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.

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.

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.”

Fuck.

What Hurts? (A Fetlife Challenge)

A Fetlifer issued a challenge this week based on a quote by Ernest Hemingway to write “Hard and clear about what hurts.”   This was my response:


I’d written a haiku in answer to this challenge:

Just the tiny prick
of the needle as it squirts
numbing Novocaine

But the challenge is to write hard and clear, and that haiku is neither hard nor clear.

I think about the answer to the question “What hurts?” and right now, nothingdoes.

Nothing hurts.

There’s nobody holding court in my heart, but it doesn’t feel empty. There’s no dull, hollow ache – the one that had taken residence for so long I’d started to believe I welcomed it.

The only pain I receive now is the pain I seek. The slaps, the bites, the scratching as rope is pulled taut across my skin. The kind of hurt that results in the indulgent satisfaction of surrender.

What hurts, you ask?

Not nearly enough.

The Cheeseboard

There were two of us.  She was the pain whore. I was the pleasure whore. She loved to be marked. I hated it.

“I’m not a sadist,” he’d say.  “She likes the pain, I don’t have to give it to her.”

“Well, I’m not a masochist,” I’d say.  “I don’t like that much pain.  I only like the fun pain.”

He and I took a weekend trip to San Francisco and stopped by a leather store to look for toys.  He got each of us a leash, and then he went to look at paddles.

He picked up this enormous, thick wooden paddle.  I shook my head.  “That’s for her, not me.”

“Turn around,” he said.

“That one isn’t for me.  She’s the pain whore,” I reminded him.

“Turn around,” he insisted.

I did.  He swatted my ass with it, not with much gusto.  Even through the jeans it hurt more than I would have liked.

“Nope.  That’s a big nope for phi, but I’m sure she’ll enjoy it.”

I started calling it the cheeseboard, because it looked like something you’d serve cheese on at a dinner party more than an implement for beating. He swatted me once bare-assed with it at the hotel.  I called red on it instantly and glared at him for even attempting it.

He’d taken it with him the next time he went to stay with her. She hated it.  It came back to my house.

Things eventually went south.  Very south. When he came back to Los Angeles for our final breakup, I was a wreck.  He’d hurt me so deeply, over and over again, until I’d finally had enough.

And even then I was hoping he’d change his mind and realize he was making the wrong choice.

“I know I am,” he said, “but it’s what’s best for you.”

“You said I was your trophy. You said I was your prize.”

“You are,” he responded. “She’s my consolation prize. I have to let you go.”

I begged him to beat me one last time.  To make my outside hurt match my inside hurt.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said.  He hadn’t thought it was such a bad idea to force feed my throat with his cock earlier that day. I pointed this out to him.

“Fine.  This will be the last time.  And it’s 10 swats with the cheeseboard.”

Funny how he’d told me he wasn’t a sadist.

He didn’t go easy on me.  I’ll never forget that final beating. He made me count them and thank him for each one, and I did – knowing they would be the last ten I’d ever get from him.

It’s the only time I’ve ever cried from a beating.

Why I think you want to hurt me

(Originally posted on FetLife March 2015)

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.