Posts tagged ‘pain’

On Alcoholism and Loneliness


I’ve been thinking about alcoholism…not just M’s but all of those I have encountered struggling with it…. or not as the case maybe.


It seems there is always a profound loneliness deep inside them. My mother was like that, deeply lonely, sad and abandoned. My friend L is like that.  I think I am beginning to feel it in M despite her cheerful out look.


It’s in the little things she’s told me. It’s between the lines and in the negative spaces. It’s in the words she uses to describe yourself. It’s in how her touch reaches out to me and reaches into me.


And of course a deep profound loneliness is the genesis of my behavior…you can’t smother me, I can never have too much affection. I will reach out and reach out until I have given all of myself away in hopes of getting something back. I’ve learned to avoid that, or at least stop before I have nothing left even for myself.
I suppose where she is an alcoholic I am an affection-holic. 

They say that alcoholics drink to numb the pain. Maybe that is why I don’t drink to excess because often I only hurt worse. I only want arms to curl up in more, hands to gently stroke me more, the warmth of a body against mine and the warmth of a heart against mine more.


The other night she said that she knew if I were there I could heal her. Intellectually I know better. But do you know what? For a split second I felt if I could only just wrap myself around her and hold her, hold her, hold her that maybe, just maybe a tiny bit of that pain would seep out of her.  

Tickling: The Other Sort of Pain


I told Maitre the other day that I loved his tickling me. I love the way it makes me giggle and feel like a little girl. I love how it tortures me and rides that fine line between pleasure and pain. I also love how I’ve given one more tool in his tool.


I told him that he could reduce me to tears if he wanted. I am so ticklish that I can be reduced to a cowering, mess on the floor, begging for my attacker to stop. And when I say begging? I mean begging, for real, the “I’ll do anything you want just please stop tickling me” variety of begging.


I didn’t tell him where the hot button are but I did tell him that once he’s found them and get’s me rolling my entire body becomes ticklish much like once you turn me on my entire body becomes an erogenous zone.


He thanked me for telling him I am ticklish citing how most people find it simply annoying. Well… I do too. I find it almost painful but I do so love working to endure what he puts me through.


Hmmm…. a thought just occurred to me.  Is that submission? Or is that a power struggle? Is my setting my teeth and enduring his ministrations really my enduring for him? Because, I can see where it could be painted as “Ta hell if I’m going to give you the satisfaction! “also.


I suppose its time for me to move on. Maybe I too should accept the closure I have given her. Maybe I too should close the chapter in the book that is my life with their name on it. 

I suddenly struck me. I may never be in his home again.  Then again I’m not sure it matters, the room I have such vivid memories of him in has been redone. It’s still a shock when I walk into it. If I move on now that is much less that will be written over of him. I can still see him in the room, the dark green walls behind him. The last time I saw him was in that room…well, actually it was on his front stoop as he saw me out. But the three of us had been hanging out in that hunter green room that they both hated so much. I can remember his going to put his arm around her. She subtly shifted away from his touch. Just as she always did.
Maybe it’s time for me to take my memories and run.
I feel no guilt, no regret. When he turned his twinkling blue eyes upon me that first time I was a dried up husk of a woman, done with birthing, child rearing and all those things women are good for, forgotten by her husband. He shone upon me (how did he make those eye twinkle on command!?) and I came alive. He touched me and my blood flowed once again. He gave me permission to be me and showed me that I was lovable for who I am… not for what I try to make myself into for others. No it was far from a perfect relationship. We were probably toxic in the long run. I was never secure, for I don’t know what reason. We bickered constantly. But we did fill each other with life again. 
He once wrote me: 
what did I do before we met?  with whom did I share all this energy
all this passion…all this heat?

truth is…noone,  it stood dormant hibernating until it felt the
warming rays of your smile, the light within you made this happen.

I simply can’t imagine going back to that time….

I could have written this for I felt the same. So perhaps it is time for me to take my memories, our memories, stash them away and close that chapter.
If only I could put to rest the fear of loosing those memories. She talks about him and he is alive, she shared bits and pieces of her memories with me and it only served to reinforce mine.  Her love for him, kept my love for him company, even if she never knew it. 


