I am home, drained and exhausted. It was not a bad day. Nothing terribly out of the ordinary happened. I have just run out of gas. I’m all tapped out. The words come with difficulty tonight. There is just not much left. I have given all there is to give. I’ve nothing left.

All I can do is let go. Let go and let Master. I need to sink into the security of being his.

The last couple of days, I have been writing about the lifestyle, specifically, about play time. I have been amazed by how much more difficult such writing is.

I have come to realize the writing fiction is more challenging than writing an essay. After all, it’s not that difficult for me to sit down and spout off my opinion about something. But to make up a story and write about it, that I am finding to be tough. Take yesterday’s post, for example. After I finished it and posted it, I realized there were things I wanted to add. I still plan to revise it, hopefully sometime tomorrow, and then I will repost it. But it is hard!

I think that is probably why Master wants me to do it. He wants me to work and grow. No pain, no gain!

“You really should listen to me,” he said.

“Screw that,” she said.

They looked at each other. He lunged toward her, but she avoided his grasp by bounding over the coach.

“You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said.

“Yeah, you wait and see what I do.”

GAME ON!

She sprinted through the house, occasionally grabbing a chair or a lamp and throwing it in his path. Although he stumbled a little, he didn’t fall. He wasn’t gaining on her. Then again, she wasn’t putting anymore distance between them. When she got to the kitchen, she ran to the table. With the table as a barrier, she turned to face him.

“So now what?” she sneered.

“What do you think,” he responded.

“ I think you’d have to catch me first. I don’t think you can.”

But she underestimated him. In a flash he reached across and gripped her wrist in his hand. She pulled back, but too late.

“Let go of me, you bastard.”

“Ah, ah, ah. Is that any way to talk to your Master?”

“Damn it, let go!”

She jerked her hand back and he lost his grip. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that had been too easy. She turned and ran. He followed. She sprinted to the bathroom. As she locked the door, she heard his body thud against it.

“Too late,” she said.

She looked around the bathroom. She didn’t turn the light on; there was still enough daylight to see by. She had effectively trapped herself, and she knew it. She searched the bathroom, looking for a weapon or an idea, something. Nothing. All the while she listened for sounds of movement on the other side of the door. Likewise nothing. Finally she sat with her back against the tub and just listened.

And waited. And waited. Nothing.

Where could he be? What could he be doing? She tried to listen more carefully, but there seemed to be nothing to be heard. Had he left? That seemed unlikely. She put her ear to the door. When that didn’t reveal anything, she oh so quietly unlocked the door and turned the knob. Slowly, quietly, she began to open the door.

Without warning his arm shot through the opening. He once again had her by the wrist, this time in an iron grip that she doubted she could break.

“You son of a bitch!”

“And you, my dear, are an impatient little bitch. Just where did you think I went, hmmm? You had to know I was right here, waiting for you.”

She pulled away, but she wasn’t going anywhere this time.

“Having fun, my dear?”

She drew back as though to spit in his face, but one look at him stopped her.

“Good choice,” he said, and he dragged her to the couch. She kicked and clawed at him the whole way, but to no avail. He threw her on the couch face up, holding her hands down and sitting on her legs so she couldn’t fight.

“Now. Now.”

He leaned over to kiss her. She struggled oh so briefly, but then began to whimper. His hands found hers and she clasped to them.

“It’s time, baby. It’s time. Relax. Just relax.” And they made love.

Game over. Everybody wins.

Master wanted me to write more about the lifestyle. “What would you do,” he asked, “ if I tanned your hide?”

What would I do? How would I feel? First, I would bare it for him. (Pun intended) Second, the pain afterward would be a reminder of him, us, our play time and our love. You see, it would be a physical reminder, almost like that ring that I sometimes covet. The rope burns on my wrists and the sore ass both serve to remind me of us.

They are also a matter of pride. There is some pride in being able to take what Master chooses to dish out. But I think the most pride is in the idea that pain and marks signify U/us.

She walked around the kitchen.

“Do you want to sit down?” he asked.

“Not really,” she said.

“Why not? A little sore?” he said with a smile.

“Just a little,” she said. And she remembered why. She remembered bending over the side of the bed, wrists encircled with rope and tied to the bedrail on the other side. Thus stretched out, and with a gag in her mouth, she had been helpless.

He had come in and rubbed her bare ass, but she knew it wouldn’t end there. Pretty soon he started to smack it. She strained against the ropes, adding to her pain, but she didn’t care. The spanking became more intense, and tears welled in her eyes. She screamed into the gag.

After what seemed like ages, he stopped and untied her.

Now, as she touched the marks on her wrists and was too sore to sit, she smiled. Every tweak of pain reminded her that she was his, and made her proud.