Penance, Part 6

Catch up on the entire series here. I’m exploring some concepts that I started to work through in my essay “BDSM is Not Repentance” using this experimental semi-fantasy flash erotica series. It is not intended to model realistic and healthy approaches to penance, sex work, or even BDSM, but to inspire thought about how we use BDSM and what role, if any, it can play in true repentance. This short installment is a response to the Masturbation Monday blog meme.

Note: this section contains some despairing thoughts and self-deprecation. 

“Try again.” They said it and left with such startling coolness that he’s forgotten to be angry. He slumps in his chair, shell-shocked. Is this it? Of all the possible punishments he’s dreamed up, he never thought of this one. He so craved the biting heat of corporal punishment that he burned through the Dominant’s patience.

There’s no way for him to contact them directly, he realizes, even as explanations for his behavior begin to rise, some bullshit about serving and ignorance. They don’t matter. All correspondence goes through the Agency office. The Dominant can ignore him for as long as they want, even blacklist him. He can’t make them come back. And, he realizes, he wouldn’t. 

His thoughts race as he sits there longer. Is the Dominant gone for good? Their shoulders were set as they walked out. He groans into his hands. Why did he have to push like that? Why couldn’t he just ‘chill,’ as his nieces say, and let the Dominant lead? The blue notebook lies on the coffee table. His own words taunt him, repeated back in that musical voice. He did write the same thing over and over, feeling so clever, so sure about ‘moving forward’. Maybe he can’t move forward at all. Maybe the Dominant knows it, and that’s why they’ve left him alone. He can’t even move from the chair. They might as well have chained him there, he thinks as his eyes rove the cavernous space, seeing nothing. 

Then, he spots a flash of red and black. The Dominant’s handkerchief, folded with care–left on purpose? He looks up. The Monstera plant, watered. The notebook, within reach. Try again, they said. The man swallows. He reaches for the notebook, turns to a fresh page, and begins to write. 

-To be continued- 

Masturbation Monday

Penance, Part 4

Read all installments here. I’m exploring some concepts that I started to work through in my essay “BDSM is Not Repentance” using this experimental semi-fantasy flash erotica series. It is not intended to model realistic and healthy approaches to penance, sex work, or even BDSM, but to inspire thought about how we use BDSM and what role, if any, it can play in true repentance. This installment is a response to the Friday Flash blog meme. 

He slams the microwave shut. He braced for days for this night to leave him bruised and welted. Instead, he’s remarkably…unmarked–maybe a bit saddle-sore from the stool. And now he’s fuming again. No whips and chains today. ‘You’ll have to earn them’? The Dominant left not long after saying those words, sliding that notebook toward him with a knowing smile. Like a perverse Mister Rogers, they re-laced their boots, rattling off instructions for ‘self-aftercare’ or something in dulcet tones. As if they’d actually done a scene, and not just sat there drinking water. 

The stool slides with a horrible screech as he shoves it back under the island. He eyes the notebook with suspicion but doesn’t pick it up. He hasn’t used anything like that since the eighties. Nice joke, but why go back? Seems his laptop updates every other day. That’s how he likes it. 

His hands shake as he puts the empty water glasses in the sink. He scowls at himself. Time to get a grip. 

The space fills with the smell of buffalo sauce, steaming and popping with heat. He throws himself onto the sofa and bites into the first wing, not caring how hot it is. The notebook still sits on the counter. He soldiers through the wings, letting their untempered spice overwhelm his anger. 

By the time he’s blotting the cushions where juices have splattered, he’s more curious than anything. All but jogging back to the island, he opens the notebook. His stomach gives an unpleasant flip when he sees writing inside. “Welcome, Penitent,” it reads in fine, slanted writing. “Here’s where you’ll write about what brought you here. Write something every day until our next session. I won’t read it unless you ask me to, but you will write. Buen Camino!” They want him to keep…a diary? He flushes. ‘Diaries are for girls!,’ a little voice pipes up in the back of his mind. ‘Travel journal’ is more apt, he thinks, even though this is unnecessary.

He will write? A new surge of anger wells up at the thought. He doesn’t need diaries or journals; what he needs is good old-fashioned corporal punishment. He’ll just put the notebook away somewhere and give it back next time. He pauses. Then, he pulls out the pen tucked in its binding. In glistening purple ink, he writes “I don’t need to write in this.” After a beat, he adds “sir.” Signing and dating, he claps it shut. He knows what to do. He’s going to show that Dominant exactly what he needs.

-To be continued-

Penance, Part 1

[Image description: Photo is of a pair of lace-up black leather boots.]

Hello, Readers! I’ve decided to explore some of the ideas I discussed in my recent essay “BDSM is Not Repentance” through fiction. This is the first part of an experimental semi-fantasy flash erotica series. It is not intended to model realistic or healthy approaches to penance, sex work, or even BDSM, but to inspire thought about how we use BDSM and what role, if any, it can play in true repentance. This first installment is part of the Masturbation Monday blog meme sponsored by Kayla Lords. 

He runs his hand through salt-and-pepper hair, drums fingers on his desk to drown out the feeble patter of rain. He grimaces at the cleaning he’s done. She might not show, he thinks. If this day turns out to be a waste of his time and money, he’s leaving a one-star Yelp review and jerking off to Brazzers. 

He was very clear in his inquiry letter to the Agency: he wants to suffer for his actions. He filled out their required spreadsheet of soft and hard limits in a bluster of clacking keys; yes to humiliation, yes to cock-and-ball torture, no to tickling, yes to single-tail, etc. 

He selected a generous three-day time window, signed off with his electronic signature, and procured his background check. Now, it’s just a question of when; it has to be some time today. He waits for her, whomever she is, to waltz into his spartan condo, order him to his knees and slap him around, make him feel powerless. That’s fine. More than fine. 

He chose the “mystery” option to let the Agency assign someone to him, but he’s poked around enough online to have a pretty good idea what she’ll be like: a goddess in stilettos, dark, streamlined slickness over icy pale skin. She’ll beat the devil right out of him…if she shows up. The thought shoots straight down to his cock, and he just catches his hand straying down his khakis. He groans, irritation rising in tandem with arousal.

Just as he’s about to unplug the air freshener and heat up the leftover buffalo wings, someone knocks at the door. He freezes. Somehow, his legs carry him over. He peers through the peep hole at a short, slight woman with asymmetrical hair and a rainbow umbrella. She must be lost, he thinks, wondering whether she’ll go away if he ignores her. But he opens the door. She smiles at him. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. Staticy heat skitters through him, the sensation of thawing after a trudge through the snow, as he realizes that this person isn’t lost at all. “Hello,” she says. “My pronouns are they/them/theirs, and I’m in charge of your penance today.” 

-To be continued-

*Yes, he accidentally misgenders them.

Masturbation Monday