Archive for the Kink Category

Finding myself again

Posted in Kink with tags , , , , , on March 8, 2017 by michella74

For the past few months, I’ve felt that a huge part of my life has been missing and I’ve been attempting to discover both what’s missing, and how to get it back. So I began to write this post. As with all my writing, I do it to work through thoughts in my head, but if it helps anyone else, I’m pleased.


The “what” is easy – it’s kink. Every relationship I’ve ever had has been located somewhere on the kinky scale. Granted some have been higher on that scale than others, but without some level of physical pain or fear I quickly tire of the relationship. My relationships with both Panzer and The Biker have always been kinky, but for a few years now, the level of kink has dropped to no more than a few face slaps or a hand around my throat during sex. Compared to several years ago, when I was getting beaten or tied up at least twice a week, the kink has disappeared.


Why has it disappeared? Well, my world went sideways after a terrible breakup a few years ago and I retreated from kink as much as I could. Scenes became a reminder of how I was manipulated and used, how physically and mentally unhealthy I had become, how I had almost lost myself as well as my other relationships. I had to stop playing. I think that a part of me felt that I didn’t deserve the happiness that a good beating gave me. After all, I had let myself be manipulated; I had allowed it to happen; I was supposed to be stronger than that. But recently (a week ago, in fact), The Biker helped me realize that I was the victim. In order to move forward, I needed to stop blaming myself. Sadly, I also realized that by locking up the kinky part of my personality, by denying kink scenes to them, I had deprived both Panzer and The Biker of something they both loved and needed as well. Years later, I was still allowing that person to manipulate my actions and it needed to stop.


So what was it that I love about scenes. Why do I NEED them?


Obviously, part of it is that I’m just wired that way; I’m a masochist. I have been since before I’d ever heard that word. I once cut my finger open with a razor knife just to experience the sensation. I enjoyed playing rough games with the boys next door because I knew I’d get hurt. My sexual fantasies have always involved scenes of kidnapping, injury, bondage…all the “standards”.  A good way to torture me is to make love to me gently and touch my body softly. (I have to tell you though – the person I’m with should be prepared to get punched and cursed at if they try that.) Obviously, receiving pain plays heavily on whether or not I enjoy myself. But the need for the pain isn’t the only thing I miss.


When my partners and I are playing regularly, I feel extremely connected to them. A huge amount of trust is required. I have to trust myself to know when I’ve had enough, I have to trust my partner to know how to hit me safely, and my partner has to trust themselves enough to hurt me without harming me. All of that trust cannot be present without a great amount of love and intimacy. Over the past few years, without that, I’ve felt further from them emotionally.


For me, a scene is a journey. It starts with planning; each player searching for the path to be taken, discovering what demons to poke and what dark shadows in the psyche to explore. There is often laughter and smiles and always underlying love, but what we do is inherently dark in that we are looking to cause or receive physical or mental pain. A kink educator I know likes to say that when we do what we do, we are exploring the “dark pudding”. It’s been one of my favorite phrases since I heard it. When one of my partners beats me hard enough to bruise me or even draw blood, we are most assuredly exploring our dark pudding and emotional connections cannot help but be built.


Also, and this is pure vanity, I miss my badass days. When I was playing often, my pain tolerance was extremely high. I was constantly bruised, I could get caned for an hour and still want more. I rarely said no to any toy that Panzer or The Biker wanted to use. I felt like a badass. Now? Not so much. I can barely handle one good slap on the ass without wincing. I hit myself lightly with a small cane a few days ago and the sensation was both wonderful and frightening. Wonderful because I immediately recalled scenes in which I was caned until the skin was broken and welted for days, and frightening because I knew that I had barely swung the rod. It upsets me to admit that I can’t take the amount of pain that I used to. I want immediate gratification. I want to beg Panzer and The Biker to restrain me and have their way with me, but I can’t yet. And honestly, the idea of having to build up my pain tolerance again is daunting, to say the least.


But, I will persevere. I’ve already asked both of them to help me (not that it took much convincing). They’re both sadistic enough to enjoy the process of rebuilding my alligator skin. Panzer has already come up with a game in which I get to choose two out of three things: Toy, Location, Intensity. He gets to choose the 3rd. I think he’s delighting in knowing that I’m somewhat terrified every time I have to choose. The Biker hasn’t invented a game; he’s taking a more direct approach by man-handling me more and using his knowledge of human anatomy. He giggles when he manipulates my pressure points and nearly drops me to my knees. I usually end up giggling as well, after I curse him. For the first time in a very long time, I feel like we’ve discovered the correct path. Yes, it’s dark and it will require tears at some point, but the end of the journey will be worth it.


