Absolution, possession and punishment.
These are the three moments in which I find the belt in my hand. Not just any belt, “the” belt. The belt that I wore through most of my ambitious 20s. It’s hard leather is now soft to the touch, the western etching barely seen compared to it’s younger days. It’s retired now, no longer worn. It sits curled up by its lonesome in the top drawer of a large black walnut dresser. It rarely leaves it’s resting place..
The arguably most twisted of intentions is to provide absolution. To describe it with depravity, would be to compare it to the confessional. She willingly bears her guilt, her self described sins, her mental torment…knowing the cost for relief. For her, those feelings of remorse, hate, or otherwise disdain towards herself, disappear after judgement and correction have been passed. There’s nothing quite like it for me. The feeling of power as my lover knowingly and willing comes to me with my belt in hand. The emotion heightens as I feel her trust in my judgement, further bringing me closer to her…as I tread the line. The story is completed, when my controlled fury has been expelled at the expense of her internal turmoil. The high reaches its peak when she finds her peace, and I find myself engulfed in comforter, protector. Our roles…create solace only we understand.
My relationship with possession and the belt can be very simple bordering on complicated. Wrapping it around her neck, whether to hold her tight or to tether her to the bed from the night brings clarity to her role. Curling it up and placing it on her lower back and quieting the room, or stuffing it in her mouth to remind her that she’s my beautiful pet, graciously depicting her role as Owned. The complication with the belt and possession when the need bubbles to the surface to mark her. When she’s bare, lacking a simple necklace/daytime collar, my handwriting in lipstick on her body, or any semblance of me. When the craving begins to overwhelm me…similar to grasping two hands around her throat as I slide in and out. Using a belt in this moment, to mark, to see her body absorb, react, and encourage further intensity…requires intimate understanding and trust. It can’t be confused with punishment or absolution. It feels more animalistic than anything, almost as if you are biting her neck while thrusting deeper, holding her down, or forcing her to relinquish orgasms to you. The belt, clarifying who she is to me.
Lastly, and most obvious, the role of my belt and punishment. Admittedly, it’s not my favorite. I’m not one of those men who wish for bad behavior so that I can react. Bratty actions won’t even give me a thought of opening that top drawer. In fact, it’s rarely been pulled out for pure discipline. Partially, I think I fear that viciousness in myself, the kind that throttles the soul. It shook mine, the first time I held my belt with fury. My knuckles turned white as I assessed what was about to happen, what needed to be done. When it was done, I had lashed and wallped until I was satisfied… It was me who felt scarred. It was as if she had taken a part of me that I couldn’t get back…or perhaps seen a part of me that I could no longer hide. The marks were on her, but they felt like they were on me. Nothing has ever pushed me closer to nearly feeling out of control, which is perhaps why I don’t wish for it.
It doesn’t leave that drawer, without purpose. It doesn’t move without consent. It doesn’t make a sound without a memory.
