Beware!

There's blood on my sheets. Not menstrual blood -- I don't do that anymore; haven't for years. No. The blood stains on my sheets are there because He spanked me on Saturday morning with a variety of paddles, straps, floggers, canes, and whips. When He was done, He told me that I'd gotten blood all over the toys.

Nod.

My skin is fragile and there are times when it blisters and breaks under the impact of our play. From two or three places on my backside, the blood flows -- sometimes in a slow ooze, and sometimes in a much more impressive sort of flow. Sometimes, He quits when the bleeding starts. Sometimes not. It isn't anything that I can ever actually discern in the onslaught of sensations -- I never know if there is blood or not... until I see it splotched across the sheets.

But it is there -- the blood. Smeared and splashed on the paddles and the whips and the straps and the canes. My blood. Yesterday, and last week, and the week before that ... time after time after time. Next week and the week after and the week after that.

Blood marks my place. Blood defines my space. Blood becomes the signature of my submission and slavery. It will not be washed away.

swan