If the shoe fits…

Posted in Kink with tags , , , , , on January 27, 2014 by michella74

I’ve written a bit about my masochism, but I realized that I haven’t shared much about my other fetishes. It’s time to remedy that so I’ve chosen to write about my most obvious (for anyone that knows me) fetish first.


$995.00 Christian Louboutin heels that I adore.

$995.00 Christian Louboutin heels that I adore.

I don’t just mean high heels either. I love flats, boots, sandals – basically anything but tennis shoes. My fetish isn’t limited to women’s shoes either. I’m just as likely to follow a pair of men’s dress shoes down the street, as I am a pair of 5″ stilletos. And yes, I’d be following the shoes, not necessarily the person wearing them. In fact, I’ve done it. I feel I need to state that my love is for the shoe, not the foot that is wearing it. People always assume that I have a foot fetish, but it just isn’t so. I don’t remember a time that I wasn’t drooling over this pair or that. I’ve never been able to walk past a shoe display without looking at each pair. The form, the artistry, the materials; it all excites me. When I see a beautiful pair of shoes I simply MUST look at them. The shoes that a person is wearing is the first thing I notice about them. If the shoes are good, I’ll continue to look. One night I stopped a woman at a bar and asked her if I could take a photo of her heels.

I also love shoes because of what they do to me. When I wear any of my 5″ heels, I stand at 6’2″. A woman that height with the kind of curves I have, gets some attention. In fact, the only time that I don’t mind being a bit of an exhibitionist is when I’m wearing a new pair of heels. I love how they make me walk, how they make me stand, how my legs look in them, how most people have to look up to me, and most importantly, how they make me feel. Wearing heels, especially if the heel is 4-inches or higher, makes me feel powerful. As a Switch, the pair of shoes I’m wearing can put me in either a Top or bottom headspace. When I wear my knee-high 4″ heeled black leather boots, I’m immediately in a mood to kick a little ass. If I’m wearing my 6″ hot pink vinyl heels, I’m going to feel more vulnerable and will easily bottom to someone because I know I can’t get away from them. If I’m wearing my oxblood Dr. Marten’s, I’m feeling tough and a little butch. But once I change into my 3″ black patent Mary Jane’s I’m a delicate flower. I think if people realized what a pair of shoes can do for your frame of mind, they’d be more appreciated.

Some shoe fetishists NEED them in order to climax. I do not. However, a good pair certainly makes things more exciting. I was in a class once presented by Midori (if you’ve never heard of her, look her up). Someone asked her to define a fetish and as she has a shoe fetish as well, she explained it something like this:
“I can think of the hottest, wildest, nastiest, best sex I’ve ever had. It’s fantastic, but if I add a pair of police boots to that? Now we’re talkin’! It was already good, but picturing those police boots as well just put it over the edge.”
That’s what my fetish is like. By throwing a beautiful pair of Steve Maddens or Christian Louboutins into the mix, the “HOT” factor skyrockets. I’ve been fucked doggy-style while my hair was being pulled in such a way that I had no choice but to stare at a slideshow of photos of women wearing heels. The fucking and the hair pulling were already amazing, but watching all those gorgeous shoes as well made the experience phenomenal.

I’ve always wondered if the majority of shoe enthusiasts are masochists. The others that I know in my community are most certainly pain sluts. I mean, think about it. When I wear a pair of 5″ heels, I’m changing my center of gravity, my toes are most likely squeezed into as much of a point as I can get them, my calf muscles are being forced to work overtime, the balls of my feet are now carrying most of my weight. It’s not easy to wear such high heels for more than an hour, but I do it at least once a week and I love it. I’ve worn shoes a half-size too small for hours simply because they were too pretty to not buy. I don’t know of any other shoe fetishist that hasn’t done the same thing. I guess we’re all a little mad. *grin*

Sometimes I wonder if part of the reason The Biker has bought me 10 pairs of shoes in the last year is that he knows how uncomfortable heels can be. He’s fully aware of my special relationship with pain, as well as my love for extremely high heels. Yes, he makes me happy by gifting me new shoes, but he also gets the satisfaction of seeing me grimace occasionally when my feet start to hurt. He knows that I have a rule about not taking off my heels until the end of the night, so he gets to watch me torture myself and then reap the rewards at the end of the evening. (Have I mentioned how evil he can be?) He and Panzer also love that my tits are at eye level for them once I’m wearing most of my heels. It gives them easy access. Most women in my acquaintance that also love heels have at least one sadistic benefactor. It’s sometimes necessary. Pretty heels are expensive! The pair of Christian Louboutins that I’m currently in lust with come with a price tag of $995.00. Yes – roughly $500 a shoe and if I had the money, I’d not hesitate. At one point, I even considered becoming a video Domme and filming custom clips in exchange for shoes.

