Posted at 15:39 on 12 Aug 2004 by Pandora / Blake
A journal entry I wrote in 2004, when I was relatively new to kinky exploration and enjoying the honeymoon period of my first dom/sub relationship with Tom.
My body is a map of marks, the signatures left on me by each encounter. You can read it, if you know the code. It is a record in four dimensions, that fades and alters over time, affected by the passing of days - and by the layering of new marks on top of old. It is an art form; the old cliché about the body being a canvas. Afterwards, alone again, I cannot resist inspecting them, twisting round in the bathroom to catch a glimpse in the mirror, watching with fascination as they change colour, slowly heal. Sometimes I awake in the mornings and whole areas of colour have gone completely; the superficial marks, the pink and the red, are absorbed by sleep, leaving no testament to the damage done the night before. On other occasions a beating I did not consider to have been so terribly bad will linger in my muscles for weeks, painless, after a while, but persistently visible. I am proud of them. Why would I want to describe them to you in such detail if I were not proud of them?
First there are the most recent ones, inflicted by W only this weekend. They are superficial, and will disappear within a couple of days. The mottled, purplish crescents on my ribs and thighs are bite marks, that fade after 24 hours to pink. The slightly raised, dark pink triple lines, narrowing at one end, are from his nails. Pale brown smudges on my inner arms from the pressing of his thumbs; they will last, faintly, a little longer than the others. Then there are the invisible bruises, the tender places on my neck (from his teeth), high on my inner thigh (from his hipbones), and one sore place in the small of my back, to one side, where a bruise will rise in the next day or so, the colour blossoming in slow-motion, delayed reaction.
Beneath those, tempering and shaping them, are the older marks. The remainders of my whipping by Thomas last Wednesday; stippled, crimson-purple bruises on my buttocks and underneath them, like large scrapes. The bruising underneath, at the very tops of my thighs, is darker and more tender, almost black; the ones on the cheeks are more scarlet, fading out at the edges, with the lines of individual welts visible in paler red across them. These will fade to a greyish-purple soon; it will take about a fortnight, in total, for them to disappear completely. The whippings which leave deeper muscle damage, underneath the swellings and welts, never really fade; my buttocks have a persistent pale redness to them, barely visible, the remainder of layers of month-old bruises. On my torso are the flicks and cuts from the whole-body flogging; there is no trace of it on my back or neck or shoulders, although the strokes there were no weaker, but there is purple stippling across my breasts, dark red dotting down my sides and across my thighs from the sting left by the tips of the leather thongs. The lengths of the thongs leave no mark. My nipples are tender, but the soreness there is not visible other than a slight reddening.
(And underlying everything is the old network of scars, white in my tanned skin. I am entirely comfortable and annoyed with them by turns. They offset the new marks interestingly; flare when a welt is laid across them, and settle back when, after a few days, it fades. But they do not fade. As the colours and bruises and swellings flicker, over the months, across my skin, they remain, a testament to a pain less fleeting than these.)