The Cheeseboard

There were two of us.  She was the pain whore. I was the pleasure whore. She loved to be marked. I hated it.

“I’m not a sadist,” he’d say.  “She likes the pain, I don’t have to give it to her.”

“Well, I’m not a masochist,” I’d say.  “I don’t like that much pain.  I only like the fun pain.”

He and I took a weekend trip to San Francisco and stopped by a leather store to look for toys.  He got each of us a leash, and then he went to look at paddles.

He picked up this enormous, thick wooden paddle.  I shook my head.  “That’s for her, not me.”

“Turn around,” he said.

“That one isn’t for me.  She’s the pain whore,” I reminded him.

“Turn around,” he insisted.

I did.  He swatted my ass with it, not with much gusto.  Even through the jeans it hurt more than I would have liked.

“Nope.  That’s a big nope for phi, but I’m sure she’ll enjoy it.”

I started calling it the cheeseboard, because it looked like something you’d serve cheese on at a dinner party more than an implement for beating. He swatted me once bare-assed with it at the hotel.  I called red on it instantly and glared at him for even attempting it.

He’d taken it with him the next time he went to stay with her. She hated it.  It came back to my house.

Things eventually went south.  Very south. When he came back to Los Angeles for our final breakup, I was a wreck.  He’d hurt me so deeply, over and over again, until I’d finally had enough.

And even then I was hoping he’d change his mind and realize he was making the wrong choice.

“I know I am,” he said, “but it’s what’s best for you.”

“You said I was your trophy. You said I was your prize.”

“You are,” he responded. “She’s my consolation prize. I have to let you go.”

I begged him to beat me one last time.  To make my outside hurt match my inside hurt.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said.  He hadn’t thought it was such a bad idea to force feed my throat with his cock earlier that day. I pointed this out to him.

“Fine.  This will be the last time.  And it’s 10 swats with the cheeseboard.”

Funny how he’d told me he wasn’t a sadist.

He didn’t go easy on me.  I’ll never forget that final beating. He made me count them and thank him for each one, and I did – knowing they would be the last ten I’d ever get from him.

It’s the only time I’ve ever cried from a beating.

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