I’m not allowed to hurt myself

Last week was rough, professionally and emotionally. For a moment, I was so ready to walk out the door and never go back to work, and I was shaking with the power and powerlessness of my position.

The choice was all mine: stay and be gainfully employed with an unbeatable benefits package that comes with an untenable work environment; or free myself from the abusive behavior of my bosses and lose all of the stability that comes with it.

There is this dichotomy of control and lack of control in these decisions that absolutely drives me bananas.

In a way, everything is under my control. If I walk away from a bad situation, I will free fall into the next phase of my life without a net. If I choose stability, I expose myself to continued abuse.

There is no win-win. There is just uncertainty and risk.

I am familiar with that bananas feeling of having all the power to make a decision in my hands and not knowing which is the right way to go. It’s that feeling that draws me to submission, and by extension: masochism.

That’s the head space where I am relieved from making any decisions at all. That’s the heed space where they are all made for me. Enduring pain is the highest level of submission I can give.

That’s the space where the risks make sense.

So, it’s no wonder that my fantasies and my dreams have taken a more deviant turn lately. I’m craving the escalation of everything. I want kisses with teeth. I want hugs with claws and texture. I don’t want to be led, I want to be thrown, forced, and taken.

I want the pain.

I told him as much, expecting to be given some sort of task to tie me over until I see him next. Something like an increasing number of clothespins or maybe even clamps to inflict pain on myself in the days until he’s there to administer it himself.

But he is a clever sadist, my love is.

“You will self inflict all the pampering and soft pleasures until I see you.”

Clever man. Took the decision right out of my hands.

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Why I think you want to hurt me

This post was originally written and posted on Fetlife in 2015.  I link to it in an essay I have written and will be posting today as well, so I am republishing this one here for reference. 


I want you to understand how submission feels to me. To explain it, I have to tell you why I imagine you want to hurt me.

You want power.

It’s not enough for me to open my mouth or spread my legs for you. You know as well as I do that these things feel good to me. I want you inside me. My body betrays the lie that society or religion or our mothers want us to believe with its warmth and wetness at the thought of you.

In this, my body and mind work in tandem. Wanting. Willing.

Your power – your control over me, wouldn’t come from the penetration of my body but from the denial of it.

Do you sacrifice the pleasure of your flesh for the frisson of your power?

Sometimes you do and that’s enough.

But my body cannot lie when you strike me. It recoils. It shivers and squirms and my flesh reddens in protest.

With each strike, I’m proving my submission to you. First with mind tricks – transforming that pain into feelings of pleasure and enjoyment.

You don’t want my pleasure. That’s not power.

You want my suffering. You want undeniable proof that you are in control.

The strikes bear down harder.

My moans become grunts. Growls. My arching back becomes hunched shoulders.

My mind overrides my body’s demands. For you.

Push me to my limits if that is what it takes to fill your thirst for power. I want this for you. I want you to feel, to understand, to take this control over me.

My body isn’t the gift I give you, this power is. Your acceptance of it excites me.

So push me to my limits, but please don’t exceed them.

Please don’t make me take the gift back.

Cold Water

I like warm water.

One of my favorite feelings in the world is to be submerged in or have very warm water cascading down my skin.

He knows this. I noticed that he knew this a few weeks ago during a shower together. The memory of what it was he did is fuzzy now, I just remember realizing that he’d figured out how much I like it.

The trouble with dating this sadist is that when he learns I really like something, he has gained a new tool with which he can torment me.

And when I say “trouble,” it’s with a smile.

So, yesterday morning, we were heading over to shower and I hesitated to step in, realizing it’d not yet been on long enough to be hot.

He checked the temperature with his hand and I asked, “It’s not hot yet, is it?”

His sadist face came on.

“Get in.”

I stammered and resisted. He grabbed hold of my wrist and pulled me toward the shower door. I watched as he pushed the handle away from “hot” to “cold” and held me there.

There’s this moment where I’m faced with something I don’t want to do and the option to not do it is taken away from me. I recall, as a child, standing at the edge of the diving board when I was still dry and I knew the pool would be cold. I feared the initial shock of the cold water. Yet, I knew after a few minutes acclimate I would to the temperature and it would be a welcome contrast to the hot summer day.

Eventually, I convinced myself that all I had to do was jump. Once I was in the air, the decision to land in the water was out of my hands. I found that the lack of control mid-air made me feel less anxious about what I’d face when I hit the water.

It’s that same moment, when my brain switches from “I don’t want to go in the cold shower,” to “He’s going to make me go in the cold shower,” that brings up a similar sense of tranquility.

And then he pushed me in.

The water was warm.

This is what I love about a sweetheart sadist. He knows I love warm water. He also knows I love it when he pushes me toward the things I resist (plus, he loves the pushing). Yesterday morning, he found a way to give me both.