A conversation on my twitter stream got me to think about crying, kink and gendered attitudes to emotional release. Bear with me, it will all merge together seamlessly. Crying - and I mean genuine, gut-wrenching bent over uncontrollable snotty sobbing rather than a few Virgin Mary dew drops on the cheek - is an astonishing outpouring of human emotion and a very challenging thing to watch and to participate in, especially if you are kinky.
Even if you are not, it is a strange sensation, a rarity to see someone cry in public for example, except on cases of obvious exception such as a funeral - in which case the oddity is not crying. Social expectations, perhaps in particular British social expectations mean that the physical breakdown and loss of control shown through crying can make us feel very uncomfortable. We know that someone is unhappy, so unhappy that they are unable to mask that feeling in accordance with the weight of social convention. We empathise with them, and perhaps our heart gives a little pang as it reaches out to them, but at the same time we feel a barrier, we may even feel awkward around them, possibly needing to move away. They have passed over a certain point, we have not.
Dacryphilia, to give it the full name is a complicated beastie, as hinted in the wiki link.Tears, especially a man's tears, are rare, hard and beautiful like diamonds. More so than anger, which is the more generally conditioned male response and certainly the most socially acceptable. One could argue that men are taught to get angry and women are taught to cry, certainly I have been around many more crying women than men and the few men who have cried in my presence have been long term partners after a serious emotional incident.
I love tears. Both crying and the idea of making someone cry. Tears evoke exactly the sort of push/pull response that is the foundation of my own power exchange and D/s. They are a release that gives intense relief after something pent up has been let go - in a very similar way to pain play or to orgasm, an ideal scenario (for me at any rate) would involve all three. It hits all of my buttons. The physical manifestation of an emotional and psychological overload: the mixture of shame, sexual flush, fear and desire. I find tears fascinating. I don't cry often in the presence of others - like many I view breaking down in tears as having "lost" and I have yet to force anyone else to the point of tears. But I want to.
At the moment I can only imagine what it might be like to be the dominant in such a scenario - I have been on the other side of the equation so I understand the level of submission and emotional reliance that this can entail, and therefore the duty of care and responsibility that kind of crying it would bring, would mean. Equally I know that, like orgasm, the release can be very context specific. I have cried as a bottom and it has been a pleasure to cry and to experience the joy of doing so. And finally, I have cried simply for the sorrow and loss of the end of a D/s relationship that was very special and important to me - one that I thought would be forever. I literally sat down and wept every single day for a couple of weeks, I am certain that I cried more than I have ever cried in my life. But each day I cried a little less, and like the washing out of shore by the tides it cleansed something inside of me.
I want to kiss the tears that I have created off the glistening cheeks of my lover as I wrap my arms around them and let them sob their heart out, comforting and protecting them. The need to cry is in some respects like the need for orgasm, and to be the person who can inspire and fulfill both those needs must be a heady sensation indeed. It's one thing to bring someone to orgasm - even going via a humiliating or challenging route, quite another to make them do so through a mist tears. To take them through that barrier of social constraint, to the next level of trust and opening up, to mingle hurt with pleasure with loss of bodily control. To know, and yet not quite know, because the inside of other people's heads and hearts are still a wonderful mystery, that their tears are like yours in part but belong to you in whole.
Showing posts with label tears. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tears. Show all posts
Friday, 12 November 2010
Thursday, 20 May 2010
Canes
I'm scared of canes. Before I even knew what they felt like, I was scared of them because everyone told me how much they hurt. They are my own personal bogey man, the thing under my bed. I now know that they do hurt an awful lot, and the knowledge has not made me any less afraid. But for the first time in my life, I actually want to be hit with a cane.
This all stems from Monday night. I can still feel the three stripes on my thighs from the "light taps" I received from Captain, and I'm trying to bring the sensation that caused them to mind. As always, I know that it hurt a lot, that it was intense, but the exact amount of pain is hard to say. It's always more than I remember and always unpleasant and delivers nothing but pain, taking my breath away and forcing out a cry. It's a clean and sharp pain, a hot cut that slashes the skin and pushes deep into the muscles. A bright pain too, I almost always see stars behind my closed eyelids. It almost always makes me cry.
Tied face down to a leather padded bench. Rope criss-crossing me and pulled tight like a net from the tips of my toes all the way up to my head. I was relaxed, lying sweet and comfortable, setting into the nest of tense rope that holds me in like a comfort blanket. That was before Captain went over to get the canes. I saw them earlier, all laid out, as he sprayed them with water to keep them supple, so I was already partly aware of possible intentions. We'd been playing with some shibari positions, working out which ties could be slipped easily, which were actually secure, what felt "right" and what pulled awkwardly. I'd happily been moved around into different positions, a content and supple doll for rope practice. Now, upon hearing the swish of a cane cut through the air I went tense, an attempt at readiness that can never be realised.