Today is one of those days that I could step in front of a truck or swallow the business end of a gun (and yes, sadly I know to point it up not back).


No worries, I won’t. The thing that always stops me is how immensely unfair it is to the people who have to clean up the mess, the poor truck driver and my family.  Sticking around for another day is not one of the things that stops me…though it did as a kid, when things were actually much worse. But as a kid you have your whole life in front of you filled with nothing but potential (both good and bad).  From where I stand half way through all I can see is the down hill slide sometimes.


I’m just so very tired. I’m tired of being tired. I’m tired of hurting. I’m tired of feeling twisted. Tired of pain from the torque on my spine and ribcage. I’m tired of the hissing in my ears.


I’m  tired of being lonely in my marriage. And I’m tired of looking at Maitre, how good we are together and waiting for it to fall apart… because doesn’t it always?


I’m tired of life’s disappointments and pain…


Ultimately… I’m just tired, bone achingly tired and there is no refuge from it at home. The dogs won’t give me a break, the husband acts put out… I’m tired and I want to get off this ride.


Note to Maitre:  Your timing couldn’t have been any better had you done it on purpose. Thanks. I feel better.

Bent, Faceless and Happy

You bent me backwards. You bent me so far backwards I could see a couple in the mirror. She, subject to his whim, chest and belly laid bare to his hungry mouth. He, with smooth head bent over her devouring her. And then, as quickly as the vision had come it was taken from me. No time to think, not time to ponder the poetics of submission. I am suddenly reduced to sensation and reaction. Suddenly my reality is immediate, visceral, coming at me in the pain of my scalp and sharp staccato blows across my face.


Later you would cover me completely. Your outsized stature swallows my tiny frame. I am buried in the dark of your arms, your weight extinguishing any thought of movement…as if there is any to start with. Warm darkness, breath in my ear, weight pinning me and cock slamming into my sore pussy over and over. Simply, powerfully, totally consumed, objectified. Beneath you, your length stretched over me, I am little more than a vehicle for your stimulation. You watch in the mirror. You couldn’t have seen much more than you’re having an anonymous ass. Was that lovely Daddy? Was the turn on in taking this faceless, nameless female body?


While my submission was complete and unchanging your dominance shifted in mood and tone. You moved through hunger, to violence and on to objectification stopping along the way at many places I haven’t take the time to name. You take us on wonderful rollercoaster rides on which I hang on for dear life never knowing how it will twist or turn. I gladly am tossed about to satisfy you. I am gladly challenged by the pain that makes you rock hard. And I am gladly little more than faceless form of stimulation.


I had a lovely time today Daddy… thank you.


A note to the chance reader: Do not doubt for one moment that I am loved, cherished and taken care of. He pours far more into me than I could ever repay him with my body.

Current Events

Recently my dear friend A joined Us in play. It was lovely. He commented that it was the most balanced and giving threesome he’s ever been in. I have to agree. It was what I always thought a threesome should be and had always hoped it could be. Just warm, erotic, sensual… sigh… lovely.

Now, we came into this as a “vanilla experience”. We left the power exchange as out of it as We can. There was no impact play or any other element bdsm element. However, in conversations leading up to it A had eluded to some interest in bdsm and in topping. So, when Maitre left town in March for close to two weeks (by my clock) he left in her care with instructions. I hadn’t wanted to write about it until I had discussed it with both of them.

 I feel privileged to have been there and been the sub on which she spread her wings and took flight, very privileged. Thank you Maitre for seeing it, encouraging it and facilitating it. Thank you A for trusting me enough to let go, experiment and ask me to dig for you.

 Neither Maitre nor I saw the extent to which it would click with A. This left me mentally unprepared for what I would encounter and I suspect left holes in some wisdom Maitre might otherwise have shared. A in her newness did not see the potential emotional impact of some of her choices of play. It was a learning experience for all three of us I suppose but of course especially for me and A.  In retrospect there should have been a three way discussion of limits and experience. But He and I just didn’t see any of this coming. Of course it is fine because we love and trust each other, Maitre knews this and knew that I would be in good hands… despite the unforeseen.

