Why I Hate Drumsticks

There are twin bruises on my ass, disc-shaped, one at the apex of each cheek. They are a rich, dark purple, and the flesh beneath each is slightly swollen. My Daddy gave them to me, and though I take pride in them now, I hated their making. And I also loved it, and this, for me, is the dichotomy of what we do.

Daddy is a drummer, and one day, when I had been especially petulant with him (I admit that I do this far more often than I should; it's one of the best ways to get his full attention), he stripped me and stood me before his drummer's stool. "Stay still," he said, his hands cradling my hips as he faced me away from him and took his seat. He cued up a playlist and I winced, guessing at what was to come.

He began tapping out the rhythm of the music on his thighs with his drumsticks and I wrapped my arms around my belly and breasts, shivering away from the expected blows. But they did not fall; the music swelled and I closed my eyes, the better to hear what he was doing. When I let my guard down just a little, just enough to shift my stance slightly...that's when he hit me.

It was just one drumstick per cheek and it doesn't sound like it would hurt much, or possibly even at all, but my Daddy has a heavy hand, and he takes his drumming very seriously. This means that every beat is tightly controlled, from the speed at which the stick strikes the surface on which he is drumming (in this case, me) to the precise spot upon which the stick lands. It's always the same spot, you see, and the stick always lands with a certain oomph which, over time, becomes annoying, then painful, then unbearable. And he didn't begin with lighter blows -- no, he warmed up on his own legs -- so after five or six strokes I was already biting back sobs and trying not to twist out of his way. (I failed in this; I always fail in this.)

I am not at my best with real pain or even with extreme discomfort. I cry, I whine, I protest, I don't take it gracefully. I fight it, and I fight him. I'm trying to learn to control these impulses but the truth is that I think he likes the fight in me. He likes to force submission from me...and I like for it to be wrested from me. The thing is, the more it hurts, the more I cry, the harder he is on me, the wetter I get and the better the sex is.

So yes, the bruises on my ass are deep and precise, but they came from a beating that my Daddy gave me and I accepted from him and though I cried at the time, I am grateful to him. I am never more peaceful than when we are laying together after a wild, passionate, angry, tender period like this; it's something we both need and it brings us closer. That's what the bruises show me: how much we love each other.