Pain Is Beauty [F] | 2016

Now, several hours after their sadomasochistic rendezvous, his faint crimson handprints still branded her derrière.

Upon discovering these wounds of passion by catching an accidental glimpse of her own undraped form in the mirror prior to bathing, she felt a strange sense of satisfaction come over her.

She did not understand, nor did she try to fight, the smile that spread across her face as she curiously perused the discolored markings on her behind.

How ironic, she mused, that these very same ass cheeks that her reflection now so gingerly caressed had endured such violence merely hours before. She had a sort of cognitive dissonance about these naughty secrets glowing on her flesh when she lifted up her skirt. Tiny purplish-red spots etched her skin; little physical reminders of him that, given a day or two, were sure to fade.

A part of her didn't want them to.

She shrugged the thought away, expelled a heavy sigh, and drew a bath. And in that moment, she decided she would wear her be-speckled bottom like an Olympian wears a gold medal: with unabashed pride.

There was a sort of fleeting beauty in the bruises. As if they were the only tangible evidence that the surreal erotic encounter had not been a dream.