Make Your Marks

While conversing with a D-type friend, I mentioned in passing, really, that one thing I missed from my past dynamic most was the marks. You know the ones. Rope burns, bruised ass cheeks and thighs, hickeys and the like. Reminders of passion and surrender and being claimed. There was a time when I would run my fingers over them gently, a smile lighting my face. It had been a long time.

To which my gentleman friend replied.

So why don’t you make your own marks?

And I cant say I had an answer.

But thinking on it, I can only say, because I’d never thought of it?

But, I thought you were a masochist?

Hmmm, so did I. But there is a difference between submitting to another’s will (and enjoying it) and inflicting pain upon yourself. Why are they different? I think because of cultural programming. Self-harm is viewed as inherently negative, isn’t it? Hmm again. Something to ponder.

And ponder I did, until…

Topless on my bed, I swung the cane through the air, savoring the familiar swish, but also grimacing. Then said, to heck with it, and connected. Then burst out laughing, because it didn’t hurt.

What if I can’t hit hard enough to leave a mark?

You’ll have to try again, until you do.

And try I did. So I tried again, harder and faster. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. And…

I don’t think it’s working.

It’s about force per square inch, not just force. You have to give the bruises time.

A good reminder that I lack patience. And a lesson in physics.

And so, I carried on with my day, checking the red splotch every few minutes to see if it has miraculously changed into the bruise I so desired. But it had not.

That night, I went to bed, no more marked than when I had began, but with a new sense of self-awareness and a renewed appreciation for the cane.

When I awoke the next day, I was happy to discover, my patience (sleep counts, right?) had paid off.