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.


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.

No, No, No….Yes.

The orgasm had been building. I was at the edge. He was above me, looking down. Those details don’t matter. That’s not what this is about.

I was wearing those clamps. The clover clamps.

The orgasm had been building.

“Yes,” he said, answering the question asked wordlessly with my eyes and a whimper.

My eyes closed. I didn’t see it coming.

The orgasm exploded, followed by the burning, searing pain of my left nipple’s release from the clamps I’d all but forgotten were there. My eyes shoot open. His eyes, staring down at me, drinking of my reaction.

I can feel it now as I recall it. Fuck.


And then he moved his hand to the second clamp, still secured to my right nipple.

“No, No, No…” The words came out and I knew I didn’t mean them. Still riding the wave of that orgasm, I wanted the pain. I craved it.

I saw his hesitation. I don’t say “no.”

My eyes locked on his.

“Yes. Please.”


Bite me.

Bite me.

No, really. Bite me. Make it hurt.
(It doesn’t really hurt.)
Okay, it hurts – but it doesn’t.
it feels good.
Not when you’re biting.
When you let go.
That’s when I let go.

When I imagine,
I look at you
right at you
Daring you
and bending you to my will
(because it’s my mind and it’s all my will)

When it’s real
nothing of the sort.
Unpredictable you
I control nothing
That’s the way I like it.

So when this starts
It’s all “Bite me.”
But in reality,
I always ask….

Masochist Training

The touch that hurts me is still first and foremost touch.

And, when you hurt me, I can feel the imprint of your palm for minutes after the touching part has ended.

The harder you strike,
the longer I can feel your contact on my skin.

So, it shouldn’t come to anybody’s surprise if I were to whimper:

Harder, please.

Emotional Masochist

She sat on the stool, head in her hands, elbows to knees.

There were two.

The one on the left had all the potential. He was magnetic. He’d studied her. He knew how to get inside her head and take what he wanted from her. He would live off her tears. She might be everything he wanted.

The other had all the history. He knew how she thought and how she squeaked. He’d frequently been the cause of her tears; though he’d never witnessed them himself. She knew she wasn’t enough for him.

They would both hurt her. They could both own her. But she could only choose one.

It was time for them to make their case.

The one on the left leaned in. “I’m going to hurt you,” he whispered. “I’m going to hurt you over, and over.” He caressed the back of her neck softly before threading his strong fingers through her hair and pulling back hard. His lips centimeters from her face. “You’ll beg me for it.”

He let go and took a step back.

The one on the right didn’t lean forward. He didn’t reach out to touch her. He just stood there, arms at his side.

She finally looked up and into his eyes.

He said just two words: “Come now.”

Both could own her, but one already did.