Ancilla L
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A Penitent Season: Day 8
🕑 Added 2023-03-07 01:00:06 +0000 UTCNote: This is a series of 14-days of erotic penance written in real-time available exclusively to my patrons. It's our observation of a real fucked up version of Lent. You can access the entire series at this tag.
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Day 8
I woke up with a headache. I didn't sleep very much at all. These somatic disturbances are part of the design, the bodily responses I cannot control, the erosion of strength, the lack of sleep and they make me feel hollow. After he went to bed, I spent hours writing and then thinking about everything that had happened between us. I could not believe how much I had cried earlier.
I cry with relish, most often when I am being penetrated, but at times also when I am being beaten or otherwise tortured, I cry most vigorously when he succeeds at truly breaking my heart, and all those kinds of tears feel different inside me. The tears I cry when he is fucking me and hurting the insides of my cunt, are the easiest. They just emerge. Even when I am at my most aroused and genuinely desirous of being fucked, those tears cannot be avoided. Of course, he has encouraged those tears, fetishized them, rubbed his cock against them and made me drink them, so many times, over the years. Nothing will ever compare to the pleasure of being groomed, I came into this relationship with a half-broken cunt that liked to be tortured and he laid waste to it. He laid waste to me. While another may have dismantled my extant systems, he conquered them. He took them over, greedily usurping my trauma from the others who had left their stamp and turning it into his plaything. I always hated being fucked, he made me dread it. He took away even the pretence of my pleasure, he made no attempt to fix it or enhance it, he turned it into a ritualistic act of dispassion to be fucked by him. We are never more distant than when he is inside me.
Last night, I found myself longing to reach over to him and begging him to make love to me; I wanted to feel him hold me while he was inside me, I wanted to be able to look into his eyes and cry, I wanted him to kiss me or at least, bite my neck. Just put his mouth on me like he remembers that in some version of this story, we are lovers. I worried that if I woke him up and told him that, he would beat me and then demonstratively fuck me in a manner that was the opposite of what I desired. I don't think I would have survived that, although, I would not have had a choice. So, I just lay beside him and longed. I thought about my tears. The tears of pain are different from the tears of being fucked. They are a relief, a hail Mary when you've run out of all solutions, an admittance of the helplessness to the pain that helps you get through it.
But the tears of emotional pain are harrowing.
Heartbreak, hopelessness, resignation, all of these things and more, the implements of emotional masochism, elicit a reaction from the human repository of sorrow. To be hurt like that on purpose, and to be made to continue to hurt even after you have broken, is the kind of cruelty that keeps you up at night. It makes you feel sorry for yourself. When I open myself up to being so vulnerable, vulnerable enough to admit that I am overpowered by emotion and unable to rein myself, and he steps on my heart in that state, it feels like having my skin peeled off before being thrown into a septic tank. Last night he threw me into the tank, and then he fell asleep, as I lay there still hurting. Still crying. Still longing.
For more?
What is wrong with me?
...
When he came in from walking the dog this morning, I was sitting at the breakfast table with the kid ordering birthday presents for him. It's in 20-days. Every year, I try to keep what I am getting him a secret, but every year, some comedy of errors ends up revealing what I am getting for him. Last year it was the kid, I was getting him a smart television (because apparently people still want giant screens in their lives), and I told the kid about it, I also told him that if he told his father, I wouldn't let him watch the television. His father asked him, persistently, and he held his own for a few hours.
"Bro I can't tell you," he said finally, exasperated, "If I tell you, A won't let me watch the TV."
It took him a long moment to realise what he had done. God, why must I live with *boys*. This year I am getting him a bar because he wants the ritual and decor that comes with recreational inebriation. Seriously, I don't get the fixation of alcohol-enthusiasts on the equipment, on extensive cabinets and wine racks, but I know he feels like, I am happy to feed it. I kept it hidden for weeks and he has been trying to guess for just as long. I had been refusing to answer all questions, but I inadvertently admitted that I was waiting until the beginning of the month to order it, he figured I was waiting to be paid and somehow that led him to concluding I was getting him a bar. I think he went through my phone or saw over my shoulder at some point and has been sitting on the information.
I started to eagerly tell him about my plans for him bar. I got a nice huge cabinet with a mixing shelf and a wine rack for storage, a wall-mounted shelf for glasses and a really cool bar trolley. I got some posters and lights, I'm thinking I'll put one of my invisible bookshelves in the space and fill it with Bukowski. Maybe I should get some stools as well. I like stools. They're my favorites. He listened to my enthusiastic plans and then walked past me to the bedroom, he bent over and kissed me on the head.
