It’s so intense. So fucking, unbearably intense. We’ve been round this cycle three or four times, and each time she pushes me deeper. I can feel myself getting lost, reaching my limit. Now she’s doing it again and I can’t stand it, I really can’t stand it and I twist and turn, my body pulling hard against the restraints. I’m deeper down the rabbit hole than I have ever been and I’m frightened by the strength of my reactions. Tears are welling up behind my eyes.
But here’s the thing: all this desperation, all this emotion; this sense of tumbling over the edge was not because she was hurting me.
It was because she wasn’t.
And, looking back on it, that is messing with my head.
The evening after the session.
Having written that intro on the train just after the session, I’m stuck. Writers block. It’s not that I haven’t experienced the sense of wanting Elita to hurt me before, but this time she perceived my need and chose to play with it; she amplified it; she put not hurting me at the heart of our session. NOT hurting me. That concept is proving hard to run to ground.
A sadist and a masochist were in a room together.
“Please beat me,” said the masochist.
“No,” said the sadist.
It’s an old joke that might seem to describe what was going on between us.
But it doesn’t even come close.
The next day.
I think how we got there might be relevant. The session had been very demanding. Elita had flogged me hard on my back, the leather falls of the flogger seemingly joining together to form a heavy paddle that knocked the breath out of my lungs each time she hit me. She had used her single tail on my backside and then a very flexible cane which, in her hands, had become a rattan whip. I had handled it badly. She had used the single tail on my back too. She hasn’t done this before and I sensed her feeling her way into it, paying attention to my reactions and adjusting the strength of each blow. It was really challenging and I was vocalising the shock of it.
As she tied me to her bed and slipped the blindfold over my eyes, I was already floating on endorphins and attuned to what my body was feeling. Somehow that still doesn’t explain the depths of where she sent me.
hmmm
Two days later:
She wasn’t just “not hurting” me. Perhaps my reaction was driven by what she was actually doing to me when she wasn’t hurting me. Here’s how I remember it.
As the pain fades away she lets me breathe a while then her hand is back on my cock, rubbing, stroking, not the “punch wank” she sometimes deploys, but long, slow, lube-enhanced strokes until the sensations dominate everything and I give myself up to them utterly. Her lips close over my nipple and I tense, waiting for her to bite me. But she doesn’t, her tongue teasing the now super-sensitive tip of it.
Unbidden, the sense of wanting her to bite me drifts into my consciousness. I push it away in favour of the intense waves of pleasure, but it will not be denied. That want gradually becomes a need, a need that grows until it drowns out all the pleasure and the only thing, the only thing, in my head is needing her to bite me and it’s a desperate, aching, all-enveloping need. I am in so deep that the weirdness never enters my head and I cry out that need:
“Bite me, please bite me.”
And, as she ignores me and continues her stroking and teasing:
“Pleeeease, Mistress, just do it. Do it now”
Eventually she does, biting hard, pulling and twisting with her teeth and then her finger nails until I’m gasping and my back is arched. She stops and suddenly she’s pushing me still deeper down the rabbit hole with her hand pressing hard on my throat and stinging slaps on my face.
Then she’s back with the slow stroking.
After the intensity of the pain, the waves of pleasure are stronger, and I let them wash over me until, once again, even this new pleasure is not enough; I need the pain to go with it.
But, matching the intensity of the pleasure, the waves of need are stronger too and I become more desperate even than before; really, really desperate for her to hurt me.
In three years of seeing Elita, some 40 or more sessions, I have never, or perhaps only once, been in deeper than this, been so completely lost. I have never before felt all human thought and emotion so shorn away, all control and agency so eliminated that all my responses were reduced to the unthinking and the animal.
The pain had become my relief from the agony of its absence.
And in grasping that counter-intuitive anomaly, I have been forced to peer deeper into the very core of my masochism, sensing more than ever the beast it could become. After the session I felt dislocated and shocked, unnerved by the depth of my immersion and the way I had been so completely taken over by the dark longings.