The first few blows were taps, and the relief I felt was balanced out by the knowledge that the cane was going to be used, not just a noise to surprise or shock me. When the first stronger blow came I cried out, there's no control or resistance when I'm being hit with a cane, it's just pure aversion response. I can't keep quiet and keeping still is hard. The rope took care of the latter. A few taps and another blow later and I was in floods of tears. Being frightened makes me cry, being in pain makes me cry. But more than that it was the sadness at being so vulnerable, so unable to take what is perceived as such light and little blows. Unhappiness at my own weakness, at the speed at which I gave in and cried. Added to that, the uncertainty of not knowing how long this would go on for, whether the blows would get harder.
The tears were cathartic, crying is energising in a way, allowing those horrible thoughts and feelings to bubble out and disperse - pushing them away from my mind and body. There is something satisfying in having a good cry, and having a reason to do so. The same with canes. Which is why when he leant over me, so I could feel how hard he was and how much he was enjoying himself I felt better, happier. He asked me whether I would take more, for him and I replied "yes, Sir" instantly, naturally. Because that helped me. Knowing that I was doing it for him, that it was pleasing him and having that connection. The thing I was giving up. The thing he was taking. As the words left my mouth I wondered at the pleasure in saying yes like that. In acquiescing to something I was scared of, something that hurt. It's wrong to say I got no pleasure from it. There was the thrill in being brave, in saying yes, certainly there was the knowledge that I was pleasing him (of course) but there was also power in consent.
Which brings me to the strange realisation that I do want more. To give myself over and to endure. I have a strong suspicion that when it comes to it, I will not want it, but now, removed, I do. I want the pain and the fear not for themselves, but to have someone take me through them, beyond my own personal barriers and aversions and into a place where the pain can become something beyond the pain itself. I want to be able to take more than I currently can, so in a way it is part of a personal challenge. I want the cane to be in context, to be part of something that is meaningful. I also want to be able to inhabit the pain in a way that I can do for other sensations - flogging, needles and spanking spring clearly to mind. They all give me something else, deep spaced out sensations or high as a kite giggling. I'm sure that there must be some equivalent with canes rather than just short, sharp shocks of pure punishment.
This all stems from Monday night. I can still feel the three stripes on my thighs from the "light taps" I received from Captain, and I'm trying to bring the sensation that caused them to mind. As always, I know that it hurt a lot, that it was intense, but the exact amount of pain is hard to say. It's always more than I remember and always unpleasant and delivers nothing but pain, taking my breath away and forcing out a cry. It's a clean and sharp pain, a hot cut that slashes the skin and pushes deep into the muscles. A bright pain too, I almost always see stars behind my closed eyelids. It almost always makes me cry.
Tied face down to a leather padded bench. Rope criss-crossing me and pulled tight like a net from the tips of my toes all the way up to my head. I was relaxed, lying sweet and comfortable, setting into the nest of tense rope that holds me in like a comfort blanket. That was before Captain went over to get the canes. I saw them earlier, all laid out, as he sprayed them with water to keep them supple, so I was already partly aware of possible intentions. We'd been playing with some shibari positions, working out which ties could be slipped easily, which were actually secure, what felt "right" and what pulled awkwardly. I'd happily been moved around into different positions, a content and supple doll for rope practice. Now, upon hearing the swish of a cane cut through the air I went tense, an attempt at readiness that can never be realised.
The first few blows were taps, and the relief I felt was balanced out by the knowledge that the cane was going to be used, not just a noise to surprise or shock me. When the first stronger blow came I cried out, there's no control or resistance when I'm being hit with a cane, it's just pure aversion response. I can't keep quiet and keeping still is hard. The rope took care of the latter. A few taps and another blow later and I was in floods of tears. Being frightened makes me cry, being in pain makes me cry. But more than that it was the sadness at being so vulnerable, so unable to take what is perceived as such light and little blows. Unhappiness at my own weakness, at the speed at which I gave in and cried. Added to that, the uncertainty of not knowing how long this would go on for, whether the blows would get harder.
The tears were cathartic, crying is energising in a way, allowing those horrible thoughts and feelings to bubble out and disperse - pushing them away from my mind and body. There is something satisfying in having a good cry, and having a reason to do so. The same with canes. Which is why when he leant over me, so I could feel how hard he was and how much he was enjoying himself I felt better, happier. He asked me whether I would take more, for him and I replied "yes, Sir" instantly, naturally. Because that helped me. Knowing that I was doing it for him, that it was pleasing him and having that connection. The thing I was giving up. The thing he was taking. As the words left my mouth I wondered at the pleasure in saying yes like that. In acquiescing to something I was scared of, something that hurt. It's wrong to say I got no pleasure from it. There was the thrill in being brave, in saying yes, certainly there was the knowledge that I was pleasing him (of course) but there was also power in consent.
