my spirit from the trespasses of others.

I'm strapped down to the table, unable to flee from what I know I need but still fear. Who wouldn't fear being torn open in such a way?

It starts lightly, warming my skin, pink coloring me everywhere. The flogger impacts so sweetly. Then the strikes become harsh, hit truer. Slowly, over time, the pain fades from me, or rather my sensitive to it fades. Soon your strikes become harder, seeking to break through the fog that has consumed my mind.

Canes and the tawse become our dear friends, my dear enemies. I writhe and struggle uselessly. Not able to stand, should I even have the choice. Harder and harder your strike land, harder and harder you push me, giving as much I as I can take, taking as much as I can give. Each strike now breaks my tender skin. Each strike brings on the blood. You paint yourself in it.

Crowds gather, some turned on, some concerned, all entranced. We take no notice. I exist for you alone.

In these moments I know we are hand in hand, running for the light at the end of the tunnel, pushing ourselves to get there. And as we finally break through into that glorious sunshine of subspace, I know that I have found myself in you.