BDSM is Love

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Marks have always been a wonderful thing for me. When I first started out they were like notches in the bedpost about what I’ve tried and haven’t tried. I could itemize them in my head; that was the crop, that was the paddle, that was the nasty rubber band game…

Now that I’m in a relationship somehow the marks means something more profound. Marks are a sign of his love, lust, passion and desire. Those marks are a sign to him of my trust and capacity to love him back. I bear the marks out of love. They are beautiful. Not only are they a sign of a really fun time, but they are a reminder that all is right with us. We work well together and in result I have marks to show just how far we got in our love.

I know it all sounds like poetry, but I also like to touch them later, look at them in the mirror, poke them so they hurt again (why do we do that anyway?) and show Master so that he can poke them again (can we say dumb?). Just like the collar I wear everyday, the marks he gives me are my sign of submission to him. Now one can produce the feeling I get when he marks me.

Now I have talked up and down on this blog about how hard it is for me to mark in places. My ass rarely marks, my boobs are another story, and this last intense session I had a huge bruise on my inner thigh that lasted a week and hurt every time I squeezed my legs together.

Master’s favorite marks are the ones he leaves on my breasts and pussy with the octocrop. I’ve spoken of it before and love the feel of it. It’s always given me marks I’d like to have some on my ass, but I think that to get them he’d have to go hard and fierce without any warm up and well, that doesn’t do well with my headspace I don’t think.  Of course, what Master wants, Master gets

The hardest marks are ones that could be in public view and I just get wigged out about neck hickies. Master doesn’t do them, but I’ve had one or two before and I just think that they are marks of immaturity. You get them when you are 15 and think they are cool because you made out with that hot boy from math class. You don’t wear them to work as an adult and be proud of them. That’s just trashy.

So, just to wrap things up; I love marks, I love the feeling I get when he gives them to me, the sighs and moaning smiles when he sees them hours/days later and the torture/pleasure of poking them so that the remind you. Always a good thing.

–luna

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