Perfect perversion

It's probably stating the obvious by now to say I like my sex to hurt.  There was a time when that wasn't so clear to me, though.  I vividly remember one of the defining moments in my sexual history, when I was fucked by a truly Dominant man - in a BDSM sense - for the very first time.  Bent over with a hand grasping my hair, I was given my very first hard spank, and my response told him all he needed to know.  "So," he said, "you like a little pain with your pleasure..."  and just like that, I realised I was getting exactly what I needed.

But by far the best way to get pain with my pleasure, is when it simply hurts to be fucked as is, with no other action necessary at all.

I wonder sometimes, why it is that I should feel this way - that the most intense of pleasures are most enjoyable to me, when I suffer for them.  Does it mean that, deep down, I don't want to accept simply feeling good?  Do I feel some unconscious guilt that is absolved by pain?  Certainly something seems to feel.... purifying about the pain.  As though my 'innocence' is held close enough that I can't be held responsible for how incredibly good it feels.  I am allowed to experience ecstasy if it accompanies sacrifice.

But most of the time, I choose not to ask myself these things.  Because they imply something else - that I should want to like sex without suffering... sex that is focussed on making my body feel good all over.... so-called 'normal' sex.... sex that bores me.  The more the experience is designed for my simple pleasure, the more dulled my mind and my senses become.  In effect, I reject the pleasure completely.

So why the hell would I want more of that?

As time goes by, and I understand more and more of my sexual makeup, the less I want it to change.  The truth is, I don't care if my fetish for submission is based in deep psychological disturbance.  It feels fucking awesome to be this twisted.  Let's mess me up even more.

Sadism and Sadism

I find it hard to control my bias sometimes.  Like most submissives (I suspect), I feel an inner pressure to paint only a pretty picture of what it is to be my Master's slave.  I try not to resort to romanticism, but I still wonder if sometimes I'm not guilty of the same glossy tint that I criticise other subs for.  I want to get the balance right: while I would never publicly criticise my Master, I also want to be clear on something.  It's not all peaches.

Oh, woe is me, sometimes my Master is cruel!!  Lol.  But it's true, sometimes he is, in ways that I really curse.  There's his tendency to not answer questions I ask, for example.  In vanilla relationships, I've thrown tantrums over that.  Here, I'm forced to grit my teeth and repeat a mantra of patience, patience, patience.....  And the errands he sends me on, sometimes needing to travel to several different locations to collect this, deliver that... A little voice in my head starts a complaining tirade at these times.  It ends when it reaches somewhere like, "Why can't you do this yourself?  What do you think I am, your - oh, hang on...."


And then there's the worst torture of all.  I can hardly stand to mention it.  I always know it's coming, when he gives me a sudden, examining look.  I want to run, but it's always too late, he is already moving in and I know what he is about to do... he tilts my head upwards, and I am forced to stand there while he squeezes a pimple on my face.  It's purely diabolical!

He laughs at the irony of that, and I do see his point.  It does feel ridiculous to say that I don't mind it at all when he makes me bruise or bleed, but attacking a spot drives me mad.  There is masochism, and there is masochism.

That same little voice in my head asks why on earth he does these little things that torment me so genuinely.  But when I'm rational, the reason is obvious.  My Master is a sadist.  That doesn't just mean that he likes to whip me til I'm wearing a blissful smile, or rape my ass til I thank him.  If I enjoy his cruelty every time, where is his fun?  No, it also means something I don't like to remember - that he gets real pleasure from doing anything at all that makes me pout, or sulk, or grimace in disgust, and forcing me to tolerate it.  There is sadism, which I could find anywhere, and then there is real sadism, which is far more rare.

So I try and remember the days before I met him, when playing with so-called "sadists" who would hit me and then stop to check if I was alright.  It was boring.  To truly embrace masochism one needs the sadist to be believable.  My Master is certainly believably, notably cruel.  I hate it, and I'm glad.

Consequence

Something disturbed my sleep - I looked around in the dark.  But before I even saw him, Master's hands took me, one grabbing my hair and the other clamped firmly over my mouth.  Uh-oh.  There was no rush of excitement or fear - just the awareness that I had pissed him off.  And whatever he was about to do, it wasn't going to be very comfortable.

He walked me outside, leading me by my hair, pushing me ahead of him, naked in the cool breeze.  He chose a corner of the garden covered in dirt and leaves, and spoke:  "On your back."  I laid down slowly, and waited.

His piss was warm in the cool air, and smelled strong.  He pissed on my body, my legs, my cunt, my tits, and my face.  I choked a little as he sent some down my throat and it splashed into my eye and nose.  He made sure to wet my hair.  He finished, and I waited for what was next.

