I never used to bruise. If I happened to be caned, there would be livid welts at the time, but no marks the following morning. It used to be a terrible disappointment. But in the past few months, they've been appearing more and more. Lewd, furiously coloured imprints of fingers on my arms, inner thighs, clean cut outlines of implements that lashed down upon my body, faint purple blushes along my jaw. I love it. I could quite happily while an entire day away just prodding at my marks, relishing the ache, the memory of how I gained them... Be it though rough and frenzied rope; or slammed into a wall, the ground, hands battering at me; or a delicate trace of needle or staple bruises, from where the sharp metal was pulled from my body; or bent over, caned or strapped, counting them off, thankful for the pain. All of it. I love it; but I'm starting to think that sometimes I love the bruises just a little bit more.
Mmmmm. Bruises. The ones from the weekend have faded completely and now I'm just craving more.