Which brings me to the strange realisation that I do want more. To give myself over and to endure. I have a strong suspicion that when it comes to it, I will not want it, but now, removed, I do. I want the pain and the fear not for themselves, but to have someone take me through them, beyond my own personal barriers and aversions and into a place where the pain can become something beyond the pain itself. I want to be able to take more than I currently can, so in a way it is part of a personal challenge. I want the cane to be in context, to be part of something that is meaningful. I also want to be able to inhabit the pain in a way that I can do for other sensations - flogging, needles and spanking spring clearly to mind. They all give me something else, deep spaced out sensations or high as a kite giggling. I'm sure that there must be some equivalent with canes rather than just short, sharp shocks of pure punishment.
Thursday, 4 February 2010
Waves and particles
Sometimes, the doll project puts me in compromising positions. Like at Sweet Torments, over the weekend in which I was dressed up as a "chav slut". White tracksuit, gold hoops, oodles of lipgloss, white stilettos and leopard print knickers. All class.
I was fairly relieved when it was time to take my clothes off. There was something exceptionally strange about being in the wrong uniform - feeling out of place and as if I didn't belong. Naked, I was more clothed in the conventions of the group, I felt more a part of what was going on. There was also the sense that in that choice of outfit (admittedly, chosen for me by The Professor) I was slightly taking the piss - which I wasn't, I hasten to add. Also there was an element of feeling like I was playing a game of BDSM, by poking holes in conventions, and I wasn't sure whether that made me an acceptable act of comedy or a shameless tourist. No-one complained, a few people laughed, a couple even thought it was hot so overall I don't think I offended anyone. I did stick out, and unusually for me, the exhibitionist it was uncomfortable. A woman in white velour in a sea of black leather.
Once laid out on the bench, I began to feel more at home, relaxing into what turned into an amazing double-domming session with The Professor and O' Hara, a female friend of his who I'd only be introduced to a few hours earlier, however, The Professor and I have had a couple of discussions regarding what was acceptable and what wasn't, and ultimately, I've known him for long enough to trust him and those around him. I wasn't wrong.
Cotton wool pads go over my eyes and clingfilm is wrapped tight around my head and neck. After the briefest of pauses, a finger pokes a hole into my mouth so I can breathe. Cool gel is rubbed on my back and there's the crackling hum of an alternator. I feel my muscles relaxing, melting slightly into the bench as they take control of my body, moving me through different levels of sensation from giggly warmth through to the deep, blackness of pain-causing-sorrow.
The play works in two ways at the same time, like particles and waves. The waves keep me going. They are the regular inputs, the ongoing build that peaks and troughs, each time allowing a pause or gap for me to catch my breath, to reassure or be reassured that I am fine (more than fine, that I am giddy with pleasure and submerged in a rolling arc going onwards, onwards to a crescendo). And after each pause, the build starts again, a little higher and heavier than before, so that each crest is harder than the one before and thus I move inexorably onwards. Within each pause, the sensation softens utterly, turning me to jelly, but never stopping, never leaving me alone or uncared for. Within each wave, the type of object used and the pain received changes, getting more powerful - hands become floggers become heavier floggers.
The particles are the interspersed dots of sudden sensation, from many different sources. They make me jolt, jump and scream. Unlike the wave, they are unpredictable, they do not build, they are fleeting moments of pain. Arriving then gone. Darts of electrical current, stabbed through my inner thighs, bites to my shoulders, bottom and upper arms that plunge me into adrenaline thumping fight-or-flight responses. Later, there is a knife, pressed against my back, my neck, my face and then against my cunt and clit in repeated, controlled stabbing motions. Just as the wave reassures me, the particles panic me - that wet-mouthed awareness of fear and helplessness, of not knowing what is going to happen or when.
They work in tandem. The waves carry me down, heavy and pressing into thick and fuzzy headspaces. The particles push me up, keeping me sensitized and crackling - they also hurt with the sharp, bright pain that forces gasps and cries out of me whilst the waves make me want to purr and moan. Finally, towards the end, something in me lets go and I am caught between these endless, increasing, alternating sensations. I start to cry. This time I know where my tears are coming from, and they are almost deliberate. Here is a safe space to cry, to let out that sorrow and loneliness that comes upon me in a controlled and managed scenario. Like primal scream therapy I'm using these sensations to force an internal catharsis, choosing how and when I will mourn for my own (still present, still keeping me cold) heartache. The pain is a trigger in and of itself, but together with those shadows in my heart it becomes something more as I let my emotions mingle with the physical sensations. It all pours out. I cry. It is wonderful. They are wonderful. I'm high as a kite, half-curled up in pain and all-over-shuddering from the pleasure of it all.
When they stop, I stop crying, almost immediately. Something which The Professor found curious and at the time I could not explain but now can. The pain is a channel through which I can express these emotions. When it's their I can let them go. When it's not I chose not to, because that is what getting better is all about, being able to put these feelings in their place.
