Moisture slips along the smooth glass and trickles crystal sighs down the surface of my poignant sorrow, cocooned in the cool glow of artificial light and pretence. I sit at my desk and let my eyes soar into the greyness of sky and lake and eyes as green as spring mute and fade to slate and disappear into the vastness of the weeping horizon.
Angel asked a rhetorical question lately, which I have been musing on since. (see here) Although my mind in some ways is restless and constantly questing, I realized when she posed that question and mentally tried to answer it, that the realities are far more compelling than I had truly understood.
I know that I have a knee jerk reaction when someone says incredulously “you like PAIN”... no I don’t like pain! I’m not nuts – WHO likes pain?
Except I do – sort of.
For a long time I justified it as “not really pain” as when it got to the point when it “hurt” I was usually in a head space where my mind didn’t interpret it as “pain”... right?
Honesty after all, particularly with yourself is important. And the bottom line is that even when I LIKE it, it still bloody HURTS and yes, I admit it! I like the hurt. The hurt grounds me in a manner of speaking, it provides a focus point and a lifeline, a spiritual connection to the hand wielding it...
So Angel’s question made me explore the convoluted highways and byways of selkie’s mind to figure out (or at least attempt to) why a certain level of pain can bring me to a place that I consequently seek again and again. And in the thinking came up with some personal revelations.
First, I am, and always have been, a risk-taker. I have always been the one who jumped, who put her hand up, who even when her heart was hammering in her chest with terror, stepped out and took the plunge. I didn’t plan myself that way nor feel I had anything to prove to anyone- there is just something in me that drives me to face and conquer the things that intimidate or frighten me. I do think that this personality quirk is partially responsible for my willingness to explore the limits of sensation.
Second, I have a very, very unfocused, restless, even at times, chaotic mind. In some respects, I am a terrific service submissive, as my mind is always anticipating, always planning, always looking ahead and formulating plans and underlining tasks and nudging reminders. This mean, for D., his life was in many respects, extremely smooth – his vitamins always there, fresh coffee beans whenever he went to grind some, gym clothes washed and ready.... but it also means that I seem to lack the ability to focus on my own immediate needs – in fact, finding it far easier to focus on everyone else’s.
The room is quiet, the clicking of fingers on a keyboard, the distant sound of laughter down the hallway, the almost imperceptible hum of the machinery .... My breasts feel full and aching beneath the embrace of the pale blue bra, nipples swollen and distended, throbbing to the slow measured rhythm of my heart as my mind remembers the sublime peace in being used.
Restraint is first of all crucial for me to completely engage in the moment. Quite simply, unless you make me, I can’t be still. Focusing me, making me calm, making me capitulate, succumb is difficult... until the MOMENT ... and then you can physically SEE it.. the submitting .... my head will stop straining, my body quietens and as you can watch, all the muscles in my body just calm and I accept ... a sweet, sensuous giving in ... and that is me .... when I am restrained, cuffed, roped and spread, I simply, for that moment, finally STOP... and in my case, the ropes don’t have to be physical but can be metaphorical.
And in stopping, I am open, I am present, I am ALL there.. available to my sadist, my emotions, my feelings, my body open to his choices. There is the sweetest, most sensuous emotion which sweeps over me when I finally STOP and allow myself to submit ... allow him ingress to my flesh and to my soul, an almost spiritual awakening that flushes a hot sexual need through my entire body.
I am never more vulnerable then when I submit... my body open, the barriers gone from soul and spirit, the hot, throbbing centre of me painfully, tenderly laid bare. And as if involuntary, my body responds physically, membranes flush and swell, nipples tighten and engorge, the tender flesh of my inner thighs glisten with the moisture which begins to well from between my splayed legs.... as if this mute offering of tender, fecund flesh will placate and calm the beast without ...
Now at this point, if the sadist just began whaling away, there is a very good chance that the sting and hurt would disrupt the waves of yes that I would presently be experiencing. It would snap my mind back from its submissive state into protest and anger and in so doing, dissipate any chance of pursuing the scene further.