 A collar and leash is somewhere I hadn’t gone yet, with anyone.  So, when A put them on me it was a novelty. At the outset I was fine, cavalier even. Never having played much with humiliation or real objectification I under estimated the potential impact.  I also failed to see how the vulnerability created by a good beating and the control of you body by another (including orgasm). I went into it cavalierly but came out humiliated and upset. I cringed inside from the circumstance. I hated the collar and crawling at her heel on the way back. Her decision to penetrate me anally and the strength of my orgasms only made it more so.  I wanted to cry, I really wanted to cry but wouldn’t. Why I wouldn’t was part of the key to why it was so upsetting…besides the obvious humiliation.

 Maitre and I have longed talked about “playing to tears”. There have been some but not in scene, as these would have been.  I felt the tears should have been his. I felt that he should have been there to experience them, to feel them, to hear my sobs. I reasoned that to some extent they were his because I was there at his bidding. It didn’t help much. I was also upset because I thought the collar and leash had been his idea. I thought that he had given over to another a first for me instead of being under his supervision…and the gift it would have been to him. It never occurred to me to say “no” to her, to express that collar and leash are his before they are hers but then again I didn’t know what his directions were and what weren’t. 

 When I think about it I am still upset that “that” first experience went to another.  I’m still upset that it wasn’t given to him. I am not upset with her, I am not upset with him, nor am I upset with myself…I’m not even upset for having had the experience with her. I just wish that because of the emotional impact of it that it had been his first. But there were so many blind spots for all of us there is no way we could have foreseen the situation. Hell, if you had asked me I wouldn’t have seen it. And as with all things that cause us discomfort they are opportunities for self examination and growth.

We played twice. Both were very intense just in different ways. The first emotionally as laid out above the second physically.
 She was far tougher on me in some ways than he has been. This was a learning experience too. I learned that I like pain, for the sake of pain. I learned that I like to play even without the promise of a sexual encounter. Does it excite? Certainly! But without direct erotic stimulation it doesn’t cause sexual frustration. You don’t play with my pussy? I can enjoy the pain for pain, the dig for the dig and walk away feeling refreshed, feeling like I have undergone a catharsis.

I love to feel the sensations just for themselves and she put me through my paces in terms of sensations… blind folded and trussed to the pipes in her frigid basement there were: tickles, cold, heat, wet, dry candle wax, objects dragged across my hypothermic body, spanking, her belt (I think), the pain of standing in heels for a long time, the pain of being cold… I was never so thankful to be released from restraints and sent to dress! What she never did was truly play with my pussy. So … another first at A’s hands… sensation play for the sake of sensation play. No big emotional struggle this time…just yummm, yummm…YUMMMM!!

So…there we have it…my week at the hands of a budding Domme… excruciating in many ways and a chance to grow and learn about myself. Many thanks again Daddy and A.
Oh…one last lesson…in my emotional turmoil of the collar and leash, is the lesson of how much He means to me and how my desire to give to Him is just not a general desire to give but is wonderfully, agonizingly, amazingly, specific to Him.

A Good Fight

I’m feeling really blue and bitchy. I just want to lash out. I know that’s not very productive but I bet if he was here I would pick a fight. He says he doesn’t respond, he won’t satisfy by engaging in the fight but instead stays calm and reasonable. Yep, that would drive me nuts but with me I bet he will have met his match.

I’m a picker. I’ll pick and stick and goad searching for the chink in the armor. Then once I find it I stick the knife in and twist. I’ve been told I”m quite good at it, at hurting with words. I’ve been told I have an uncanny knack for finding just the right spot and then plunging my fist in to rip you apart by the gut.

Is it something I am proud of? Not particularly. Is it something I will engage in purposefully? Some what. I certainly don’t think about what I’m doing when I do it but I do know that when I’m cruising for a fight I will do it. Is that purposeful? I don’t know.

I wrote an email earlier that had it been said in person would have been seriously acidic. Was it acidic in writing? I don’t know I’m sure I’ll hear about it if it was.