I was fairly relieved when it was time to take my clothes off. There was something exceptionally strange about being in the wrong uniform - feeling out of place and as if I didn't belong. Naked, I was more clothed in the conventions of the group, I felt more a part of what was going on. There was also the sense that in that choice of outfit (admittedly, chosen for me by The Professor) I was slightly taking the piss - which I wasn't, I hasten to add. Also there was an element of feeling like I was playing a game of BDSM, by poking holes in conventions, and I wasn't sure whether that made me an acceptable act of comedy or a shameless tourist. No-one complained, a few people laughed, a couple even thought it was hot so overall I don't think I offended anyone. I did stick out, and unusually for me, the exhibitionist it was uncomfortable. A woman in white velour in a sea of black leather.
Once laid out on the bench, I began to feel more at home, relaxing into what turned into an amazing double-domming session with The Professor and O' Hara, a female friend of his who I'd only be introduced to a few hours earlier, however, The Professor and I have had a couple of discussions regarding what was acceptable and what wasn't, and ultimately, I've known him for long enough to trust him and those around him. I wasn't wrong.
Cotton wool pads go over my eyes and clingfilm is wrapped tight around my head and neck. After the briefest of pauses, a finger pokes a hole into my mouth so I can breathe. Cool gel is rubbed on my back and there's the crackling hum of an alternator. I feel my muscles relaxing, melting slightly into the bench as they take control of my body, moving me through different levels of sensation from giggly warmth through to the deep, blackness of pain-causing-sorrow.
The play works in two ways at the same time, like particles and waves. The waves keep me going. They are the regular inputs, the ongoing build that peaks and troughs, each time allowing a pause or gap for me to catch my breath, to reassure or be reassured that I am fine (more than fine, that I am giddy with pleasure and submerged in a rolling arc going onwards, onwards to a crescendo). And after each pause, the build starts again, a little higher and heavier than before, so that each crest is harder than the one before and thus I move inexorably onwards. Within each pause, the sensation softens utterly, turning me to jelly, but never stopping, never leaving me alone or uncared for. Within each wave, the type of object used and the pain received changes, getting more powerful - hands become floggers become heavier floggers.
The particles are the interspersed dots of sudden sensation, from many different sources. They make me jolt, jump and scream. Unlike the wave, they are unpredictable, they do not build, they are fleeting moments of pain. Arriving then gone. Darts of electrical current, stabbed through my inner thighs, bites to my shoulders, bottom and upper arms that plunge me into adrenaline thumping fight-or-flight responses. Later, there is a knife, pressed against my back, my neck, my face and then against my cunt and clit in repeated, controlled stabbing motions. Just as the wave reassures me, the particles panic me - that wet-mouthed awareness of fear and helplessness, of not knowing what is going to happen or when.
They work in tandem. The waves carry me down, heavy and pressing into thick and fuzzy headspaces. The particles push me up, keeping me sensitized and crackling - they also hurt with the sharp, bright pain that forces gasps and cries out of me whilst the waves make me want to purr and moan. Finally, towards the end, something in me lets go and I am caught between these endless, increasing, alternating sensations. I start to cry. This time I know where my tears are coming from, and they are almost deliberate. Here is a safe space to cry, to let out that sorrow and loneliness that comes upon me in a controlled and managed scenario. Like primal scream therapy I'm using these sensations to force an internal catharsis, choosing how and when I will mourn for my own (still present, still keeping me cold) heartache. The pain is a trigger in and of itself, but together with those shadows in my heart it becomes something more as I let my emotions mingle with the physical sensations. It all pours out. I cry. It is wonderful. They are wonderful. I'm high as a kite, half-curled up in pain and all-over-shuddering from the pleasure of it all.
When they stop, I stop crying, almost immediately. Something which The Professor found curious and at the time I could not explain but now can. The pain is a channel through which I can express these emotions. When it's their I can let them go. When it's not I chose not to, because that is what getting better is all about, being able to put these feelings in their place.
Tuesday, 16 December 2008
Baby's got a temper
In BDSM interactions, we can only set the ball rolling, not predict where it is going to land. We can only speak for ourselves and our states of being. And even then it's not certain. For me, this is especially true of emotional or psychological areas: my submissive state is one in which I have increased sensitivity not merely to touch but to thoughts, to feelings. I will take things to heart, particularly criticism because I want to be good, to be wanted, desired, pleasing. This isn't a mutely facile servile mindset without process, far from it, it is part of who I am as a person so by extension it is part of me. I hate failure, weakness, vacillation or lack of care. Actually, it is truer to say that I fear failure, letting people down, not doing what I should. This can often be a powerful and positive driver, it moves me forwards, keeps me honest. But in a submissive state these fears are exacerbated and the channels for moving beyond them locked down, out of reach because not only do I fear the act of failure itself, I am not in control of what determines a failure, or the consequences.