"Today, I'm going to beat you with barbed wire, cunt," he whispered into my ear before he left.
I forgot all about the bar.
I forgot all about the world.
That's what I wanted, right?
...
He's fucking my cunt with objects again. I knew, obviously I knew, that yesterday's excusal of my cunt didn't have to do with compassion, but with the need to allow enough recovery that I could be consistently hurt again. I would hate how thoughtfully he approaches maximizing pain if I wasn't so impressed by it. He put me over the bed while I was taking a break from working and fucked me with the dildo again. I don't know why I keep expecting that it will get easier to bear. I want to yell at myself for refusing to learn. Why cant I learn?
I didn't thrash around though, I didn't scream very much, I didn't cry and I didn't beg him to stop. I think the begging has to stop, I think that on his behalf, I think I am about to get beaten for begging too much very soon if I don't put it away. I just dug my own nails into my palms as he fucked me. I used to do that a lot, I wonder when I stopped, I wonder why I stopped.
"It's almost pointless to punish your cunt for still daring to be wet," he said, thrusting inside me.
His manner was almost, bored. It wasn't taking him very much effort to hurt me so much. I'm just made of pain now. I cannot remember what it felt like not to hurt. My thighs hurt, my back hurts, my cunt hurts, my face hurts, my head hurts. Tomorrow some of those parts will recover and some other parts will join the list, my cunt will be a permanent resident of the list but it will all hurt, it constantly hurts.
"It you, you're the problem," he said, pulling the dildo out in its entirety and shoving it back it's full length each time, "Punishing your cunt won't fix you, it probably would learn, but you won't let it."
Sometimes, he creates two characters in me, my entire self and his cunt, he pits us against each other and makes my situation dependent on acquiescing to the demands of his cunt. It has favour with him, I do not. It knows how to behave, I do not. That doesn't mean he treats it better, it means he expects it to understand why it must be treated badly to the end of my repentance. He makes it want that as much as he does. It does his bidding to keep me in line, I resist it. Sometimes, they take on such lucid forms that they have conversations with each other, shamefully lurid conversations, that I will never, ever repeat. I only repeat them for him, when he draws them out by teasing me to a state where I can feel nothing in my body but my cunt in arousal, it's very different from this state, but it's just as harrowing. Maybe later, I will tell you about it.
When he exonerated my cunt while holding me responsible for all the punishment I deserve, I moaned out loud in arousal, the shooting pain of pleasure that began in the tip of my clit travelled inside me like a bullet. It hurts to be turned on.
"Does it hurt to get horny, cunt?" He asked me as I wrapped my arms around my abdomen, hoping to ease a cramp I couldn't reach.
"Yes master," I croaked, "I am sorry, I am useless and disappointing."
"You are," he said, fucking me harder with the dildo, "But don't worry, by the end of this, it will hurt so much to be turned on, you'll rip your hair out before you try it."
That cannot really happen.
It can't.
No.
...
Yesterday, while he beat me with the hammer I asked him how he experienced enjoyment while hurting me if he insists on having me be silent and non-responsive. A part of the answer, the part about my compliance to the standard being the heart of his enjoyment, I expected. The rest of it was a surprise.
"Your screams and tears is not where I see your pain, for the most part," he explained, "You're inconsistent anyway, sometimes you are quiet even though I am cleaving your flesh, sometimes you scream even though all I did was put a single finger in you."
I would have argued that it was a false equivalency that he was following, but he would have just beat me harder for objecting to being gaslit.
"So where do you see my pain?" I asked.
"In your flesh," he said, pounding the mallet against my thighs, "In the response of your skin and your tissues. In the sound of the cane or the hammer, pounding against your skin. That's why it's so annoying when you insist on being noisy, I cannot hear the actual sounds I want to hear."
"So when you beat me, you don't want to hear me, you want to hear...the cane?" I asked him.
"Yes, obviously," he said, "What good is hearing you?"
I don't know which of his words are true anymore and which ones are being said explicitly to hurt me, even the ones that feel like lies have the quality of truths, and the ones that seem true, make me wish they were lies. I wished desperately that he cared more about my reactions than the sound and responses of my flesh, but he has spent years training me into silence. It didn't feel as terrible when I believed it was because my obedience was getting him hard, now it feels like being erased and muted so he can watch and hear something else. I feel like the girl he is fucking so he has a hole to come in while watching the pornography he really enjoys that is playing in the back. How am I being cuckolded by myself?
