Archive for the ‘it hurts so good’ Category

HNT: wounds addendum

June 18, 2009 2 comments

DSC_2431Here is the bite on Monday, teeth indents still present.  Red and puckered, broken capillaries galore.


And two days later, Wednesday night, it is yellowing and fading.  Makes me wonder and shudder to imagine what it takes to get the dark purply bruises so often shown off by other masochists.  Yes, okay, I have verified that I am, indeed, a masochist (thanks to all who’ve, ah, helped me on the road to this particular discovery).

The area is still tender to the touch, but I am more or less fully recovered.  Which means, of course, that it is time to return for more.

But, please.  No more tickling.  Hard limit.

Weekend wounds

June 17, 2009 Leave a comment

I have a yellow bruise beginning to fade below my collarbone, the really only lasting remnant of a long, packed weekend.  The whip marks were gone by the time I drove back to campus on Sunday, and the other marks on my back gone as well when I checked in the mirror yesterday.  Thankfully the lines around my neck are gone too, preventing the potential for embarrassing inquiries.

Just as quickly the memories start to fade, though if I concentrate, details begin to percolate back into my mind.  The first night, at a Hampton beach boardwalk, the flashing, garish lights of an arcade, frisbee in the dark, and dashing into the cold salty surf in my underwear.  Experiencing the terror and thrill of being surrounded by four sadistic riggers (unbelievably, none of whom had rope with them), and then the aftermath of trying to get sand out of places sand should never have access to.

The second day began messily, with what should have been an 18-minute drive (according to Google Maps) taking instead one hour of missed turns, dead ends, and one very, very frustrated driver.  But we made it to the Bound in Boston con, just in time for a group ice-breaker and stretching session with a yoga practitioner.  The stretching calmed me down enough to heartily enjoy the next couple hours of rope classes, involving pegs and rings, bamboo poles, and some spectacular escape games.  I learned that I am a horrible rigger, but I also learned how to improve.

I sank into blissfully deep ropespace twice on Saturday, experienced my first play party with a fully decked out dungeon.  Suspension points in the ceiling, rows of whips, floggers, cuffs, and sex toys hanging along the wall, and lots of people dressed in fetishwear.  I was out of place in my tanktop and stretchy pants, but it didn’t matter because soon my top was forced off and I was being whipped, first my back and then my front, then my back again.  To hide from the humiliation I was graciously blindfolded and saw nothing of my surroundings for the next hour.

More humiliation was to come as I was ordered to grind against a proffered leg until orgasm.  I came, but quietly.

I floated in and out of consciousness in between bouts of whipping, flogging, biting, and hair pulling.  The upstairs kitchen provided a reprieve and boosters: soft drinks, alcohol, and table snacks.  I refueled with sugar and chips, then descended again to be tied while sitting in a half-lotus, my body folded up like a clam.  Hardened piano wires flicked across my nipples, sending sharp coursing pain straight down my spine.

My poor nipples.  I take it back, they are probably the most bruised and tender part of my body and remain sensitive to any friction from cloth.  They were whipped, twisted, bitten, rubbed, flicked, and pulled in excruciating ways.

And the sex.  Oh yes, the sex.  Sex that left me sore and tearing latex from around my throat.  By Sunday, I was too sore.  Sex hurt.  I resisted, but was fucked anyway.  I screamed and tried to push away, but a low voice whispered close to my ear that he like hearing me scream.  I whimpered, and he praised me for whimpering for him.

I begged in a small voice to be hurt, and he happily obliged.  He slapped my face till I saw stars, then tightened latex around my throat so I couldn’t breathe.  I convulsed, he convulsed, and the latex tightened more.

Afterwards I curled into a small happy puddle of endorphins and didn’t emerge until my stomach grumbled for attention.  A small contest of wills ensued with my bedmate (safeword: gumdrop) before I untangled myself to run for the shower.  I first stopped to admire the marks scattered across my body, then winced as the hot water hit my skin and reminded me where it hurt.  Namely, everywhere.

And when I’d returned and dried off in the room, he came over to admire his handiwork, and decided the bitemark below my collarbone should be emphasized.  I tried to pull away, really I did, my palm pressed against his head, pushing away as he leaned in and “emphasized” the bite.

And that is the yellowing, fading bruise I have left from this past weekend.

HNT: Clothespins

June 4, 2009 Leave a comment


So since I’m going to be up anyway working like mad to finish some website work, I thought I might as well swing over here and procrastinate a bit on a post (like we do).  Last week, while grocery shopping, I looked up in the cleaning products aisle and saw a pack of 48 wooden clothespins hanging along a shelf.  I had to buy them.  I’ve had this idea of making photographs involving clothespins on the body for so long now, but the (admittedly few) places I looked only sold plastic clothespins, and I wanted wooden ones.

