textfiles/sex/EROTICA/G/gift2.txt

"A cutting.  A four-sided lozenge around the ``C'' which I branded on
your left hip this summer in Verona: this is how I shall mark you,
slave".


My Mistress's voice was clear and strong, sureness and decision ringing
in it.  I have not heard it otherwise, when She is actively being my
Mistress.  Nor can my slave's voice, when it comes from the same woman,
ever be mistaken.  And many other tones of voice are those of my
beloved friend, each charming and unique.

They have names, each of these personas, by which I can call them out.
Beverly is her birthname.  Cassandra --the seer, the shaman, the woman
of power and of magic-- is how she long identified, and the name of my
Mistress.  And on her birthday, on that magic day in a cabin among the
redwoods of the St. Cruz Mountains, when she asked me to give her a
slave name, I had no doubts -- Ariel, sprite of Air (and Water), to
balance the overwhelming Fire (and Earth) of powerful Cassandra.

Ariel.  Beverly.  Cassandra.  My slave; my friend; my Mistress.  My
love, each and every one of them, and each and every one of her other
myriad aspects.

She has given names to "facets" of me, too, but I can't feel for them.
They're convenient, to know when she's calling on her slave, or on her
Master, specifically -- we have committed to always being there for
each other when called.  But -- there's only one of me.  Some would no
doubt say that even that is possibly already too many:-).


I had known for a while that my Mistress wanted to place some further
permanent mark upon me, and accepted that happily and serenely.  And if
it should end up not happening ("the best-laid plans of mice and men
gang oft agley"), that would be fine, too -- I had no attachment.

But when I heard her voice sound so sure -- I knew it WOULD happen, and
how it would go, and how it would feel -- and for an instant I was
frightened.  Well do I know the feeling of the blade splitting my flesh
open; it used to be a real passion of Laylah's.  And she had managed to
guide me over my block regarding blades -- even to give me a taste for
them, when I'm topping, or in the abstract -- but the sheer physical
sensation is still hellish to me, intense and strong and violent and
extremely unpleasant.

And that, I guess, is part of why it's so appropriate for a token of
extreme submission, of slavery.  A whipping on my back, or any beating
on my buttocks, still carries some element of pleasure, although that
element may of course be mostly submerged by sheer intensity of pain;
even flames, and searing hot metal, while terrible, awaken something
in me physically, something powerful and in a sense desirable.  But
to submit to a cutting -- THAT is pure, unadulterated, total bending
of my will, of my whole being, to another.  Just because I get nothing
but loathing from it, physically, makes it, in a sense, an ideal gift.

And that -- if my Mistress commands it -- is exactly what I want to
offer to Her.  A gift of myself.

It used to be, the first few times that Laylah cut me, that she could do
it only in non-safeword scenes: there was no way I could stop myself
from safewording at the supreme instant -- so what was needed was for
her to be able to hear my safeword, smile her tigress smile showing her
perfect teeth, fix her gaze into mine, and proceed anyway, shattering my
will and my resistance at the same time as her blade broke my skin and
sated itself on my blood.

But I've come a long way since.  I now know what a top can get from
cutting, the sensation of power, the feeling of ultimate control in
shedding one's beloved's blood.  I do not know, nor may I ever learn,
what some bottoms feel, that they can enjoy being cut, even cutting
themselves; but I do not need to know.  I can offer my skin, my flesh,
my blood, my pain, my suffering, my fear and loathing themselves, in a
veritable sacrifice, in the closest I can come to -- a perfect gift.


When I say I get nothing from it, I speak of physical sensations, and
of feelings during the cutting itself; it does have redeeming features
on other planes.  The burning and tingling sensation in the following
days as the wound heals is less unpleasant, and it can become
happy-making if it calls to mind my Mistress's joy at receiving the
gift she's demanded.  The mark lasts longer, it may even be permanent,
and will affix into my flesh -- for good, maybe for ever -- the same
memory, and the undisputable sign of my submission.

And during the scene, or right after it -- the blood.  I have a
respectful fascination for blood, my own no less than others'.  It is
liquid, and it is life -- it is the elixir, the red gold, that
alchemists wrote about.  Even a drop of it is precious.  It glistens on
the blade, it shines in the light, it graces the skin with its
beautiful red colour, as it oozes onto it from the wound.  I love
shedding blood, and having my blood shed, by whatever means -- and it
must be admitted that, no matter how they feel on the flesh when
they're doing their work, blades are most effective for this purpose,
most focused on the job.  The closest I got to death so far was by
haemorrhaging; and I remember how blissful it felt, as my life, my very
soul, was seeping away from me together with my blood...  if I ever
have to suicide I want it to be by cutting my wrists' veins in a warm
bath, like the philosopher Seneca was ordered to do by the tyrant Nero;
I can conceive of no sweeter death.


All this ran through my mind in a fraction of a second as my Mistress
Cassandra spoke those few words, exciting my fears, and quelling them
again at once -- my love for her, my submission to her will, flaring
up in a blaze of happiness.

Earlier in the week, my beloved slave, adorable topazzz, had also asked
me for a cutting, as it happened.  So, the three of us went shopping
for the blades and associated hygienic supplies, planning both cuttings
for the same night.  Alas, before that night came, topazzz had some
unrelated medical problems that, out of prudence, made me decide to
delay her cutting to some future date; my Mistress also decided not to
cut me at that point.


