"Shut up. Don't say anything"
I'm scared. I can feel a ball of panic rising in my throat and I bite my lip. Majeste scares me. This sudden turn from the jovial banter we'd been enjoying whilst I curled on the floor watching the other women play. The gentle nudge and calm decision "I'll play with you now", the pride and flush of happiness, at being the one who was picked (and this from someone who was always last against the wall at games and an awkward teen). Those things are gone. Now there is this. The press of her face right against mine and the hiss of her command as one hand grasps my face and with the other clamps a peg onto my nipples. Inside, I scream. I hate pegs. Especially on my nipples, where the metal piercings seem to make everything more sensitive, reminding me of the fragility of my extremities. I've had a couple of nipple injuries over the years and the memory stays with me, making me flinch at the thought. I wince at the white-hot crush as the pegs go on, that specific pain that slows to an aching throb which is broad but never dull and never goes away, never fades, but peaks and troughs as if the brain is only able to process so much at once. Then there's the knowledge that they will hurt more when they come off. I'm also scared of pegs. Scared of them being pulled off by violent hands, visions of ripping flesh, blood. She's stronger than me. Much. I'm strapped to a chair, ankles, wrists and a leather band around my chest. I feel weak, captive. Frightened.
Being unable to make any noise has a number of effects. First, it makes the pain worse. It makes it worse because there is nowhere for it to go - I can't let it out. Second, it makes me further beholden to Majeste, in order behave, to be the good girl I need to be, not only must I take this pain that I hate but I must be quiet too. Finally it makes what we are doing private, secret and a little bit more frightening. Her voice is insistent, focused, pushing me to comply with pain in silent suffering, like the cruel bully who does not wish to attract attention. My entire body is clenched with the effort of being quiet. I shake and tears prick my eyes. I want to cry, to demonstrate to her how much this is costing me, how good I am being, but I can't. The tears would involve noises. And I have to be quiet.
"Beg me to take it off." My mind does cartwheels. I'm stuck. I can't do this. I shake my head, teeth gritted like a non-compliant torture victim. Which I am. I know that I'm behaving badly, but I can't help myself. I still can't beg. Not even for a release that I genuinely crave. It would be a giving-in, a collapse, rather than a submission. The submission is in offering myself to her, in taking the pain. To ask for respite would be an admission that I am not good enough, not strong enough, not worth anything. I want to be brave. But I'm scared and I hurt. I shake my head again and she presses down. I see blackness beneath my tightly closed eyelids, feeling like my lungs are two balloons about to pop with the screams they contain. I'm conflicted and that doesn't help my fear: she clearly wants me to beg, but I can't do it and remain honest, it would be a fake begging, a begging staged for her benefit rather than one that came from a real place. And she deserves better than that. I'm better than that.
Eventually, somehow (pain play makes my brain hazy) it does stop. There is the softness of her flesh as she holds me to her and I feel safe once again, she is my rescuer, just as she was my persecutor only moments ago. Her hair falls against my bare skin in light touches like the brush of a flogger. As she unties me I cling to her, coming back to myself, feeling sorry that I couldn't give more, take more. Then there's the rush. The heady relief and realisation that the pain is over, that it's done, that I am released. I grin. She grins. I thank her. We kiss.