These were all gifts. The Biker has given me nine pairs in the past year.

These were all gifts. The Biker has given me nine pairs in the past year.

As a self-proclaimed shoe whore, there are several things that make me sad. When I see a woman that cannot walk in the heels that she’s wearing, I just want to pull her aside and give her lessons. When women take off a beautiful pair of heels halfway through the night and either switch to flats or walk around in bare feet, I shake my head in disbelief. When people say things like, “They’re only shoes” or “How many pairs of black heels do you really need” or “They just aren’t practical”, I don’t even bother trying to explain. They’ll never understand. They might eventually reach a point where they tolerate my fetish, but they’ll never truly get it.

My entire shoe family as of January 2014.

My entire shoe family as of January 2014.

Am I broken?

Posted in Kink, Ruminations with tags , , , on January 20, 2014 by michella74

So this is odd.

I haven’t had a good, hard scene since July. I’ve had fingers wrapped tightly around my throat while I was being fucked. Panzer has tied me up once or twice before he had his way with me. The Biker has forced orgasm after orgasm out of me until I begged him to stop. None of this is what anyone in The Community would call a scene though – we just call it normal sex. *grin* I hadn’t really thought about it until recently, but now that it’s popped into my head, I find that I’m dwelling on it.

A year ago, I was getting a scene at least once a week. Either rope, humiliation, breath play, fear play, electrical play or canes, but now…nothing. The last scene I recall is the night Panzer and The Biker co-Topped me, made me weep, and actually use my safeword. That scene haunts me. I’ve used my safeword once, perhaps twice in all the years I’ve been playing. I’m not the heaviest masochist that I know, but I’m stubborn and I can take quite a bit of pain. That night was…different. I had asked them to make me cry, to hit me so much and so hard that I wept. They did.

But recently I can’t help but wonder if that scene broke me.

Up until this past summer, I used heavy scenes as a type of stress relief. If I was upset about something and needed to work through it, being abused was the means to an end. It was cathartic. After the scene was over, I could rebuild myself mentally as well as physically. The Biker has mentioned several times in the past couple months that he’s been craving a hard scene with me. Each time he mentions it, I’ve told him that I’m not in need of the catharsis that it provides. What I’ve realized lately however, is that I’m not being completely honest.

There is a part of me that wants it, but there is also a part of me that is, well…frightened. What if I can’t take that much pain anymore? What if I panic and safeword just a few minutes into the scene? And then, the worst fear of all…what if I don’t enjoy it anymore? Maybe I should just force myself to scene with either Panzer or The Biker (or perhaps both). I’m just not sure. What I do know is that I feel like part of me is missing. I haven’t even really felt like Topping anyone lately. Again, a year ago, I was Topping in a scene every couple weeks. It was something that I needed in order to feel sane.

In fact, that just might be the reason why I’ve felt so “off” for months. Wow…I hadn’t thought about that until just now. I’ve been having a rough time lately, feeling lost, like I’m alone. Could the lack of kink play in my life be part of the cause? This is going to require more thought. Stay tuned…

More teeth, less lips.

Posted in Kink with tags , , , , , on January 19, 2014 by michella74

How to describe the sensation of teeth sinking into flesh?

For me, something completely animalistic surfaces out of the dark waters of my mind; no matter if it’s my teeth doing the biting or my flesh being bitten. I crave it. I want to be bitten. I want to bite. Deep down, in those dark places, I want to taste blood on my tongue and feel rivulets running down my skin.

I’ve had flesh between my teeth and had difficulty forcing my jaws to open again. The Biker once had the flesh between my throat and shoulder in his teeth and had to force himself to stop. My reaction was “MORE! FUCK YES! MORE!” Perhaps it has something to do with my blood fetish, or perhaps my vampire fetish, or maybe it has more to do with my masochism. I couldn’t tell you for sure. What I can say is that a bite from a partner immediately turns me on.