How wonderful though to still, after all these years, be making such profound discoveries, and with such a skilled and intuitive guide. I loved how Elita’s post session tweet demonstrated her understanding.
Would I ask for this session again?
Yes I would, but here’s a funny thing: I’m happy for Elita to hurt me every time I see her; I could only handle her NOT hurting me once in a while.
And how strange is that?
When wanting the pain becomes more painful than the pain itself, you know you’re deep down the rabbit hole. Thank you B for a spectacular session!
— Elita Darling (@MistressElita) September 28, 2018
I orgasmed at the end of this session, but in a way that was as dark and immersive as the session had been; a way that left me feeling that a new level had been attained, a door opened to deeper, darker experiences.
I have given that moment its own post.
More Wednesday wickedness here:
Very beautiful, searingly honest, and hot, as always.
Also: and perhaps bizarrely, I have seen a glimpse of my own recent experience there, much milder and totally a rebours. In this place: “the sense of wanting her to bite me drifts into my consciousness [and cont.]”. I was on the other side of that, nowhere near that deep, but the desire, the wanting not to be bitten but to bite was there, rising, starting to feel like a need, so much that I knew I had to either follow it, or step out of the (wonderful, intimate, and highly erotically charged) sexual rapture, break it, move away, say something, purposefully adjust position, make a joke even. And so I did.
I love this comment. The idea that the same depth of immersion is available to the dominant….
The anticipation of pain is nearly always worse than the pain itself…. or so I have found, not always but the longer I wait for it the worst it becomes in my head. It is a powerful mind fuck that in many ways our brains plays on us as we build it up in our minds.
Mollyx
I have been thinking about this post for a while because it seemed to have the key to an illusive congregation of thoughts and ideas.
Your writing on this blog is ostensibly about physical pain and pleasure but is for me an exploration of the nature and simultaneous desire for and fear of intimacy and connection. Every interaction cannot be taken out of the framework of a paid for encounter which is in itself another layering of the metaphor. I don’t mean to imply in anyway that the connection is less value or true by saying this, but more that the interaction lays bare the hidden status transactions of gender relationships and the part that sex (of whatever kind) plays in them.
You ask for pain to move away from pleasure. Pleasure and the sensations of being touched in a loving way is precarious and pain is comfortable. The normal (!) ways of relating to these extremes are upended in order to remain in control. I wonder here about the idea in psychoanalysis that falling in love with your therapist is part of the process and not an aberration?
I recognise some of this unease with care and desire for pain as a way of managing my own intimacy anxieties by the way, which is why I have ventured to commit this to a comment which I hope does not offend.
Thank you for such a detailed and thoughtful comment. I think this (pain as a way of avoiding intimacy) may have been true when I started this journey but I think I’ve changed. My time with sex workers, and especially Lilly has taught me not to fear intimacy and I crave it now. Quite desperately sometimes. Of course there are fears attached to contemplating intimacy in a non transactional setting, not least the potential for being judged ( am I too old, too fat etc). I think I’m ready to risk that now.
I am glad about that B. Lovely to hear x
I identify with this so very much. I admit, I have felt that somehow, women and men’s submission, our masochism, is…different. I mean, not because *everyone’s* experience is different, but simply due to our sex. I am not sure, now. Thank you for this incredibly honest, insightful post.
A very honest share, and incredibly well described on something which is hard to pinpoint.
Thanks for sharing.
I am constantly finding new nuances and depths to my own masochism. I could feel the way you were reaching to describe the experience in your words. I understand how hard it is. You did it well.
A wonderful post about the very beauty of pain. It is difficult to understand in the moment and even more so as time passes. Intense and beautiful xx
This is beautiful and passionate and stunning.
And this says everything: The pain had become my relief from the agony of its absence.
Thank you for sharing so much about your sessions and feelings.
Rebel xox