No... subtly is important, coaxing, teasing and licking want into the skin so it burrows beneath the surface, slips into the pores and teases nerves into flowering and expanding and accepting. Stroking and firm flesh on flesh, singeing flames into the aching and moisture into the awakening.
For me, flesh on flesh is crucial, at the beginning, during and most decidedly at the end. To feel the warm reality of skin against mine, the sliding unmistakable friction, the moist reality of breath against my neck, all providing fodder to the thoughts now wheeling about in my heart. For another crucial part of the puzzle for me is to understand, to comprehend, to encompass and embrace the reality of the person inflicting the pain.
There is a fierce joy in me to internalize that caressing my flesh, smacking it, watching the pale Irish skin warm, flush pink then crimson, is something fiercely, passionately and ardently WANTED by the person doing it.
The knowledge that MY compliance, MY tacit and obvious agreement, MY flesh by being available to him, MY trust implicit that it is his to abuse yet not destroy, MY submission in short to his desires is something that delights, elates, that arouses and satisfies to the soul something in he to whom I submit is in itself so fiercely powerful that tears often trickle from beneath my closed lids.
And done right, the intensity of the session can increase exponentially with the intensity of the moment.
For the rhythm of the flogger as it tattoos my flesh, the crack of the crop against the firm flesh of buttock, the thud of the tawse against the flesh of my inner thighs.... all serve to ground me, orient me, remind me of why I am there.
I find myself welcoming the hurt, the hot searing sting, wanting more, craving the intensity to increase, the sensation to rise further. Deep in the middle of a well-planned session, I am not entirely rational – not mad or crazy or out of my mind – but soaring. Grounded in the here and the now, in this SECOND, in this moment of living, relishing the reminder of my mortality, drinking in the sublime moment of joy as if the pain is a beast I have mounted and which pounds through the byways of my convoluted psyche with the hot muscular pull of muscle and feel of freedom against my face.
It’s a good thing my sadist, despite the intensity of his own emotions, is in control... because truly I know the strength of my own want would lead me to demand more and harder, hurt me fiercely because it is as if my nerves have morphed into something separate from the everyday realities of my flesh and have begun to confuse pain (which is intended to be a warning to the body to desist) with an unspoken imperative to reach further and longer and harder ....
And if you asked me, at the apex of my frenzy – do I hurt? I would look at you with confused eyes ... for at that point hurt is such a relative term and carries no meaning.
And through it all, I need the flesh on flesh .... the reassurance that he is there, that he is in charge, a restless mare, quietened with a soft pat, an over-excited creature, soothed with his stroking. His teeth fastened in my shoulder will focus me and calm me, his cock in my mouth will exhilarate and ground me.
Once he starts to bring me down, to wind the intensity to a level of rationality, then the pain begins to creep in. The skin of my back, abraded and raw, the welts along the buttocks, aching, the soft, tender flesh of inner thigh stinging .... awareness creeps in like a flutter of soft wings and I will start to shake. My mind is soft, frightened, my soul vulnerable and involuntarily at this stage, my entire body will start to quiver.
Gentle hands, soft voice, butterfly kisses along my trembling jaw, tender lick along the line of neck, hands firm and capable rubbing gently along the abused skin and most important, pulled into the safety of his embrace and loving arms. I need to be held, I need to be reassured and in so doing, I need to know he is also reassuring himself. That in his way, he is also craving and needing the reassurance of our mutual exploration, our capitulation to our respective demons ...
The aftermath of a session is exquisitely, sensuously relaxing. Like the end of a yoga session (I’ve drawn that parallel before), my body is relaxed, almost drugged, my mind calm. A challenging yoga class can leave your muscles aching, some twinges and pulls of a minor nature but most of all it leaves your body tingling and feeling alive and worked as a body was made to be worked. For me, lying sleepy and content afterwards is similar. My skin feels tender and incredibly sensitive, my muscles – which I inevitably tense and untense throughout – are relaxed and soft, my heart thuds slowly, quietly in my chest. I feel a certitude and comfort that is quietly spiritual. The welts are sore but in a way that is removed from the immediacy of need, while other areas of my body might herald a distant ache that I know will translate into more serious reminders tomorrow.... but at that point, it just does not matter and I am at peace.