There is something about the pain that comes with a bite. The teeth are sharp and the sensation immediate, much like a cane. Then, even after the teeth have disappeared, there is still a dull ache, as if the teeth are still there applying pressure to my skin. I imagine people with phantom limbs experience something similar. I always find myself running my fingers over the spot, hoping to find it tender and deeply bruised. I want the marks. They remind me of the pain and pleasure. They remind me that my life was in someone else’s hands…or should I say mouth.

Biting someone else is different for me. The sadistic bitch that I try to keep reined in most of the time is let loose. I want to hear a scream, or a gasp of pain (and pleasure). I want my partner to fear me. If they beg for me to stop, it’s exciting. If they plead for more, it’s even better. However, care must be taken because I have, on more than one occassion, almost lost control and broken skin. After many years I was able to figure out that the chances of that happening increase, the longer I go without biting anyone.

I’ve often wondered how many people enjoy biting. I’m convinced that our fascination with vampires, werewolves, etc. has roots in our ancient past. We both crave and fear being the prey or the predator. It awakens those long-forgotten memories of stalking our dinner and being stalked as something else’s.


Please don’t spare the rod

Posted in Kink with tags , , on July 11, 2013 by michella74

Oh, oh my….so Jade, you’ve chosen canes as this week’s KOTW. Let’s do this.

What can I say about them?

Wielded properly, they cause the kind of pain that makes my cunt wet; that makes me suck in my breath and allow the pain to flow through me; that makes me cry out and then whimper softly. It matters not at all whether the cane is large or small, or the material it’s made of. What matters is how it’s used.

Canes require so little physical effort and yet the results are almost immediate. They can be used to poke and prod. The blows can be slow, so the bottom has time to absorb the shock and pain or rapid, so the bottom can’t escape into sub-space. They can create slim welts that can then be further manipulated with pinwheels or knives or pinching fingers. They can cause deep bruises that don’t appear for several hours and last for a week. I see them as an all-around “must have” in any sadist’s toy bag.

My first real cane scene was with Panzer. He was interrogating me (another favorite of mine) and his torture device of choice was our tiny carbon-fiber cane. The diameter is no more than 1/8″ and it’s coated in some sort of soft plastic. It’s completely evil and I lust after it.

He beat me with it for an hour. He used it to put his initials on my inner thighs. He would swing it as hard as he could and let me absorb the pain. He would hit me softly in rapid succession until I begged him to stop so I could process the sensation. If you’ve never been hit over and over again with such a small cane for an extended period of time, I cannot sufficiently describe the sensation to you. Allow me to say that it was good that we were in a concrete bunker-style room with an iron door because I couldn’t hold in my screams by the end.

The Rigger has a bamboo cane that looks like the one Charlie Chaplin always carried. I once asked him to make me cry and gave him carte blanche to achieve that goal. I had no idea what weapons he’d pull out of his arsenal. Well, that cane appeared and played heavily in the scene. The strikes were much less “stingy” than our little cane, but no less vicious. He didn’t have to use much force in order to get results, and the bruises created by that cane went deep and lasted for over a week. *sigh* I miss that cane.

A few months ago Panzer had a stroke of brilliance. He came home from a trip to the drugstore with a cheap kite. I had no idea why until I saw him removing the slim fiberglass rods. The soft whistle that they make as they’re being swung at your naked flesh is absolutely delicious. Sometimes he’ll just swing them through the air near me while I’m blindfolded. That “sssswwiiisssshhhh” sound terrifies and excites me, but the sound is nothing compared to the feeling of being hit with them. The welts form almost instantaneously and the pain radiates through my body like ripples created when a pebble is thrown into water.

Recently The Biker, Panzer and I played together. The Biker picked up one of Panzer’s newer toys. It’s a two foot long piece of 1″ PVC pipe. Yeah…   Just imagine what kind of damage it can do. After hitting me with it just once, he decided that he needed to put it down. You see, The Biker has had a varied career path and wielding that pipe reminded him of the night he put a man in the hospital. Bringing that cane down across my back reminded him too much of that night. He wasn’t fond of the memories that flashed through his mind as he hit me across the back.

I still recall that hit, over a month later. Had I not been partially suspended, I would have fallen to my knees. It saddens me that The Biker had that experience with it, but I’m glad he tried it out. I’m also pleased that I was able to experience that hit. That particular cane has scared me since Panzer made it; scared and fascinated. I can now say for certain that I’ll enjoy it more when it’s used as more of a “thuddy” toy.

