The burden

The snow is falling outside, but I can still feel the heat of that room. I need to write this down before the logic of the daylight self-censors it. In the dream, I was nothing. Just flesh and breath. I was naked, the stone floor biting into my knees, and that blindfold… it felt like a heavy industrial PVC seal. I couldn't see them, but I could feel the air move as they circled me. The old Korean monk didn't touch me. He was the architect. I could hear the dry rustle of his robes, the occasional tap of his staff. He was the one who placed the earphones on me. The loop was a low, vibrating hum that seemed to bypass my ears and go straight to my nervous system. “Obedience is pleasure. Your will is a burden. Surrender is freedom.” Then, at his silent signal, the novices began. I could tell there were at least three of them. Young, strong, silent. They didn't treat me like a man, they treated me like a piece of equipment that needed to be broken in. The slapping started, sharp, stinging cracks against my thighs, my chest, my face. It was coordinated. Every time I tried to brace myself for one hit, another landed from a different direction. I was a percussion instrument for their palms. The pain was bright and hot, a screaming contrast to the cold room. The monk’s voice finally broke through the audio: "Let go of the man who decides. Become the man who endures." That’s when the panic hit. I felt the tears hot against the blindfold. I was losing my grip on everything, my dignity, my control, my body, my very name. I felt small. I felt pathetic. I was sobbing, shaking, waiting for the next blow, totally at their mercy. And then, it happened. In the absolute depths of that breakdown, when I finally stopped trying to stay 'Benji' and just became a body being punished, I felt a surge of electricity. A massive, pulsing erection, the most intense I’ve ever had. It was a violent relief. It was the best feeling in the world because, for the first time, the "manager" was dead. I didn't have to lead. I didn't have to provide. I didn't have to be 'impressive'. I was just a naked, weeping object under their hands, and my body was celebrating its own defeat. The relief wasn't just physical; it was the weight of twenty years of responsibility falling off my shoulders and being replaced by the sting of their hands. I wanted them to never stop. I wanted to be owned completely. I’m still hard as I write this. My skin is tingling. I look at my suit hanging in the closet and it looks like a costume for a person I don’t want to be anymore.