My US trip was drawing to a close, and Beverly and I went to spend our
last night together in a motel in New Hampshire.  When we got there, my
Mistress informed me that it was there, in that room, that I would be
cut... it was with the slightest shivering that I accepted her decision.

First we played in other ways, mostly with me on top.  So many things
that we had wanted to happen on this trip had turned out not to... this
was the last night in which to make into reality as many of them as
would fit -- joyfully, intensely, without attachment, we went after
quite a few.

Then -- once more -- Cassandra's voice.  "I am ready to cut you now,
Andros".  Well, that wasn't much advance notice, but I did my best --
concentrated, shifted my mindset in response to the name she had
called -- "I am ready, Mistress".

She looked at me appraisingly; I had the impression she was amused.
"Oh no you aren't... not so fast!  Lie down on the bed, on your back;
I'll *make* you ready!".  Oops -- my mistake; she had said she was
*ready* now, not that I would be *cut* now... she wasn't hurrying me,
not at all.  She knows me well; I am very _fluid_, but not necessarily
very _fast_...  Sheepishly, I obeyed and waited.

She lit candles, put on what would clearly be my cutting music -- Roxy
Music's "Avalon".  The mellow, sensual, intense mood started
spreading.  She got a horse-hair whip, came next to me on the bed,
grasped my hair, smiled her strongest smile -- my sense of being
*owned* grew apace.

The whipping was little more than a warmup, for all that my chest is
so much more delicate than my back; it did, however, start endorphins
flowing, and provide the time and setting for the fullest mood shift
to deep down into the full awareness of being her love slave.  I am
pretty sure that she also wanted the words to send me some message,
as she sang along on quite a few of them in her best, warmest, most
magic voice -- but I was too far along on my trip to space to stay
verbal enough to get whatever message that was... no matter: she knows
about my non-verbal states, and if she needs to drive something specific
home, she'll know how to find plenty of other ways to!

It's such a wonderful thing to give over one's trust *so* completely,
to a Shaman even before than to a Mistress, a Top, a Lover, a Friend...
to KNOW that she knows where she's going, that she's been there before,
that one can allow oneself to open up totally and follow wherever she
leads... the Lady is my Shepherd, I shall not want; in pastures of
fresh grass She leads me to rest...

[One advantage of switching is that I well know how these perceptions
from the bottom may be mismatched with reality -- that the top is still
human even in the most exalted moments... and this knowledge does not
interfere with the letting go, the sense of sacred, the total handing
over of self -- indeed, it makes it more meaningful and significant!]

After a time, she adjusted my position on the bed to get as much light
as possible onto the brand on my left flank, and had me prepare the
knife.  She gave me a towel to bite down on, since screams were to be
avoided...


I heard her say a single word: "Earth".

"... but Iron, cold Iron, shall be master of them all".  Cold steel.
Sharp blade.  Its treacherorous caress, so feathery light as the edge
kisses the skin -- and splits it, devours it, proceeds to the layer
of fat, the fascia, the muscles, the bone... spreading destruction
in its wake, spirit of Doom, harbinger of Death...

No, it wasn't THAT deep -- by no means; like most good in-scene
cuttings, it barely nicked the fascia, if that; but THAT is the
jumble of messages that the physical sensation of a cold-blade
cutting always sends to my hindbrain.

The first of four sides of the lozenge I was to receive was done, and
already I felt it beyond me to keep still, to keep offering myself to
the knife...


Another word came from my Mistress's lips: "Air".  And it bit again...

The blade had perhaps lost a tad of its sharpness already, and my
Mistress compensated by a slight increase in the pressure.  Both the
lesser sharpness, and the higher pressure, enhanced the pain, and with
it the sense of irretrievable physical loss...  I inhaled sharply,
I gritted my teeth, I summoned all my strength to remain offered,
opened, given, to the Sword mangling my flesh.


One more word was spoken: "Fire".

By the time the third cut started, I was sobbing.  No trace of any
endorphin rush was left -- just a shattered, tortured animal looking up
to its cruel Mistress's face -- and finding nothing but Light, and
determination more steely than the blade itself...  Oh, well had my
Mistress judged to sink me in the waters of Paradise of submission to
Her before starting this...  I burned in the pyre of Her eyes, a
thousand times within one second I offered myself over and over again.


One last time, She speaks: "Water".

The last one: my submission is by now the same as that of the gazelle,
deadly wounded and separated from its pack, to the lions that are
devouring it, tearing its flesh to shreds, shedding its life-blood upon
the parched prairie -- oh may your steely claws and teeth be fast, my
Mistress, and merciful in their cruelty, that oblivion may soon come...


The fourth cut is finished, the lozenge is closed, and it is of course
not the oblivion of death that comes, but my Mistress's beloved voice
once more, deep and solemn and wise and clear:  "The fire-brand which
marks you as my slave is now separated from the rest of your flesh".

I feel these words wash over me, over my whole being.  Some part of
me, somewhere, is drenched in them and will retain and process this
knowledge which my Mistress has imparted.  Not my mind, surely, which
feels worn and consumed, far from up to the task.

But my Mistress, I feel -- I KNOW -- is now just as happy to have me
floating freely in her love, abandoned, given.  Her tenderness engulfs
me, as she again speaks, Her magic transmuted into the warmest, most
caring affection -- "Sweet Andros, wonderful slave!"...


And sweet is it to sink into this sea.