Inaugural

The steel bites cold into my throat, wrists, ankles. It grinds harder when I shift, and every small move only deepens the ache. I have to let the frame become part of my skeleton, accept that it owns me. Pleasure and pain twist together so tightly I can’t tell them apart. I feel his stare, his quiet smirk, and the heat of his enjoyment at my struggle. The knowledge turns me on even while it humiliates me. He knows every tender inch and presses each one on purpose. Later he rigs me upright on a single bar between my legs. My head and arms are yanked back so hard that breathing turns into short, wet rasps. When he lifts my head he pays for the mercy with strokes of the singletail. The strikes are sharp, clean, perfect. Each one makes the pain flare hotter and somehow safer, the only thing that cuts through the pressure building in my chest. I want him to swing harder. I forget to thank him when he lets me rest my feet on boxes. He calls me ungrateful and guilt floods in fast and sour. I want to take every ounce of hurt just to make it right, but my legs shake and the strain climbs past reason. My mind fights my body and loses either way. All I crave is to ride the pain instead of running from it, to give him what he wants. I last as long as I can, then have to beg for the boxes again. This time I thank him out loud. He lets me stand and the sudden release rips through me; orgasm after orgasm tears loose until my breath comes in ragged sobs. One exhausted “thank you” is all I manage, but it loops in my head until nothing else remains.