When he bent me over the bed to beat me this evening, I kept thinking about his answers from yesterday. He was beating me with the baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire, as far as reactions of skin and sound go, it's a sensory orgy to use this horrifying implement. I was quiet, but I didn't want to be, usually I want nothing more than to be pliant, pathetic creature that gives him exactly what he demands, but I couldn't stop thinking about what he had told me yesterday. I kept wishing I could scream, I kept wondering how it would feel to be the girl who is allowed to scream, whose screams and reactions are relished instead of punished.
But I didn't dare scream.
Not only because I am not sure what the penalty is for being disagreeable when you're already being beaten with a bat wrapped in barbed wire, and I don't want to find out, but also because I still do really want to be the mythical exemplary slave he touts before me like a prodigal child I must live up to. I will always fail, but he makes it seem possible, so I will always try as well. Besides, it is easiest for me not to scream when I can feel the blood pouring out of my skin. I get so lost in it, I forget I am attached to the same body. It occured to me, while he was beating me, that we should name the bat. I wanted to call it Morticia. If I am Wednesday, the bat feels like it should be Morticia, wielded by the hands of Gomez. It was an idle thought, it got lost in the thousands of other idle thoughts I had.
After he finished, he said we should name the bat. He suggested we call it Baticia. Like Morticia, but in bat form. Could he hear my thoughts in my blood?
Tell me how I should believe there is no magic.
...
The second beating was a surprise. We were in bed, beside each other, and we were having a long, emotional conversation. I was crying, he was as vulnerable as I was and we were both so woefully exposed to each other that an eavesdropper would have to cover their eyes just to keep themselves from exploding from the intrusion. I was crying so much. I have been crying so fucking much, surely I'll run out of tears soon? He was being kind to me, he was consoling me for all the pain he has caused me without reassuring me about any of it. He wouldn't do that. He will see it through. He will ensure I get to the end of this, screaming or crying or dragged through the streets or dead, he won't pretend it will get easier.
But he was being kind.
I was feeling trapped and alone in an isolated state of mind. I was feeling like I was reeling by myself and my tormenter, the only other creature I coukd recognise had left the building. He hadn't actually abandoned me, but it is a.. sentiment. It's easier, in a way for the enforcer, to step back for a moment and sink into relief. Their bodies and minds aren't going through it the same way, it's actually possible for them to pretend the world still exists, it's possible for them to live in it.
"I love you," he was telling me, wiping my tears from my ears, "I love you very much, I will not let you feel abandoned in this space, okay?"
"Please get on top of me?" I begged him.
He did. At first, he lay on top of me, crushing my chest with his weight as he kissed my chin. I winced and cried out. As soon as I made those sounds, he sat up on my thighs. I yelped. The damage from the hammer is so, so deep. The flesh on my thighs is hard and swollen, I can see the bruises travel towards it from so deep inside, it looks like all of my skin has taken on a tinge of purple. He sat down so hard on my thighs, it made me scream.
"Are you hurting me on purpose?" I asked, as he squeezd his knees shut against my hips.
"Always," he said, putting more weight on my thighs.
I wriggled and cried.
"Are you really going to be disappointing even as a seat?" He said, squeezing his knees shut to hold me in place, "Do you never tire of being completely fucking useless?"
I was about to bawl but he punched me first. He punched me so hard, I was stunned into silence. I couldn't believe he was actually beating me again, I really thought we were done for the day. He started slapping me and in the second slap I bit the inside of my lip and blood squirted into my mouth. I brought my hand to to my face to protect it, it was instinctive, I also put it back down before he could say anything.
"If you try to protect your face again, I will break your fucking wrist, you understand me?" He said, holding my wrist and twisting it just a little.
"Yes master," I responded in a blind panic, "I am sorry, I won't try to protect myself."
"You won't? You cannot!" He exclaimed, slapping me with alarming pace, "I will beat you as much as you fucking deserve, or can you not even do a penance right?"
I couldn't respond to him because my mouth was too busy being slapped by his knuckles. His ring hit my canine. I hate the sound of teeth and metal.
"You are so, so disappointing," he said digging the knife already lodged into my throat, "Truly, terrible slave."
There was a dialogue on Veep, where the character of Amy says: I feel like I am on life support and they keep pulling the plug to charge their phones. That's how he was making me feel.
Finally, he got off me and lay back down beside me.
"Are you in a lot of pain?" He asked.
I nodded my head.
"Remember that, as the least amount of pain you will have been in tomorrow," he said, the sentence made too little sense, and too much.
If I stay awake all night, can I stop tomorrow from coming?
...
