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.

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.

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.”


Hund’s Rule

They’d been skirting around it for well over a year. The sexual tension had been growing between them, but the timing (as timing often is) had just been off. When they met, he was just out of a relationship. Then when he was ready she was in one. Then when she was out of it his mother had taken ill. Then when that had passed it was something, then another thing.

Through it all, they’d remained close friends. He felt drawn to her as she did to him. She’d watch him at play and it would terrify and intrigue her.

She’d joke, “For someone who says he’s not a sadist, you sure do play the role well.”

He’d shrug. “That’s what they want.”

She knew that she wouldn’t be enough for him. She was too green, too inexperienced, too *tame* to satisfy his needs. And the carousel of women…he never seemed to really get attached to any of them. They’d come and go from his life like bees on flowers. Hovering around for a bit and moving on to the next one.

So when she felt her lips go numb as he watched him with someone else, or when he pulled his shirt off over his head at the beach, or when he simply smiled that smile, her logic brain would kick in and shut it down.

It would never work.

He watched her more intently when she wasn’t paying attention. Her face in profile was already so beautiful, but when he’d catch sight of her looking directly at him with…those eyes…he couldn’t stand it. He’d drown himself in other distractions and convinced himself it was better for everyone.

He’d just broken up with Greta when they’d met. It took him so long to get over that betrayal that he’d built a wall around his heart – a wall of charm and wit and strength and absolutely no trace of vulnerability.

Except when she looked at him. He couldn’t hide it then, and though she never acknowledged it out loud, he thought for sure she could sense it. She was kind that way.

Too kind. Too good. Too pure.

He didn’t deserve her light. She didn’t deserve his darkness.

The night of her bad scene, she called him first. He dropped his date off at her car and made a beeline for her apartment, where he found her huddled on the floor by the sofa. The sight of her in such a state ignited a rage that burned to his very core.

“What happened? What did he do?”

“I …no, he didn’t,” suddenly she felt like she’d been overreacting.

He dropped down to his knees beside her and put his arm around her, pressing her face against his chest. “Please tell me what happened.” He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to stay calm.

“I just…I wanted to be *more*….”, she sputtered through choked back sobs. “I wanted to be able to take more. So you could….” her voice trailed off as she realized how ridiculous it sounded.

He could feel his heartbeat echoing in his ears. So he could what? What was she talking about?

He pulled her into a tight hug and pulled her away so he could look at her tear stained face. Watery lashes and smeared mascara framed the deep hue of her eyes as she looked back. She was searching his face. For what?

He realized, he’d been searching hers.

For what?

He leaned in and kissed her. Softly. After over a year, he’d finally the courage to do what he’d thought about doing since the moment he saw her – timid and wide-eyed at the dungeon party so long ago.

She sniffled. He’d kissed her. She wasn’t wrong. He felt something. But no, he needed it. How many times had she seen him with others. He needed to give the pain and she had tried tonight. Tried to be strong enough, but she couldn’t take it.

She looked away again, and her skin jolted when he placed a finger under her chin to lift it back up toward him.

He was looking right at her. She’d seen flickers before, but he always masked them so well she thought them imagined. There it was. His passion. His desire. His vulnerability.

She wanted him, so badly. She’d been wanting him the whole time. Gathering all the courage she could muster, she looked up at him one last time.

“Can you do this without having to hurt me?”

The question struck him to his core. The wall had shown her only one facet of his ability to connect with people. She thought him a sadist. She couldn’t possibly understand how very deeply that affected him.

Or how very deeply she’d affected him. He stared at her lips, her eyes, her cheekbones. He took in the whole of her face and saw the beauty in her soul that she’d never tried to hide. He’d just been looking the other way.

Consciously he let down his guard. He’d risk it, for her. With tears welling up in his own dark eyes, he nodded gently, then asked, “Can you?”

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.