"Aren't you going to answer me?" He slaps my cheek again, holding my face firm with his other hand, turning it over so he can hit the other side. Hard, regular strokes.
A little thing, in isolation, a small correction of behaviour. Talking about it afterwards we both agreed that it could have gone either way, we could have ignored the blip, laughed it off and carried on, but neither of us did, there was an edge to what had happened, for whatever reason. One of those unexpected, unpredictable turns of emotions and we both decided to run with it. The incident in question isn't important, only that I hadn't behaved precisely as I should, as a slave should. And now I wasn't responding as I should, a simple yes or no would have done, but I didn't: passivity had slid into something else, refusal, negation. I was holding my lips firmly pressed together. A cold, slippery fish flipped in my stomach, I was upset with myself for letting him down, but there was more to it than that. I could feel myself pulling away from him, becoming angry with him just as I was angry with myself. And resolved not to speak, not to react, to not play this game. It wasn't bratting, there was no conscious decision on my part to try and "push" him, or make him angry with me, I just wasn't in a place where I felt I could speak, I gritted my teeth, I started to cry but they were not tears of abandon, or pain or suffering, they were angry, frustrated tears.
"Why aren't you answering me?" Calm voice, still hitting me. Within me I could feel something build, and at that point I almost felt as if most of my conscious mind had simply shut down, whatever was piloting me forward was pure and simple rage, hate and hurt. It was an animal place, of push and pull. And I was being pushed.
I lashed out, turning round and hitting him back before he caught my arms and bore me down onto my side, holding my wrists tight, his voice was harder, he was talking to me, demanding to know what was going on, making me aware of just what would happen if I ever tried to hit him again but his voice started to sound very far away. It was like blacking out. I had moved so far away, away from my mistake, from his punishment of that mistake and my own guilt at having let him down. I was just angry, cold and angry. There weren't any words where I was, and I didn't move either, immobilised and unwilling to respond. I think I might have growled. After a while he stops, turning away from me, pulling the sheets around him, leaving me in the dark. Like a surly lover, refusing to bridge the gap after an argument with a single kind words, still too raw and angry to speak, I reached for the sheets to cover myself but he pulled them back. At which point I got up and left the room.
Two minutes walking up and down a small, cold bathroom in the dark wondering if this was the end of the experiment, If I'd gone as far as I could reasonably go. If I'd broken what we had, and what I could do next. On my way to make up the spare bed, too proud to go back to the room, The Photographer met me in the kitchen and held out his arms, I held on for a long time and then we went back to bed to discuss what happened, to reassure each other that we were both safe, both happy with each other, both wanting to continue.
The play that we have is not really play. It does not turn on and off, we are not actors who adopt roles, we are people exploring a serious and deep connection. So to say that we went back to the scene is not the right phrase, but we did push ourselves back into that place, to resolve it in the space where it was created. I can start it at any point I want, if I want. And I do, with all my heart. I get on my knees, at the foot of the bed and apologise to him, sincerely, in full and honest earnestness. There is no anger in me any more. I am calm with flashes of concern and worry that he will not take me back. Collar and cuffs put on in silence and after a few minutes I am allowed back into the bed, held tightly.
Whatever was started was both powerful and unexpected and is still continuing. We've talked further, in more depth and the emotional angle to what we are doing is something we are only just starting to fully appreciate. I'm interested to see how it will develop. As my submission grows, as our connection grows, there will be further moments like this, barriers that we never knew existed will appear and we will have to work through them, or put a line under it, say "this far and no further." I'm not there yet. I've got more distance to go.
"Aren't you going to answer me?" He slaps my cheek again, holding my face firm with his other hand, turning it over so he can hit the other side. Hard, regular strokes.
A little thing, in isolation, a small correction of behaviour. Talking about it afterwards we both agreed that it could have gone either way, we could have ignored the blip, laughed it off and carried on, but neither of us did, there was an edge to what had happened, for whatever reason. One of those unexpected, unpredictable turns of emotions and we both decided to run with it. The incident in question isn't important, only that I hadn't behaved precisely as I should, as a slave should. And now I wasn't responding as I should, a simple yes or no would have done, but I didn't: passivity had slid into something else, refusal, negation. I was holding my lips firmly pressed together. A cold, slippery fish flipped in my stomach, I was upset with myself for letting him down, but there was more to it than that. I could feel myself pulling away from him, becoming angry with him just as I was angry with myself. And resolved not to speak, not to react, to not play this game. It wasn't bratting, there was no conscious decision on my part to try and "push" him, or make him angry with me, I just wasn't in a place where I felt I could speak, I gritted my teeth, I started to cry but they were not tears of abandon, or pain or suffering, they were angry, frustrated tears.
