Random vignettes from the weekend- getting the shit beaten out of me

Andrew and I chatted in the vendor's area.
He taught the bloodplay class, and Jack and I helped clean up after and get his girl up to their room and cleaned up.
We chatted a bit about playing then, but not too much came of it at the time. That was Saturday, and I played with Rox Saturday night.

This was Sunday. He asked me about Jack's and my dynamic, and asked how one went about negotiating playing with, say, me. I started dancing inside.
I know, I know, I usually Top. But this weekend was stressful as hell for me, and I've been needing a good release for at least a month.
How Jack and I usually do it, I explained, was that I did the general negotiations then all three of us fine-tuned it. We both grinned.

But Jack had just finished being interrogated and we were both blood sugar-crashing so I promised I'd try and catch up with him later, then ran out.

That night, I'd almost given up on having a chance to talk to him as he'd walked by quickly several time, and Jack and I were about to go back to Kat's to sleep.
Then Andrew came walking out with his girl Sangre, so I went to give him a hug goodbye since I assumed he wasn't feeling like playing.
His first words were, "So do I get to hurt you or what?"
I started grinning like an idiot. Or at least, I felt like grinning like an idiot. I have no idea what my actual expression was.

Because you see, I don't cry. I'm kind of ridiculously stoic about shit most of the time. I can't just cry because I need to- like, you know, I have for the past month- I have to have some kind of excuse. Like, well, getting the shit beaten out of me.

We negotiated some with Jack. I wanted to bawl my eyes out, and I wanted to make sure that was okay. It was. He wanted to do some punching and pressure points and wanted to make sure that was okay. It was. I wanted Jack there, which was a requirement. That was okay, too.
We were all okay, and life was good, so we headed to their hotel room (we'd already checked out). He smacked Sangre around for a minute to warm up a bit, and I stripped.

Then he grabbed me, threw me on the bed, and worked on pinning me.
And I do mean worked. I'm little, and I'm slippery when I'm sweating. And I was rapidly sweating, because despite my original assumption that I'd be able to 'behave' for him, I was fighting. Fight-or-flight kicked in, and I don't run away from someone trying to hurt me. I hurt them back.
Of course, that hadn't been negotiated and I had enough of a brain to know that I didn't want to piss him off. I could see the control he was exercising as he hurt me, and I didn't feel like tempting him to lose control at all. I really, really didn't.
But when he had me wrapped up small and was reaching for the various pressure points on my body there was no way I could not twist away, no way that as he pinned my foot down to keep me from kicking him I could manage not to knock his hand off of my chest. His face was a study in intensity and sadistic delight, and I could feel the sobs growing heavier in my chest as this motherfucker dug into what felt like every sensitive point on my body. He asked me what dirty words I liked, and it nearly knocked me back into normal thought, the question seemed so strange. I didn't know how to answer.
Then he dug into another spot and I started yelping, "Fuck fuck fuck that hurts!" It wasn't long before he had me, um, exercising my vocabulary, forcing me to breathe and expel some of the toxins, rather than holding my breath (and my pain and anger and every-fucking-thing else) like I usually do. (You know, I only just realized why he did that as I was writing this... LOL!)
He'd pin my legs and one hand, then dig into my chest. "OW Goddammit OW!" and I'd use my free hand to punch his hand away from my chest. He'd pin it down, and punch my ass. "Sonuvabitch!" and I'd kick again.
He smacked my face, and I grunted for him in pain and pleasure.
He dug into my hip and I yelped and tried to kick him.
He pinned me on my stomach and I made noises of desperation mixed with happiness.
He flipped me over and pinched deeply into my pec, just above my breast (he actually did an amazing job of never touching any 'naughty bits' despite all of that) and I screamed. Or I think I did. I felt like screaming. I punched his wrist, forcing him off my slippery, sweaty skin.
He knelt on my hands and did it again. I cussed and writhed and got out from under his hand.
He got me back down and did it again.

And I broke, sobbing. "There she goes," he said, and it was surprsingly gentle. It felt like permission, and I took it. I cried. I screamed, silently apparently, back arching up off the bed, with Andrew on one side of me pressed close with his hand in my own clenched fingers, and Jack holding my head lovingly.
I shook, hard, with silent sobs and I felt that hard knot of pain in my chest slowly loosen, dissolve in the wash of my long-overdue tears.
They held me the entire time.

My pec is still sore as hell, but I have complete range of movement with it and there's not a mark on me.
And every once in a while, I'll reach over and press into the muscle bruise there and smile.

Thank you, Andrew. Very, very much.