Later in the evening, I excitedly took out a few clothespins and my (now newly recharged) camera to test things out.  Well, it was definitely an interesting learning experience, finding where the pins worked and held on.  I only did my extremities this time – can only handle so much of this at once.  (Some may disagree with this.)


The rest of the photos can be seen here.  Yeah, I had fun with Lightroom.


May 10, 2009 24 comments

“Let’s play” he says, all grin and glinting canines.  My reaction is instinctual: survival.  I lunge for his throat, for the thick jugular full of life and heat, biting down on skin and heartbeat before he can do the same.  As teeth graze skin and I taste sweat and musk along my tongue, I wish for claws over these weak cuticles, for the ability to sink down into flesh, deep to the bone, to carve my presence there.  So he never forgets.

But already I feel the vibrations of his laughter against my tongue, and he lifts me bodily, still attached to him by the throat, fingers pressing between the bars of my ribs.  I bite harder to tease out the russet taste of his body, while his fingers move north to find my own snappable neck, oblivious to my hands grappling against his wrists.

Squeeze, and white flares out against the edges of my vision.

Squeeze harder, and my jaw goes slack, desire for air overpowering desire for flesh.  I forcefeed tiny gulps of wheezing air down a constricted larynx, but it is not enough to extinguish the sunbursts in my skull.

The final, sputtering moan that escapes through my swollen tongue is not of my own doing, but rather milked from each air-deprived cell of my body, fed up to his hungry ears, drawn out by his thumbs pressed close to my vocal chords, and I don’t have enough oxygen in my lungs to thank him (Thank you, thank you, thank you; but the bridge between mind and voice has crumbled) for this hard-earned euphoria.

And in an instant it is over, gone: nothing pressing against my airway, no fingers laced like wire around my throat.  Air rushes into the vacuum of my lungs faster than I can gasp.  As I lie there panting, I see only his wild grin coming into focus, and his voice coos, low in my ear, “Now, wasn’t that fun?”

Weekend in review

April 29, 2009 Leave a comment

I am just rereading an e-mail I sent to a friend describing my weekend.  One part of it really sticks out for me.  It reads:

He used a hand on my throat.  Sometimes he covered my nose and mouth.  He told me that I wasn’t done until he was.  It was true.

A lot of the things that I experienced this past weekend makes me squirm to remember, but that statement just causes me to shudder.  I’ve realized that those words hold the culmination of desires and wants that started in my early childhood.  It is the same shudder of fear/thrill I feel when I read of evil, sadistic villains in fictional stories, and of the utter helplessness of their victims.

I had never really felt that before – that fine, razor-thin line between fear and lust, amplified by helplessness, and it captured my imagination very early on in my life.  The idea of a person who enjoyed causing physical pain to another for the pure pleasure of it – well, that both aroused and terrified me.  And now, I’ve finally experienced a brief taste of that kind of personality.  Just thinking back, remembering, leaves me heady.

How can I adequately describe the events of the past weekend?  Should I concentrate on the workshop, where I was tied in my first suspension, a horizontal tie that left my legs free to swing and kick and maneuver within the suspension rig?  Should I go into detail on the evening, which found my back pressed hard against the far wall of a hotel bathroom, my shirt rolled up to my collarbone as I was first whipped, then punched and pinched until I had to cross my arms over my chest and slide down to the floor?

Or perhaps the evening before, when I found myself sitting between two sadists as they used my body to show each other their favorite pressure points for causing pain or for take downs.  Or when a latex Theraband was stretched across my face, over my mouth and nose, so that each increasingly short breath caused my body to shake and spasm.  Or the caning, the biting, the struggling to get out of rope as it was being tied around me.

Or, even, the awe and privilege of getting to climb up the limbs of a majestic, 200-year-old beech tree in the yard of my gracious host.  Eating Thai food with a bunch of kinksters and geeking out about chromatin looping and computers.  The first night when I started dozing off in a stairwell while the above two sadists chatted about sci-fi/fantasy novels.

Already so much of those three days has become a fuzzy blur of sensations.  I wish that I could fully articulate how thrilling it was, or that I could pin down every detail of each scene and event that happened.  But it’s already taken me this long to process everything enough to write anything at all.  And now the last few marks on my body from rope are fading, and the bruises are healing.  I am no longer so sore and stiff that I have a difficult time removing my bra.  Amazing how it all so quickly dissipates into memory, isn’t it?


April 24, 2009 7 comments

I have been meaning to flesh out more of the pain-pleasure play that I was starting to explain, mostly to myself.  There is an aspect of this abstract desire that reaches beyond purely physical for me; that is the search for a kind of release through intense stimulation.  Pain.

