Cold Burn

I wanted to write about last night's cutting. I began writing last night but, sometimes I wonder if I'm too open. Too frank. So, I deleted my post. But here I am again today, talking about it. I need to.

Last night Master did more work on the cutting on my back, trying to make each line scar and keloid like two of them have. It isn't easy, you never know exactly how a cut will scar, or won't. You can make each cut the same depth and still, each one heals differently.

Last night's cutting was more intense than other sessions. I was lying face down on the bed so he had excellent access to my back and had less trouble with the blood flowing. I moaned without any conscious thought or will to do so. Master had to shush me and until he did I wasn't really aware that I was moaning so focused was I on the feel of the blade swimming through my skin.

Master pointed out that lying down is a more vulnerable position which is likely why it felt so much more intense. If I'd given it even a small amount of though I'd have come to the same conclusion but my brain was a bit addled with all those lovely endorphins.

Each time Master draws my blood I feel as if I'm making an excellent sacrifice to him, my god. It is a bit of a ritual, I strip as he lays out his instruments, I lay down as he pulls on those blue gloves and I shiver a little as I hear them snap into place. I think he does that snapping bit just for effect. Then the cold and the familiar, almost welcome, scent of alcohol as he cleans my skin. Without any preamble, he begins to cut. He begins by placing one hand on my shoulder to as a balance, and then the blade slices through my flesh as if it were of no more substance than tissue paper. The breath I'd sucked in eases out through pursed lips and I suck in another breath, slowly so as not to hyperventilate. This little dance is done over and over until the cutting is complete, breathe in, cut, exhale, breathe in, cut, exhale.

It is over in what feels like seconds and I lay there in a muzzy stupor, asking silly questions like "You're done?"

The sex afterwards is delicious, we're both primed and ravenous for it. The rest of the night is spent feeling silly and mushy, I couldn't keep myself from reaching out to touch his hand, his arm, while sitting on the couch watching a movie. I must have told him "I love you" a million times and each time I said it I felt like I hadn't said it enough.