Mirror

He calls me His slut.

The first time He said that word to me, I lost my breath. The warm air of His voice had tickled the skin of my neck as my mind recoiled in horror. "You are my slut," He'd said. A slut! I couldn't be. A slut was dirty. Wasn't she? Wasn't a slut cheap and not worthy of love and compassion? No dignity, no pride. And lord only knows, I have more pride than is good for me, most of the time.

I am begging.

I sit here now, pulling my knees up against my chest, huddled deep into the corner of the couch. I ache inside my heart. And I try to deny who I am. What I said. But I remember. Oh yes, I remember too well. I'd gotten past that night when He'd whispered it the first time, but He wanted more. He wanted to hear it from me. He wanted my acknowledgement; needed my acceptance.

My mind drifts to places that I know I won't ever forget. Haunted crazed memories that I need to feel again.

I hear the crack of a single-tail whip close to my ear and I can't breathe.

I gasp, then suck in huge gulps of air. My skin feels on fire yet it burns from the inside out, making me shiver. His voice is pressed against my mind.

"What are you?"

What am I ... what am I? I can't speak. My lips part, but no sound escapes.

"WHAT - ARE - YOU?" His voice, louder, demanding, insistent. I wrap my fingers around the metal hooks attached to my wrist restraints and clench my teeth. A growl forms at the back of my throat. I shake my head.

I remember. I remember His voice - His erotic, sensual, persuasive voice - whispering that I was a slut. His slut. And my body had betrayed me, writhing with its aroused response. That first time, long before He heard the same word out of me, I was lying under Him, slut-like with my legs wide open. Desperate to pull Him deeper inside of me. And glad for the darkness that hid my face.

He switches toys. Suddenly I feel the leather tips of a heavily stranded flogger as it cuts into the skin on my backside. Again and again. I don't realize I am trying to crawl up the length of the wooden cross I am bound to. Yet, the pain is sweet. I crave more. Like the pain of eating ice cream too fast, I know the ache is inevitable, but I can't stop.

"What am I? What am I?" My mind spins.

But no one calls me a slut. At least not so close to my face that I can hear them. I can remember an old boyfriend trying to talk dirty to me, and he only tried one time. I shoved him as hard as I could off the bed, then leaned over the edge of it and meanly laughed into his shocked face. "I'm a lady." I'd said, jabbing his chest with my finger as hard as I could to make that point clear. "And ladies aren't sluts. No one can say that I am a slut."

Can they?

He did. "My slut," he said.

I am crying and my mind is screaming; "I'm not. Not. Not. NOT."

"Be a lady, but..." my mother said. "... be a whore in the bedroom too." "Be a lady, but ... " my father said. "... know that what you have between your legs can get you whatever you want." And if I behaved lady-like in front of my mother, yet listened to her descriptions of her illicit love life, I made her happy. And if I behaved lady-like in front of my father, yet let him touch me, with his "I'm just curious" ways, then I made him happy. So I usually got what I wanted. I cried a lot. Was a slut good or bad? Hide her, hide her!

So what do I do with this slut-woman He says I am? The one I keep tightly leashed, the one I won't let out. I can't be a slut if I want to hold my head up in public and be proud. Can I?

"What are you, j?"

The knowledge slams through my brain.

I hold my lips tight, trying to trap the answer inside.

"I am ... a slut." No! It rushes out with my breath and becomes a pain that twists me inside.

I pound on the cross with my fists. "I'm your slut. A slut. A slut. A slut!"

My lips open wide. I am screaming. "SLUT!" It echoes, and I try not to listen. But I can't turn away from the sound, and my gut grows cold in fascinated horror.

It's true.

He said I was His slut and I had spread my legs wider for Him. I'd held His body so tight that it felt like I was wrapped inside Him. My eyes had filled with tears that I didn't want Him to see. I begged instead. "Fuck me, fuck me fuck me." Like a chant. Take away the pain. It felt good. He felt good.

I remember that I'd tightened my legs, pulled Him in harder.

He wraps the full length of His body against mine. I press back. Wanton, I grind my ass into his groin. He is whispering; I am crying.

I'm crying again, alone on the couch, but not deeply weeping. I shed quiet tears, knowing tears, tears that are slut-like in their need. My mind questions my heart. My heart knows the answer. I hug my legs tighter against my chest and slowly rock my body. I can't bury the need. I have to be His slut. Because I am.

He's using the flogger again, swinging as hard as He can. Both hands; arms and shoulders leaning into the effort. The toy becomes an extension of Him. The leather is His skin, and it is ripping into me. Into my back, my buttocks, my legs. Over and over and over. I drink it in; I drink Him in.

I wipe under my eyes with the back of my hand. Then I find myself crossing my wrists, as though bound by His invisible ropes, and I am filled with a sense of total certainty. Reluctant understanding penetrates my mind. The first time He said it, said that word, a good feeling had started to seep through my soul. A hot, rich, all-encompassing feeling. And I had tried to fight it. Too much pride. False pride. I'm afraid of the slut-woman that's in me. Good woman. Bad woman.

I am screaming, crying, and lifting my ass higher. Toward him. Moaning, pleading; "harder, please, please harder." I float with the endorphin high the pain is producing.

I hear the crack of a single-tail whip close to my ear and I can't breathe.

I am begging.