I just want to reach up and smack the crap out of his face. I just want to hurt him. Why? I really don’t know. I suppose because I am hurting. Someone once told me that when I want to connect and don’t know how I start a fight. Maybe that’s all this is just wanting to fucking connect. I want to spend time with him, I want to know that I’m important to him. I’m tired of being patient and understanding. I’m always patient and understanding with everybody in my life. Just for once I want someone to move me to the head of the line. Just for once I want that patience and understanding to be rewarded but it never is. Not with K, not with G and not with Maitre…

Yes Maitre, I know this isn’t fair. I know why I can’t be at the head of your line and I knew it when I stepped into your cue. But you know what? I’m not feeling very fair. Being fair doesn’t get me anything. Life isn’t fair it walks all over you.

So in the end I just want to smack you, spit in your face, pound on your chest, scream, yell…and then…eventually… sob. Why can’t I ever come first with anyone?

Hell, maybe I’m still just sick and run down, and so vulnerable to my sadnesses.

Picking Scabs

On a ‘nilla board I hang out on, on a thread entitled “glutton for punishment”, someone posted ..but each time the wound slightly scabs over I find a way to make it bleed again. 

We were talking about how some people tend to revisit their emotional pain and how some even induce it. I’ve been this way most of my life. I would ruminate about worse case scenarios, the horrific “what ifs” that spring from our unconscious unbidden, the worries about fidelity, safety and health of our loved ones. I’m sure you know the type. I once had someone call me an optimistic pessimist. I hope for the best but expect the worst.

In short we were talking about emotional masochism…see, even ‘nilla’s do it.

I’ve notice that this trait has quieted during my involvement with Maitre. Yes there is the occasional irrational “squirrel” but for the most part I am very much at peace. The interesting thing is that now that I do feel safe, do feel loved and wanted I crave purposefully exploring emotional pain and thus my interest in humiliation play. It’s not a huge desire. It’s more the passing interest that seems to coincide with an over mood of mine but it’s there nonetheless. I also know full well that if I put it on the table, which I have (obviously), that when we play at this will be at his discretion, not my whim. 

I must be really twisted. Why would I want to go to these places purposefully? But then I consider this…who better to explore this pain, to experience this catharsis with than with someone I trust with my very life? Who better to tear me down and build me back up than someone I know I am completely safe with. At the same time I worry that an inadvertent wrong step could ruin us. That hitting the wrong nerve in the wrong way could conceivably damage all we have worked to build all the trust we have created.

I wonder if ignored, this tendency to ‘pick at the scabs’, this urge to dig up pain and explore it in order to come back to the light, I wonder if in time if I ignored it might go away.

The Anima and The Animus

Anima and animus – Carl Jung

As Maitre once put it to me early on in our relationship… “I don’t think you believe that someone can actually treat you well and beat the crap out of you.”

He was right of course and that is what I really crave. I crave the pain but wrapped up in love, respect, and nurturing. I want the pain. I want to explore both physical and emotional pain…but I want to always know in my core of cores that I am safe, that I am wrapped up in love and that I will always come back to reality of being wanted.

And this is why I don’t just “bottom” because it isn’t about the pain on its own. It’s about the lovely juxtaposition of falling head long into the deepest darkest parts of ourselves only to come rushing back up to the surface and the pure joy and light of a warm and caring relationship.

I want to loose control and cower at the possibilities. I want to flinch (and do) when he raises his hand. I want to embrace fear. I want to embrace pain. I want to embrace worthlessness and humiliation. But will only do so, can only do so, if I know that on the other end are his warm strong loving arms.

I suspect we will never go to the deepest darkest places though I trust him to take me there and bring me back safely.  We won’t go these places unless something changes in our lives. I can’t even imagine going these places if I can’t reach out to him when I start to drop hard.  Hell, I drop hard enough as it sometime and struggle with our lives and schedules in those moments. I can’t begin to imagine being reduced to the level I long to and have to cope on my own later. In fact, I would say I don’t want to go these places unless we can spend a weekend at it. If we could have 48 hours locked away on our own, maybe a cabin in the woods, where he could reduce me completely and then build me back up… well, such are the things that fantasies are made of.