A SCENE WITH MYSELF – Honey’s story

I love posting other people’s stories on here. I’ve been in contact with Twitter friend, Honey for a few years and we recently had an extended exchange, effectively “swapping” details of our recent, intense BDSM experiences. We share some kinks, notably our masochism and our desire to take emotional risks as well as physical ones in our sessions. I was delighted when she gave me the opportunity to host this particularly intense read about the very session we had just been discussing. The idea of a “no words” beating is very much up my street, as regular readers will know!

I hope you enjoy it too.

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A scene with myself

I’m kinky, perverted and definitely a masochist. I get high on endorphins and regularly seek out that intensity of sensation. I adore the way that the world fades away as that pain intensity increases. It takes me to a place where I feel free.

It doesn’t always work though. Sometimes I am too prickly, too stressed, too bothered by life to let down those defences and let myself feel. At those times, my hyper vigilance and conditioning are too good a rapid reaction force, rushing in to save me from danger. Those times are hard to deal with.

Nearly all of my play is built on the symbiotic heat of a sadist and masochist. His every action making my body respond. My arousal and hunger feeding him, increasing his appetite. My needs increased by seeing his intentions, his arousal and his cruelty. It’s what makes me come back for more. It’s what makes me beg for more.

It’s beautiful and opens a galaxy of being to me.

And yet, there is a darker side in me. A side that I step around and ignore. A side that is uncomfortable to even glance at, let alone meet head on. I ignore it. I pretend it isn’t there and it, for its part, sits. It sits patiently. It sits knowing that I will glance at it. It sits knowing that sometimes I will walk closer to it. It sits waiting until at the fevered moment of coming in a primal frenzy, it pounces. Then my mind is full of this darker me, the primal need, the brutal cruelty.

Those sideways glances have got more frequent and this dark desire no longer needed to pounce. I started to warily look at it. Trying to find the reason to send it away. The way to drag it into the light and send it scurrying away. I looked for the flaws. The proof that it wouldn’t work. The proof that it’s was just a whisper and not a whole idea. But it wasn’t. It wouldn’t go away and my desire grew.

Unusually for me, I set about asking for exactly what I needed. No hinting. No coyness. I needed the scene to be stripped of humanity and connection. The only way that could work was for me to be clear and detailed in my communication. It had to be with someone that I trust absolutely and who would trust me that this was what I wanted and needed.

On the day, I was bent over the hotel bed, my knickers around my knees and my face buried in the duvet. My toes touched the ground and my feet were slightly apart.

I waited. He had a long distance to drive and so I waited. I could have moved and then got back into position but I didn’t. I waited. I waited until that door opened. I knew that the only things that he would see were the leather tawse carefully placed on the other bed and me, waiting.

Without words, he crossed the room and the searing heat of that first blow hit me. I know I cried out. I know that I reflexively jerked one of my legs up. I knew I should panic and stop but I didn’t. I struggled and forced my foot back down to the floor and resumed my position. Each and every one of those six blows hurt. The sort of hurt where I had to remind myself how to breathe. The sort of hurt that stripped away all other thought than the heat, the fight to stop my body twisting and the determination to conquer it and put myself back in position for the next one.

After six, there was contact. I felt the fabric of his trousers as he unfastened his belt. I tensed. I had started to know the pain of the tawse and now a change. Six with his belt. So similar. So different. So harder to welcome, to dive into that place where I soar. They hurt. I struggled. I swore and yet, I started to crave the next one. I wanted it to be too much. I wanted to be pushed. I wanted to be scared of what I had asked for. And I was. I was scared. The fear that I would have to stop. The fear that it would be too much. The fear that I would not be able to wrestle myself back for more. The mental intensity drove me on.

After the old, came the new. Six with his new belt. Again, so similar and yet so different. I had carefully measured out every ounce of my resilience, my strength and my masochism. I almost cried at the last one, not because of the pain but because it was over. I caught myself wanting more. Except no. He gave me one more. I couldn’t. I shouted no. He knew I would question if I should have had more and that one blow answered it. I had measured my masochistic soul to the last drop and there wasn’t any left.

He fucked me then. Still no words. Just as I had asked. I needed that. It’s hard to explain why but I needed to be beaten, fucked and discarded. Left in a heap until I pulled myself together and crawled back across the floor to him.

That’s why it was a scene with myself. I needed all of that. I needed it to be without humanity and connection. I needed to meet the totally stripped bare masochist in me and let me see. I needed to fight with my dark desire and know that I am me, I am strong and I am a person who is OK even with all of my complexity.

Wanting to be beaten in such a brutal way is hard to come to terms with. It’s hard to explain to people without them being utterly concerned. It’s been hard to admit to myself that I like that but now that I have, I feel more together, more centred and more me.

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You can find Honey on Twitter here.

She’s lovely!