"Why aren't you answering me?" Calm voice, still hitting me. Within me I could feel something build, and at that point I almost felt as if most of my conscious mind had simply shut down, whatever was piloting me forward was pure and simple rage, hate and hurt. It was an animal place, of push and pull. And I was being pushed.
I lashed out, turning round and hitting him back before he caught my arms and bore me down onto my side, holding my wrists tight, his voice was harder, he was talking to me, demanding to know what was going on, making me aware of just what would happen if I ever tried to hit him again but his voice started to sound very far away. It was like blacking out. I had moved so far away, away from my mistake, from his punishment of that mistake and my own guilt at having let him down. I was just angry, cold and angry. There weren't any words where I was, and I didn't move either, immobilised and unwilling to respond. I think I might have growled. After a while he stops, turning away from me, pulling the sheets around him, leaving me in the dark. Like a surly lover, refusing to bridge the gap after an argument with a single kind words, still too raw and angry to speak, I reached for the sheets to cover myself but he pulled them back. At which point I got up and left the room.
Two minutes walking up and down a small, cold bathroom in the dark wondering if this was the end of the experiment, If I'd gone as far as I could reasonably go. If I'd broken what we had, and what I could do next. On my way to make up the spare bed, too proud to go back to the room, The Photographer met me in the kitchen and held out his arms, I held on for a long time and then we went back to bed to discuss what happened, to reassure each other that we were both safe, both happy with each other, both wanting to continue.
The play that we have is not really play. It does not turn on and off, we are not actors who adopt roles, we are people exploring a serious and deep connection. So to say that we went back to the scene is not the right phrase, but we did push ourselves back into that place, to resolve it in the space where it was created. I can start it at any point I want, if I want. And I do, with all my heart. I get on my knees, at the foot of the bed and apologise to him, sincerely, in full and honest earnestness. There is no anger in me any more. I am calm with flashes of concern and worry that he will not take me back. Collar and cuffs put on in silence and after a few minutes I am allowed back into the bed, held tightly.
Whatever was started was both powerful and unexpected and is still continuing. We've talked further, in more depth and the emotional angle to what we are doing is something we are only just starting to fully appreciate. I'm interested to see how it will develop. As my submission grows, as our connection grows, there will be further moments like this, barriers that we never knew existed will appear and we will have to work through them, or put a line under it, say "this far and no further." I'm not there yet. I've got more distance to go.
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
A rush of blood to the head
I try to write up my experiences as soon as possible after they have happened - memory, especially sense memory fades so fast and gets replaced quickly with inference and assumption in a mental equivalent of filling-in-the-blanks. Cliches substitute for descriptions, and I try to avoid that. But reflection is important and sometimes, particularly with an intense scene it takes me a while to process what happened as my brain needs time to come back to itself, to reconnect with language and thought. Especially with this.
"Are you OK?" asks The Photographer. I'm staring at the ceiling, but not precisely looking at it, I nod. Speaking is not something I feel able to do, there is literally nothing I can express: I have that closed-down feeling you get upon just waking, limbs have yet to come to and my mind is a heavy swirl of impressions and impulses. Primordial soup for thought patterns. I am not OK. I am so much better, and so much worse than that.
It's Friday. I'm pinned under him, my arms by my sides, staring up at him. He dragged me on all fours into the bedroom and threw me on the bed, pulling off my trousers and pants, to fuck me. He holds me by the shoulders and stares at me, blank faced, hardened with a calm, focused look. He pauses, then slaps me in the face. The pain is shocking, up-close and personal it is literally in my face. The first blow hurts, absolutely, but the pain brings with it a rush of adrenaline, and excitement, anticipation: I feel playful, exhilarated and excited. It is the next, and the next and the next that hammer these feelings down. The slaps don't stop, the pain rises and the excitement is replaced with something else.
It really starts to hurt, properly, a stinging, unforgiving, bullying force. Hard against an extremely sensitive area, physically and emotionally. My arms are just by my shoulders, fists clenched as I begin to cry. At any moment I could bring them up and protect my face. But I don't. I cry harder; he doesn't stop. I don't stop him. There is a part of me that does want to run and hide, I can see myself getting up off the bed and locking myself in the bathroom. I can almost feel the relief of being by myself, of putting cool water on my tender cheeks. After the longest time, he stops, picks me up and moves me into a better position to use. He starts to talk to me as he fucks, accusing me in a coldly aggressive tone of letting him down, of messing him about and not behaving as I should have done, not being the slave that I should have been. He keeps asking why and I can't answer him: I'm crying too hard. After many false starts I can speak, barely. I plead with him, promising to do better, but it doesn't make a difference. There is a pain in my throat, and my stomach is churning: he starts slapping me again and the combination of the two wipes my mind clear of any possibility of response. I am incoherent, shouting "I don't know" through the tears, feeling totally trapped and unable to express to him how hard I am trying, how much I want to please him and how I just don't understand what he wants.