I don’t love canes solely as a bottom either. When I Top, canes make quite a few appearances. I can’t resist. I love the look of fear that appears on my bottom’s face when I pull my collection of canes out of my toy bag. I know exactly what kind of pain I’m about to inflict, exactly what sensations will flow through their body, exactly what the end result will be. When I watch the red welts appear on their flesh, my breath quickens, I flush, and I get so wet that I can feel the moisture run down my thighs. I crave the begging, the screaming, the tears. I’ve been known to giggle while I cane someone. I’m not even aware of it and a few of my partners have confided that the giggling is the most frightening part of the scene. Heh heh heh….that almost makes me happier than causing pain. *wink*


Blades & Blood

Posted in Kink with tags , , , , , , on July 3, 2013 by michella74

My friend Jade chose the topic of knives as the Kink of the Week a few weeks ago. I wanted to link this post to her blog, but life intervened and I didn’t get it finished in time. After putting so much thought into it, I decided to post it anyway.

The click of a switchblade opening.
Cold steel warming against your skin.
A honed edge pressing against your throat.
The sting as your flesh is sliced open.
For some these words do nothing but cause panic; for me, they arouse. I’m a knife player. I love the fear. I love the blood. I love the scars.

To understand it, you have to know a little bit more of my history. At the age of eight I purposefully pressed a razor blade to my index finger and cut it open. I wanted to see what it felt like. The lack of pain was surprising, as was the effect the sight of the blood had on me. It was exciting; my heart raced, my breath quickened. Somehow I knew that I probably shouldn’t tell that detail to anyone. When I was sixteen I worked the switchboard at a museum on the weekend nights. It was a boring job, and gave me plenty of time and solitude to do what I liked. I would cut small geometric designs into my thighs with an X-acto knife. I loved being the only person that knew they were there. Between the ages of eighteen and nineteen, after a surprise pregnancy and subsequent abortion as well as a failed attempt at going away to college, I cut myself quite often out of misery. I’m not proud of that brief period of my life, but it’s a part of me. Eventually I realized that cutting wasn’t a healthy outlet for what I was feeling, but my fascination with blood and blades stayed with me even after I gave it up.

Almost three years ago Panzer and I went to a weekend-long kink event and I dragged him to a Bloodplay class. He was less than thrilled, but I couldn’t get enough. It was so exciting to know that there were many other people with the same fascination as myself. We watched a woman have an IV placed in her arm and then orgasm as her own blood was drizzled onto her naked body. It was one of the most erotic things I’ve ever witnessed. I couldn’t wait to try a bloodplay scene. Much to my dismay, Panzer wasn’t as aroused by the idea. He’s a little bit more squeamish than I am, and the thought of cutting me open did nothing for him. I was distraught. I thought I’d never get my scene.

Less than a year later, I got it. I found out that a friend of ours enjoyed playing with knives, blood, and fear, but didn’t have the opportunity very often. I worked up the courage and asked him if he’d like to scene with me at some point. He agreed, and a week later I was naked in a dungeon watching this man clean up a pool of my blood. He scared me, he hurt me, he gave me exactly what I wanted. For several hours I wasn’t 100% certain that I’d leave that room with all the skin I’d arrived in. I was completely terrified; so much so, that Panzer was worried for me as he listened to my screams. I still carry scars from that scene almost two years later and I consider them prized possessions.

Since then, I’ve made my love of knives and blood known to everyone I play with. Panzer is still a bit reticent to pull a knife on me, but he’s getting better. The Cop blindfolded me once and ran a straight razor all over my body. The Rigger once jumped out of a dark bathroom as I walked by, held a knife to my throat, and pulled me back into the room with him in order to molest me for a little while. The Biker carries a knife at all times and is quite fond of pulling it out at the bar and running the tip across my skin. He knows what happens go me when I hear the sound of a switchblade opening. He even has a special blade that he’s saving for our first knife scene together and I honestly cannot wait.

I’ve wondered many times what it is about honed steel that gets me wet. After much deliberation, I think it might be somewhat related to why I enjoy face slapping; having my caged submissive dragged out of me. When the edge of a knife is held to my throat, a wrong move could be fatal and at that point, I have no choice but to follow every instruction given to me by my Top. I’m forced to submit to their whims, lest I get seriously hurt. But there is still that eight year old girl inside of me that cut herself just to feel it, just to see the blood. She gets off on the thought that perhaps the blade will press a little too deeply and the blood will slowly flow. The sensation of it pooling in the wound, running down my skin, dripping to the ground; just thinking of it right now gives me goosebumps. Where this love of blood came from, I do not know. I’m sure that I never will. But I’m okay with that. I don’t always need to know the “why”. What matters is that I found a (somewhat) safer and healthier way to fulfill my desire for blood. What matters is that I know I can find people I trust that will hurt me, but not harm me.