But all he did was look down at me for a moment.  Then he uttered "I suggest you find a spot out of the wind," turned, and walked into the house.  And closed the door.  There was no question in my mind it would be locked.

Almost since immediately after we met, Master has claimed his right to me at any time, by having a key to my house.  So when I moved last weekend, one of the first things I made sure to do was to have a key cut for him, and deliver it so that he had access to his property.  But I neglected something - thinking I wasn't going to use it, I didn't think it necessary to cut a key for the security door.  So of course, the following night, when Master came to use his slut and found himself locked out, he was not pleased.  A stupid oversight on my part.  And now here I was, locked out... naked, wet, dirty, and stinking of piss.  Perfectly fitting.

In the past, being punished for my mistakes was devastating to me.  I have blogged before about some of these times, and how they would sicken me with grief and regret.  My Master's approval was, and still is, of paramount importance to me - his disapproval leaves me feeling shamed.  But something has changed in more recent times, and I think, been cemented with my collaring - I am less afraid.  My greatest fear since I became his property, has been his rejection.  In the early days, it seemed always imminent, looming just beyond the next mistake - his realisation that I was not worthy of his attention or time.  Each time I failed him, it felt like the end - I would be discarded now, as I should be.  I was worthless to him... nothing.

But now?  Somehow over time I have come to trust that, if my Master has kept me this long, he must see some worth in me.  If he keeps using me, he must take pleasure from me.  If he spends time with me, he must like me.  If he reassures me, he must care about me.  And most of all, if he has collared me, he truly intends to keep possession of me.

I reflected on this change, standing there in the dark, realising that I was not panicking, expecting disposal, and grieving for how much loss it would be to be freed.  Instead, I was calm, and simply accepting.  This was what Master was doing to me, as was his right.  That's all there was to it.  It did not mean I would be thrown away, it simply meant I was getting what I thoroughly deserved.  I thought about this, as I took a sheet off the washing line, wrapped it around myself, and huddled up for the night.

I was surprised that he didn't leave me there all night, though.  He came out with a bowl and used it to wash me down with cold water, splashing it over me until I was shivering.  Then he took my asshole, as he does, with no preparation, with no lube - just opening my tight, dry hole and forcing in his cock.  Sometimes the pain makes me scream, but this night I held it in, conscious of the neighbours so close by.  He used my hole, fucking it as his own, with me squirming under him on the pavement, alternating between pain and pleasure.  And after he had filled it with his cum, I was allowed back inside.

I slept in my bed last night, smelling of sweat, cum, shit, and the stench of piss still in my hair.

Chasing the High

How many times can I say it before it becomes a cliché? I love pain! There is nothing more refreshing, and calming, and liberating than being guided into position, holding still, and then being thoroughly hurt. It takes me to a clear space inside, where there is nothing but the sheer sensation and Master’s will, inching me closer and closer to nothingness.

The secret, I’ve discovered, is to say “yes” to it. Don’t brace myself, if I can help it. Relax, and feel the pain. The reflex is to flinch away and mentally try and make it stop – but I can’t. So the secret to freedom is to accept it, and concentrate on the pain and how it feels and to want only that. Of course, given enough pain, there is a phase of resistance where I do want Master to stop – I will beg him to stop, eventually. But beyond that, there is a deeper acceptance still – pure submission becomes effortless. Bliss.

I heard a lecture recently about the pursuit of ecstasy. I justified it as relevant to my work, but of course, I was just as motivated by curiosity about what the presenter might say regarding my own unconventional experience. He argued that it was simply a matter of brain chemistry – people addicted to dopamine. I love pain because it alters my consciousness by flooding my brain with feelgood neurotransmitters.

I can agree to a point. I am aware that, over time, as I’ve been exposed to more and more pain in play, I’ve developed a liking for it in many ways. I can endure an uncomfortable dentist visit, or an accidental injury, by focusing my mind more strongly on the pain, instead of wishing it gone. I don’t really enjoy it, in those contexts, but I can take a small compensatory degree of pleasure in it by putting myself in the right frame of mind. I can suppose that I have learned to purely enjoy that chemical change.

But there is something important missing in that idea. Something very important: my Master. Without someone inflicting the pain on purpose, the experience is dull and shallow. With a random sadist, it can be decadent and gratifying. But if the sadist is my Master, it becomes ecstatic – even transcendent. I love pain, but in and of itself, it is nothing compared to my Master’s will on the other side of the whip or paddle. That’s not just dopamine – its chemistry of an entirely different sort. When Master hurts me he penetrates my mind and wraps his hands around a deep, animal part of me. It’s more than just pain: it’s a kind of rich, perfect intimacy – surrendering my deepest self to him in joy.

I would have liked to hear what the lecturer would say about that. But it might have made too strong an impact on question time.