Eventually he is quiet and so am I. He fucks me, pressing me down until he orgasms. I lie very still for a while, mute and numb. He opens his arms and I tuck myself in around him, he starts to stroke my hair, comforting me. My face hurts - my ears ringing and the muscles and bones in my jaw and cheek are especially sore. That's the first distinct thing I remember as I start to come back together after being shattered. I'm sensing the feeling of my skin, it's very hot to the touch, streaked with tears, prickly against the hair on his chest. Then come the emotions, slowly, drip fed. I'm not panicked or upset, but I was very recently so I'm loitering in a very peculiar head space. I am on the surface safe, comforted and calm. But not quite. It's a close cousin of those sensations: I feel held down and happy for it. I hesitate to use the phrase "properly submissive", however I feel very real in my experience. I'm not in a scene or hedonistic playing through of emotions. I am here, deeply connected to him. Thinking backwards, working through what happened as already it starts to slip through my fingers. I don't want to let it go.
"Are you OK?" asks The Photographer. I'm staring at the ceiling, but not precisely looking at it, I nod. Speaking is not something I feel able to do, there is literally nothing I can express: I have that closed-down feeling you get upon just waking, limbs have yet to come to and my mind is a heavy swirl of impressions and impulses. Primordial soup for thought patterns. I am not OK. I am so much better, and so much worse than that.
It's Friday. I'm pinned under him, my arms by my sides, staring up at him. He dragged me on all fours into the bedroom and threw me on the bed, pulling off my trousers and pants, to fuck me. He holds me by the shoulders and stares at me, blank faced, hardened with a calm, focused look. He pauses, then slaps me in the face. The pain is shocking, up-close and personal it is literally in my face. The first blow hurts, absolutely, but the pain brings with it a rush of adrenaline, and excitement, anticipation: I feel playful, exhilarated and excited. It is the next, and the next and the next that hammer these feelings down. The slaps don't stop, the pain rises and the excitement is replaced with something else.
It really starts to hurt, properly, a stinging, unforgiving, bullying force. Hard against an extremely sensitive area, physically and emotionally. My arms are just by my shoulders, fists clenched as I begin to cry. At any moment I could bring them up and protect my face. But I don't. I cry harder; he doesn't stop. I don't stop him. There is a part of me that does want to run and hide, I can see myself getting up off the bed and locking myself in the bathroom. I can almost feel the relief of being by myself, of putting cool water on my tender cheeks. After the longest time, he stops, picks me up and moves me into a better position to use. He starts to talk to me as he fucks, accusing me in a coldly aggressive tone of letting him down, of messing him about and not behaving as I should have done, not being the slave that I should have been. He keeps asking why and I can't answer him: I'm crying too hard. After many false starts I can speak, barely. I plead with him, promising to do better, but it doesn't make a difference. There is a pain in my throat, and my stomach is churning: he starts slapping me again and the combination of the two wipes my mind clear of any possibility of response. I am incoherent, shouting "I don't know" through the tears, feeling totally trapped and unable to express to him how hard I am trying, how much I want to please him and how I just don't understand what he wants.
Eventually he is quiet and so am I. He fucks me, pressing me down until he orgasms. I lie very still for a while, mute and numb. He opens his arms and I tuck myself in around him, he starts to stroke my hair, comforting me. My face hurts - my ears ringing and the muscles and bones in my jaw and cheek are especially sore. That's the first distinct thing I remember as I start to come back together after being shattered. I'm sensing the feeling of my skin, it's very hot to the touch, streaked with tears, prickly against the hair on his chest. Then come the emotions, slowly, drip fed. I'm not panicked or upset, but I was very recently so I'm loitering in a very peculiar head space. I am on the surface safe, comforted and calm. But not quite. It's a close cousin of those sensations: I feel held down and happy for it. I hesitate to use the phrase "properly submissive", however I feel very real in my experience. I'm not in a scene or hedonistic playing through of emotions. I am here, deeply connected to him. Thinking backwards, working through what happened as already it starts to slip through my fingers. I don't want to let it go.
Sunday, 28 September 2008
Tears - Part 2
Switching Sides holds my head to his chest as I press close, racked with sobs. I'm naked, cuffed in a cross shape against cold chain, leaning against him. Crying my heart out. Real tears that hurt the throat and come from a painful place in the middle of my chest where all my fears and worries live. Each of them pouring out of me, confusingly, terrifyingly. This has never happened to me before. In retrospect I clearly didn't know what to do, but at the time there was no such obvious thought process, I just cried. It was a tremendous release and I smiled whilst I'm doing it. He kisses each tear from my face. I feel safe, cared for and able to be vulnerable, without shame.
