The Belt

I sit on the edge of my bed, turning the belt over in my hands, thinking.  Thinking about the last time I had seen this particular belt.  Thinking about the last time I had used this particular belt.  Thinking about the teasing I had endured from him for years because of how I had used this belt that first time.

 

I haven't seen this belt in forever; it's easily been at least three moves ago, when I moved from Illinois to Texas.  At that time I was newly married, and I put the belt away - out of sight, out of mind - theoretically out of respect for my new husband.  The reality was that it was a physical reminder of a part of my psyche I had barely begun to explore before it scared me.  It scared me so badly I ran to the first "safe" man I came across and married him.

 

Live and learn.

 

It's been a few years since then, and now I am free of the "safe" man.  I'm unpacking boxes in my new apartment, where I'm alone again for the first time in nearly ten years.  New town, new job, new home, new life.

 

With a sigh I look down at the belt in my hands.  I've doubled it over as I would to strike someone - myself - with it.  The leather is still supple despite spending the better part of a decade in storage, and near the buckle, the stains of my momentary lapse in common sense remain, darker now than I remember.

 

The phone rings and I stand up to hunt for the handset. I leave the belt on my bed and start rooting through the assorted boxes near the bed, getting progressively closer to the dratted handset.  The answering machine hasn't been hooked up yet, which is just as well as it allows me to find the handset somewhere around the tenth ring. I answer, but no one is there now.  I start laughing - of course whoever it was gave up just as I finally find the darn phone.  I check the caller ID out of habit, and the laughter fades as I see his number staring back at me, mocking me.

 

As usual, my timing is off.  Immediately I call back and am answered with only the ceaseless ringing of the phone on the other end, reminding me that his availability is sporadic at best.

 

I sit among the half-unpacked boxes, suddenly drained.  I'm tired, oh-so-tired, both physically and emotionally.   It hits me when I least expect it, and the only thing that seems to help is sleep.  So I stumble back to my bed and lay there, waiting for sleep to overtake and heal me.

 

But the one time I crave it, need it desperately, sleep fails to come for me.  I lay there, exhausted, too tense to sleep.  Relax, I try to tell myself, just relax and sleep will follow.

 

Twenty minutes later and not only am I drained, I'm frustrated as well.  My mind is racing and it won't let go of the thoughts enough to let me sleep.  It doesn't help that those thoughts center around him and the complexities of our relationship, the bad as well as the good.  Every little thing I've ever done "wrong" (at least in my mind); every little word of praise and affection and yes, love, from him.

 

I sit up, dangling my legs over the side of the bed, and realise I'm still playing with the damned belt.  Still turning it around and around, doubling it this way then that, listening to a voice - his voice - remind me with a smile to not use the buckle end.  I smile to myself, still feeling a bit silly about that after all this time, but I promise it made sense at the time . . . that, and it felt good.

 

Even now I can remember sitting on the edge of a different bed, in a different town years ago with this same belt, arguing with myself.  What person in their right mind would whip themselves on the mere say-so of another person?  There must be something wrong with me, I thought, only to correct myself the next moment: maybe there's something right with me and this is merely a test, a tool to discover that something.   The debate within me raged for what seemed like hours, the taboos I'd been taught to hold sacred by society warring with the reality I was experiencing.

 

In the end, I stood up, stripped away my clothes and (at the risk of sounding too cliché) my inhibitions.  Even though I wielded the belt myself, I felt his hand as each stroke landed on my back.  I remember being surprised at how aroused I became, how wet my pussy was when I finally stopped, how the barest touch of my fingers to my clit pushed me right over the edge and left me collapsed in a heap on the floor.

 

It wasn't until later, once I had returned to myself, that I even noticed the blood on the belt.  I was surprised, then shocked.  I couldn't figure out where the blood had come from at first, not until I took a shower and watched the water turn reddish-pink.  My first instinct was to assume my period had started, but I knew better, especially as the hot water made the wounds left by the belt sting.  There wasn't a lot of blood, just enough to let me know I would have a couple scabs to deal with, reminders of the day's events.

 

I think the most embarrassing part of my first self-flagellating experience was admitting to him what I had done, how without thinking I had drawn blood.  He teased me then, though I knew he felt it a failing on his part for not giving me more specific instructions.  He's since teased me off and on for years about it, most recently as a frame of reference for my seemingly high tolerance for pain.

 

All of this runs through my mind as I sit on the edge my bed in the here and now, still playing with the belt.  One hand lets go of the belt and traces the lines of the physical scars that remain on my back all these years later.  I hear his voice in my mind, admonishing me gently to not use the buckle end. I look again at the belt and see the stains near the buckle, and for the first time I don't associate the stains with the embarrassment of old, but rather with the empowerment of knowing what I am . . . who I am.

 

As I did that day so many years ago, I stand and strip my clothes away, though this time my inhibitions are no longer a hindrance.  I run the length of the belt across my breasts, my nipples hardening as the leather caresses my skin.  For a brief moment I cinch the belt tight around my chest, binding my breasts, then let the belt dangle from my hand before I draw it between my legs.  It scrapes against my swollen pussy, teasing with the promise of the pain to come.

 

I close my eyes for a moment and let my mind concentrate on my body, these last few moments before the belt marks me.  My body shivers in anticipation and unconsciously tightens against the onslaught to come.  I take a deep breath and open my eyes, willing my body to relax, and without preamble or preface land the first blow on my back.  A gasp escapes me, a mixture of pain, pleasure and release.  The second and third blows follow quickly, and I find myself moving into a rhythm: my back, my legs, my ass.

 

I can feel the welts rising as the intensity of the blows varies.  Each welt in turn a caress, a mark, a reminder.  It's difficult to concentrate on keeping tally of the blows, so lost am I in the sensations, but I finally reach twenty and the belt stops.  Stopping just long enough to catch my breath, I reach for the belt again.  This time it is simply to bind my breasts just enough to make them tender to the touch, no marks today.

 

I try to resist the temptation to touch myself, to push myself over the edge.  I want to make this indescribable set of feelings and sensations last.  In the end I give in to temptation, and as before, just the barest, lightest touch sends me flying.

 

Later, when I take my shower, I'm not surprised to see the water turn a reddish-pink.  Some things never change.