The man that gave me my first knife and blood scene knows of my love for vintage lingerie. He cut seams into my legs from my ass to my ankles and two years later, I still have scars.

The man that gave me my first knife and blood scene knows of my love for vintage lingerie. He cut seams into my legs from my ass to my ankles and two years later, I still have scars.

Let me go

Posted in Kink with tags , , , on May 30, 2013 by michella74

There’s a private local play party coming up and I’m really excited about it. Panzer and I have been to this house several times previously, but we were always catering and after a day of prepping and cooking hors d’oeuvres, we never had the energy to actually play. This time will be different. This time we’ll be going as guests, and it’s possible that The Biker will be able to join us. The house itself is beautiful, and since it’s a private party, there aren’t as many rules as are usually present in public venues. That’s lovely, but not what is titillating me. So why am I excited?

Well, I haven’t had a good, hard scene in over a month. I’m not talking about just a bit of rope and some spanking. I’m talking about a challenge. I’m talking about something cathartic. I’ve been consumed with the memories of my last hard scene and I want more. This party gives me a chance to get it. Therefore, I’m giggling and doing a little happy dance.

You see, I want to feel the kiss of canes. I want fingernails leaving scarlet moons  in my skin. I want fingers and teeth digging into my flesh. I want to fight. I want to scream. I want to be slapped. I want hands around my throat until the edges of my vision go black. I want my cries of pain to be muffled by a cock being shoved into my mouth. I want to hear them call me a filthy whore because I asked for this – because I enjoy it. I want to make it to the end of the scene and have to be lowered onto the floor; nothing more than a bundle of raw nerve-endings and tears. I want to hate Panzer (and The Biker if he can join us) for a little while afterwards. I want to whisper at them to not touch me, to just let me curl up into a little ball. In short, I want to be deliciously broken by the end of it so I can rebuild myself.

I don’t crave scenes like this very often for two reasons. First, because of the amount of work it takes to get me to that point. Some people submit to the pain easily. For me though, it’s never that simple. My mind won’t let me give up control without a fight. I thrash, I curse, I threaten my Top with bodily harm. It’s not pretty, and yet, there’s something wild and wonderful about it. Secondly, and I hate admitting this, scenes like this actually frighten me…more than a little.

Prior to realizing the level of my masochism, I was always fascinated by watching the heavy players. Seeing a Top punching, kicking, choking their bottom; seeing the bottom begging for mercy while tears rolled down their face; witnessing the connection between the beater and the beaten; it enthralled me. I always thought it was similar to wanting to stare at the car accident as I drove by, but within the past eight months or so I’ve realized that I was fascinated because I wanted to be IN those scenes. That scares me. Realizing that I crave beatings and tears and pain that much sometimes makes me wonder why? Why do I need the pain so much?

Needing the pain is something that I’ve come to accept, but the pain itself still gives me pause. I know that Panzer and The Biker will read this post. I know what the result will be. They’ll do their best to give me what I’m asking for. And that scares the hell out of me. I don’t get frightened when I know that a “normal” scene is going to happen; one in which I’ll still be aware of myself and will remain unbroken. But this is different. The amount of pain and degradation that it will take to get me to the level I’m now desiring is substantial. The idea of it makes me tremble and yet, it still gets me wet. 

I had a discussion last night with a friend about scenes like this. As a Top, there is always the fear that you won’t be able to control the sadistic beast inside; that once unleashed, it won’t allow itself to be caged again; that the bottom will hate you long after the scene is over. These are valid fears, and in my opinion, good Tops always have them to some degree. But as a bottom, there is always the fear that you won’t be able to take it; that you’ll have to safeword early; or worse, that you won’t be able to let go of yourself and surrender to the pain. I’ve experienced all those fears as both a Top and a bottom and I’m experiencing the fears of a bottom now as well as something else.

I’m really fearing the pain itself. I know how odd that must sound since I’ve gone on and on about being a heavy masochist, but it’s true. Yes, I process pain differently than most people, but it still registers as pain. It still makes me whimper and cry. I still try to escape from it. I still scream when the cane leaves a welt, when fingertips grind into a nerve, when a blade draws blood. How could I not? The difference is that I know what my body will do with that pain within a few moments…it will turn it into pleasure and allow me to let go. That, my friends, is why I crave it even as I fear it. That is why I ask for it. That is what makes me who I am.