In unfamiliar surroundings I've felt on the back foot since arriving and each action seemed to compound my feelings of anxiety. I'm still not precisely sure what I was nervous about - the fact that he is a new partner who I didn't know as well as I did either Ethical Hedonist or The Photographer when we first played; that I didn't know what to expect; that I am here in his house, far from home; that for whatever reason he made me a little frightened. Not unsafe, never unsafe. But unsettled, unprepared.
The point that set me off was the pain. I've been beaten before, and worse. This was somehow different, as each blow fell, rather than press myself into it and become absorbed in the feeling I became more sensitive to it. It hurt, genuinely and with the knowledge that it would continue to hurt. And as the pain built I cracked and started to cry. Alongside the physical pain, I was also crying with real emotion - the stress of the whole week, various concerns in my day-to-day life, all of them came out. A small part of me immediately wanted to stop everything and go home. I was scared, trapped but also unwilling to end what was happening, because the intensity was breathtaking. And I was being held. Able to let go.
We played three times or thereabouts. The first time we had to both stop after I cried as neither of us had expected it at all and we were totally thrown. We curled up together with cups of tea and talked it through, I used up a number of tissues. I felt shocked, drained and also quite giggly. I tried to remember the last time I cried and couldn't. I have always listed "being able to let go" as one of things that make submission exciting for me. For a long time, this has been a way to not be in charge, to relax into someone else's hands and also to settle in to my body and sensations without thought for the world. I feel like I've been shown another type of release, rather than subsuming my worries for a few hours I expurgated them.
You feel better after a good cry.
In unfamiliar surroundings I've felt on the back foot since arriving and each action seemed to compound my feelings of anxiety. I'm still not precisely sure what I was nervous about - the fact that he is a new partner who I didn't know as well as I did either Ethical Hedonist or The Photographer when we first played; that I didn't know what to expect; that I am here in his house, far from home; that for whatever reason he made me a little frightened. Not unsafe, never unsafe. But unsettled, unprepared.
The point that set me off was the pain. I've been beaten before, and worse. This was somehow different, as each blow fell, rather than press myself into it and become absorbed in the feeling I became more sensitive to it. It hurt, genuinely and with the knowledge that it would continue to hurt. And as the pain built I cracked and started to cry. Alongside the physical pain, I was also crying with real emotion - the stress of the whole week, various concerns in my day-to-day life, all of them came out. A small part of me immediately wanted to stop everything and go home. I was scared, trapped but also unwilling to end what was happening, because the intensity was breathtaking. And I was being held. Able to let go.
We played three times or thereabouts. The first time we had to both stop after I cried as neither of us had expected it at all and we were totally thrown. We curled up together with cups of tea and talked it through, I used up a number of tissues. I felt shocked, drained and also quite giggly. I tried to remember the last time I cried and couldn't. I have always listed "being able to let go" as one of things that make submission exciting for me. For a long time, this has been a way to not be in charge, to relax into someone else's hands and also to settle in to my body and sensations without thought for the world. I feel like I've been shown another type of release, rather than subsuming my worries for a few hours I expurgated them.
You feel better after a good cry.
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
Tears - Part 1
Both Ethical Hedonist and The Photographer have very clear views on submissives crying. They like it. I also like it aesthetically and anticipate that experiencing it will be powerful given that I don't cry very easily. I get upset, and I get angry, but actual tears occur rarely in my life.
Crying is a release and can be either physical or emotional/intellectual and oftentimes conflates the two. It is a very powerful symbol of loss, through its associations with grief and sorrow and thereby with hurt. Tears represent what is being suffered but are also a way of expelling that suffering from the body by acting as a channel for the pain: you'll feel better after a good cry.
Like orgasm, it falls into the categories of being made to or of letting go. I could either be forced to cry through pain or mental abuse, or through the actions imposed upon me I would start to cry. The difference is that in the former, the tears are the objective whereas in the latter they are the result. In practice it is likely that, as with physical pain causing mental anguish, the two would overlap. I would be made to cry through a heavy caning session, perhaps, and the act of crying would be a letting go. A physical demonstration of my utter loss within the situation - there is nothing I can do but cry.
Crying is a release and can be either physical or emotional/intellectual and oftentimes conflates the two. It is a very powerful symbol of loss, through its associations with grief and sorrow and thereby with hurt. Tears represent what is being suffered but are also a way of expelling that suffering from the body by acting as a channel for the pain: you'll feel better after a good cry.
Like orgasm, it falls into the categories of being made to or of letting go. I could either be forced to cry through pain or mental abuse, or through the actions imposed upon me I would start to cry. The difference is that in the former, the tears are the objective whereas in the latter they are the result. In practice it is likely that, as with physical pain causing mental anguish, the two would overlap. I would be made to cry through a heavy caning session, perhaps, and the act of crying would be a letting go. A physical demonstration of my utter loss within the situation - there is nothing I can do but cry.
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