Emotional release is difficult for me.  Starting as a child, I have conditioned myself to suppress intense emotions.  In the presence of parents possessing completely opposite methods of emotional expression, I take after my father: stoic and quiet, even in his anger.  I met all incoming arguments with a seemingly indifferent silence, a mask for my inability to express myself clearly.

And so the simple idea of having that carapace broken down has increasingly filled my head.  If only, I surmise, I could be pushed to that point where nothing is present but raw emotion, then nothing but a tired, spent shell that has just released all the buildup of emotional burden.  To free the constantly present, tight, knot of anxiety that I have always felt pressed against the center of my ribcage.  What would it take to feel that, even if for a moment?

This line of thought has always kept me a bit on edge, however.  It feels like a dangerous line to cross, and I wonder if it is healthy to have this craving.  What mental or psychological deficiency prevents me from handling my emotions?  Is this a viable method for achieving release?

It is not as though I have any history of abuse or violence.  Besides the odd slap with a ruler when I was being particularly rowdy, I wasn’t hit as a kid.  I keep searching for some tenuous, silk-thin thread of correlation woven from my childhood to help explain this, and I keep failing to find it.  The only sliver of memory I have is of a dark, hidden excitement from seeing characters rendered helpless, perhaps tortured, at the hands of an emotionless villain, at some distant point in my life.

This pushing of boundaries, of taking me beyond my level of conscious consent and capabilities, is an act I tried to talk to my first partner about.  It wasn’t as well-formed a realization at that point – I just wanted to experience an intensity of pain capable of making me cry.  Thus far, this has never happened.  Not to say I have a high tolerance – as mentioned in my first musings, I haven’t experienced enough impact play to define that.  My level of exposure to the world of BDSM and kink is quite odd, really.  I have received enemas, done puppy play, been tied Japanese Shibari style, and swallowed urine, but I have never been caned or whipped.  My level of “roughness” has never quite exceeded that of “edgy vanilla,” when in actuality I want struggling, slapping, biting and sheer physical overpowering.

It is possible that this form of experience can help me break down my personal trappings and convolutions.  Or perhaps this is simply the best way for the kind of person I am: to be flogged into crying.  Maybe this is actually the least-destructive way for me to find release.

In any case, I’m going to end this rambling with an amazing TEDtalk of a brain scientist who had a stroke one morning, and proceeded to delve into the slow unraveling of her mind’s functions.

Vodpod videos no longer available.

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random points along a string

April 3, 2009 3 comments

I am quickly reaching that all-encompassing time of month, where I want everything to be grittier, harsher, rougher, and more primal.

Of course, I am currently all but being voluntarily celibate; I’m really just not interested in hunting and pursuit at this point (although I do have some students that make for pleasurable eye candy, which is always nice).  Or, I suppose, there is a part of me waiting until I find the One.  You know…the One who knows all the right buttons to push; who knows when to be soft and gentle, and when to push me to the ground and make me beg.  The One who will draw out the deepest, most humiliating fantasies that I refuse to tell and use them to bring me to greater heights of ecstasy.

Silly and romantic of me, I know.

Other than that, I have been thinking a lot about pain tolerance and masochism.  Especially after Alphabet Soup, seeing impact play for the first time, I started wondering where along this spectrum of pain-is-pleasure I belong.  I can take a bit of pain, though with no comparison to anything else I’m not even sure what that means.  I’ve been belted for almost an hour without resorting to using a predetermined safety word, and I can take clothespins on nipples.

But the dataset is far from complete, and I can’t form any concrete boundaries around pain play.  What does it all add up to? I can’t tell with the limited experience I have had thus far.

But I will admit something, here:

There are times when I can imagine myself, bound and made immobile, tied so that I cannot shrink away from any kind of stimulus.  And then I imagine an abstraction of pain: a slow, glowing heat in the small of my back that deepens, forms liquid ripples radiating up and down my torso.

I imagine pain so intense it burns my vision away to whiteness, fills my ears with rushing air and the shallow rasping of my breath, the only sound keeping my consciousness tied to my body.

I imagine a disembodied voice, hovering somewhere off to the side and behind me, asking, challenging me to handle it, pushing me to the razor-sharp edge of my limits.  I imagine the pain taking the place of orgasm, wracking my entire body and saturating my senses.

It takes my breath away to visualize and sense the echoes of yearning my body respond with.  I’m honestly not sure what to make of it all yet.  Nor why this particular fantasy (if it can properly be called one) focuses around the small of my back, one of the most sensitive areas of my body.

Only time, and experimentation, will solve this little puzzle.