WHEN PAIN IS NO LONGER A FRIEND

My most recent BDSM session bought to life an old fantasy which focussed on being kidnapped and abused. It turned out to be a more demanding and deeper experience than I could possibly have imagined.

This session was definitely going to be demanding: I had proposed that we go straight into the role play with no preamble; I had asked for a number of hard Corporal Punishment elements, including a post-orgasm caning; I had asked for Elita to be joined by her man, knowing full well that to ask for his involvement was to ask for uncompromising challenge.

Why ask for all this?

Good question. Fear is a kink for me so I find myself setting up scenes that I know will trigger nervousness, anticipation and, at times, outright fear. Also, I have been exploring heavier scenes for a year now and this set-up seemed, when I asked for it, to be a reasonable progression; a ‘next step’. However, our ability to tolerate pain is not a fixed thing; it varies from day to day and on this day, in this situation, it turned out to be a huge leap.

It turned out to be really fucking hard.

Not just because it was, or at least felt like, more pain than I had ever accumulated during a single session, but that pain was accompanied by a sense of isolation and dislocation that started before they walked into the dungeon, finding me already naked and lying, cuffed, on the floor. These feelings were accentuated by the sleepless night and stressful day that had preceded the session.

What followed was a succession of mini scenes, most involving increasingly challenging CP, followed by some very kinky play on the bed. By the time we got to the bed I was so dislocated and generally lost that the erotic element of what should have been a superhot scene was gone. Well, not gone exactly because Elita and her man fucking next to me was undoubtedly hot, but I didn’t feel part of it. I knew by then that I wasn’t going to orgasm, and that knowledge drained the eroticism from the scene and left only isolation, fear and pain. A genuine cuckold would have loved to be there, would have enjoyed watching his muscular body move as he took her repeatedly. I was too lost in the surges of electricity running through my cock and the pain in my nipples to really notice how much fun they were having. Certainly I was too lost to be enjoying it with them.

As they tied me once more to the spanking bench I felt no erotic stimulation, no excitement at the scene we were about to play out. I felt dread. Not just fear but dread. Deep in my gut. I had already had enough and I knew it.

The caning that followed was not necessarily harder or longer than canings I have had before but the strokes came heavy and fast. They came from two people, one on each side of me, taking alternate swings, the pain from each stroke starting before that from the previous stroke had subsided. The pain built relentlessly, the electric pulses preventing me from concentrating on the cane strokes, every single one taking me by surprise. For the first time in my kinky life I felt no connection with the person caning me or indeed any erotic element in the scene. I was beaten, not as a sexual act or a kinky role play; I was just beaten. It hurt a lot. It hurt so much that I lost control of my reactions, yelling out my pain into the leather of the bench after each stroke.

It was very hard to take and at the end I was a sweaty, panting, gasping mess.

After the session we met for a drink at a local pub. Elita gave me a big hug when I walked in and they both said nice things about my endurance and how hot the scene had been for them. And I joked and I laughed because that seemed the thing to do. But Elita knew. She knew how much I had been affected by it. She invited me for coffee when I was back in town two days later. We  met up and she was lovely, letting me talk about the session until I felt I had put it in its proper place.

Was this, then,  a session that went wrong?

No.

In fact, absolutely not.

They had perfectly created exactly the scene I had asked for; a precise rendition of a long-held, dark fantasy. It was just that on that day, with my poor preparation and my head in a bad place at the start, I had not handled it well. I could have safe-worded at any time but consciously chose not to, knowing that, however bad it seemed at the time, I would relish looking back on it. As I am now doing.

I’m a skier and have often skied in difficult, dangerous places in atrocious weather. At those times I remember a mountain guide who once told me this: “with risk sports, sometimes enjoyment is not available and you have to make do with sense of achievement.”

And that is what I feel now. I tied myself up on the floor of the dungeon, knowing I wasn’t feeling right and knowing exactly what was going to happen, yet I survived the isolation and the pain in a scene where only that was on offer.

And I learnt a bit about myself.

I finally discovered, after years of looking, where my limits really are.

 

A confession: I have no need to tell you this, but I will. The morning after the session, after a disturbed night, I did something I haven’t done for years; I did something that, from childhood until my late 30’s, was how my kinks were expressed. I took a braided leather belt, one that manages to be both heavy and supple, and beat myself with it while I masturbated. I landed it again and again on top of the brand new cane marks and the fresh bruises until the pain of it tipped me into the orgasm that had eluded me the night before. It was explosive and totally satisfying.

Why did I do this? I think I needed to reassure myself that pain was still my friend and had not become, as it had seemed in the dungeon, an enemy. The orgasm gave me that reassurance.

 

(The session took place at The Blue Door Dungeon and the image is used with their kind permission)