I enjoyed the other morning too, he says. Forcing you to take it. I enjoyed the mixture of sex and pain and brutality. Forcing you to fuck with panic and pain so close at hand. Making you go where you think you can’t.
Sunday morning, after a rather brutal beating and ass-fucking the night before, I woke with his hands on me, and his cock in me, and eventually, my hands tied above my head and him fucking me, relentlessly. I was so sore, so tired, my mind in a stupor, drugged with the lethargy that subspace & pain induces, almost at the end of my endurance. I was exhausted. ‘I can’t do anymore,’ I thought.
And still he pushed me farther.
He brought out the belt with the metal spikes and laid it spike side down so that it was pressing into me from breastbone to cunt, the tip of it pushing down viciously into the thin, tender skin of my mound, just above my clit. And then he laid on top of it, on top of me, pinning me and it to me so that I couldn’t move, or when I did, it dug into me, and then he fucked me, deliberately grinding the spikes into the soft flesh of my belly, between my breasts, into my mound.
I don’t like to be pinned, unable to move my arms or legs, and had been struggling with leftover panicky feelings from play the night before, and this, finally, almost tipped me back over the edge into that space again.
And still he pressed, slowly, inexorably, down into me. Still he thrust his body into mine, invading my body as he invaded my mind, pressing into those spaces where my fear lived, where the panic lived.
I panted, hyperventilating, whimpering, desperate and panicky.
And then I heard his voice. “Shhh…quiet…calm yourself. You can take it. Good girl. Take it for me.” And…as simply as that, his voice pulled me from the place where I was spiraling out of control, back down, slowing me, calming me, as simply and easily as if I had been a fractious horse, calmed by the feel of a hand, a quiet word. I breathed. I slowed. And I took more. I took more, and I took him in, and I fucked him. I opened for him, body and mind.
In that moment I recognized in myself the desire, the abject, craven need, to please him, to do this for him, because he wanted me to. To take it. To take more. To be what he wanted. And I rejoiced, and I loved him for it, for inspiring this in me.
It was like being tied by the sound of your voice, by your words, I said, trying to explain this profound feeling that I had had in the midst of all that he was doing. Tied so that I just calmed and went into that quiet space inside, just as if you had bound me with rope. And somehow the fact that you can do that, get inside my head and control me that way, just by talking to me, control my physical, almost involuntary responses…
When I read his words, the disparity between the romantic feelings I had had about it and his own perception was not lost on me. And yet it feels right, knowing that he feels that, that his perception differs so sharply from mine. Just reading the words “Making you go where you think you can’t,” makes me so fucking hot. Makes me feel it all over again, the heat and the submission. The need to please, to be pleasing. To give him what he wants.
Of course our perceptions differ. He is coming from the Top’s headspace, me from the bottom’s, but also there is…a romantic quality to much of what I feel about certain things that is absent in where his head is at during a scene. This is not to say that he doesn’t have a very sensuous, caring and even romantic, side, or that he doesn’t exhibit that during a scene, but for the most part when I am falling into scenespace, curling into myself and into him, he is…more detached. Watching my reactions, effecting my reactions, analyzing (perhaps) cause and effect. Alert and poised, maybe, where I am falling away, away, into this floating no-space, like falling into sea water, heavy and torpid and yet buoyant, like I imagine it would feel to lie in a bath full of warm water watching your blood slowly seeping from your body.
When I am in W’s World, this seeming disparity works. I need him in that ultra-controlled space for me to be able to find the spaces I do. I need to feel that edge of detachment, even while he is intensely and deeply engrossed in me/us/what we are involved in. On a prosaic level, to feel safe enough to go there I need to know that he is aware and alert and in control, because I am not. On a visceral level, for me to be able to find that headspace, to open myself up to and give myself over to that bottom/submissive space that I so crave, I also need to feel the bite of his…indifference, almost. A callousness and just a hint of cruelty. It is such the polar opposite of what I know and feel from him in “real life” that it becomes a mindfuck, a piece of the puzzle that tips me into subspace, to see him this way, to know this is in him, to feel the sharp edges of it used against me.
But then there is this other way I feel, this blurry romantic way that I feel in the midst of it all that is so totally alien, so completely contradictory, to what I know I should be feeling that it blows my mind. But there it is. And there are other times, in the the midst of some almost casual cruelty, that he allows his “real” self, the one that loves me and comforts me after the hurt, to show, unbalancing me; and he uses that to force me to accept whatever it is he wants me to accept. He knows me, he knows how to manipulate me, how and where to dig into me. He twists and turns me about, he plays my body and mind so well that I don’t know anymore that I am being played; I am only responding to him, giving to him; opening myself to him and not thinking beyond the moment, beyond obeying and accepting and doing whatever it is he wants.
In his words I see the undeniable differences in how we perceive what we do, and even why. And I love it. I love the differences; that this is what he wants, that this is why he does it. It is in his words that I can see that, for everything he gives me, for everything I get out of this, I give something back. I give him what he wants too.