THE BDSM DIET – revisited

Back In December, and at my request, Elita made a mid-session threat that, should I not loose a set amount of weight by the end of January, she would introduce me to the established, if alarming, BDSM practise of ball busting. Being hit on my cock or balls has been a hard limit since almost the start of my exploration of BDSM, so this threat was real and meaningful to me, which is exactly why I had asked her to make it.

The threat had been real and meaningful enough to be effective and, despite numerous obstacles (sickness, Christmas, a holiday) I finally got the weight off, though admittedly most of it went in the last two weeks as I starved myself in response to my growing terror of the consequences of failure.

Which brings us to the first question demanded by the situation I found myself in earlier this week: Why was I tied naked to Elita’s bed, feeling once again the ridges of bone along the top of her foot as she tapped it against the tight little parcel she had created from my testicles, lining herself up to kick them?

Even now, I don’t truly know if, in asking Elita to include this act in our session, I had sought the act itself or the fear of it. Perhaps, instead, it had been a gift to her, made in the knowledge of how much she would enjoy playing with my fear, becoming the cat pushing the mouse from side to side before sinking its teeth in. Certainly watching ball busting videos on-line (Don’t, by the way. No, really. Don’t) had only re-enforced my perception that that this was an unnatural, un-sexual act, a form of pain that could not be eroticised.

Which brings us to the second question demanded by my situation: If I was just seconds from having her breach my oldest, hardest limit; pulse racing, breathing fast in genuine fear of the act and the pain that would follow, why was my cock so hard? How could I possibly be turned on by this?

The answer lay in the build up. Rather than the kicking being a vignette in a longer story full of such vignettes, each introducing new pain or new pleasure, she had focussed almost the entire session on my testicles.

I’d been laid on the floor looking up at her as she tapped her foot against them, just hard enough to hurt, not hard enough for me to be fooled into thinking this was why we were here.

She’d grabbed them in her hands, pulling and twisting and, when it became too much, she’d rubbed her other hand over my cock so the pleasure sensations helped me fight the pain.

She’d strapped me to her bench and lain underneath so I could look into her beautiful face as she reached up to hit my balls with her hand. She tried to surprise me but it was in her eyes. It’s always in her eyes: the flicker of excitement before she hurts me.

She’d tied a rope round my scrotum until it became a tight little sack, skin stretched over my super-sensitized balls and then dug into them with her fingernails.

She’d used electricity, one electrode on my cock, one on my testicles sending buzzy, then hurty sensations through them while softly stroking. Always the pleasure with the pain.

I’d been lost. Lost in sensations, in pleasure, in pain, in the glorious sight of her over me; I’d been lost in her excitement, in my excitement, in my desire for her; I’d been lost in the ever escalating intensity of it all.

Not so lost though, that I forgot that this was only a succession of erotic hors d’oeuvres before the feared main course.

And that main course? This is how I experienced it at the time:

Tied to the four corners of her bed, I feel so exposed. She’s standing over me, a hand against the wall for balance. Her foot moves the tight package of my balls around against the rope, positioning them just as she wants them. My breathing is fast and ragged, terrified by what she is going to do. I realise my eyes are screwed tight shut.

“Look at me!”

I open them, look up at her. She smiles, her reassuring smile, but I am beyond reassurance, close to panic, shaking. Her foot stills. I know with sick certainty that she’s going to do it right now. This very moment. I can see it in her eyes.

She draws her foot back

Ohfuckohfuckohfuck.

An explosion of pain. I feel it deep in my balls. I feel it deep in my stomach. It’s too much to take in. I’m crying out, taking in huge,  gasping breaths, panicking at the shock of it, twisting against the ropes, trying to deal with it and failing horribly. The sensation is so far outside any previous experience, so traumatic that I can’t process it. 

How did Elita react to the strength of my response, to my shocked panic? Did she show concern, or offer calm reassuring words and a gentle touch?

No.

She knelt  down and bit my nipples. She bit my nipples hard. She bit my nipples until the familiar pain of it calmed me and I found my way back to a place I knew and understood.  And then she bought me to an orgasm, a great, shuddering, back arched, sinews straining, whole body, explosive release; the aftershocks running through me, picking up my body and shaking it for minutes; as huge and engulfing and astounding an orgasm as I can ever remember experiencing; an intense outpouring of stress, fear and pain.

It was wonderful. Hard earned, I mean really hard earned, but truely wonderful.

So, is ball busting finally off my hard limits list for the next time I meet a new Mistress?

No it fucking isn’t!

But if this woman; this woman who can see deep into my soul and read my darkest desires; this woman who is so gentle with me yet hurts me so much; if this woman wanted to kick me in the balls again……

I might, perhaps, let her do so.

 

If I can bring myself to put it on-line there MAY be an image from this session on Sinful Sunday!

My name is BibulousOne and I’m a masochist.

My last pain was 51 hours ago.

 

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