“You’re such a dirty girl,” he says. I nod; it’s true. But if I am it’s because he makes me one.
Such a dirty, dirty girl.
He told me to wear something I wouldn’t mind getting messed up. It’s summer, and this time of year that particular phrase usually means the basement. I love and dread the basement. The narrow, open wooden stairs, the dank basement smell (it doesn’t matter how dry a basement is it still smells like the damp earth it is carved out of), the dusty concrete floor and surreal half-light. The tools and the machines.
The memories of other brutalities and degradations.
All those things thrill me, too. It is like entering a foreign country. As old-fashioned as it sounds, it is a man’s space, his space, and I feel the unease of any foreigner who doesn’t speak the language. I could lose my way here. One misstep and I could wind up locked away forever, or bound and trussed, just another tool to be taken out and used when needed, hung up on a hook or tied to a wall when I am not. I envision being spread open on his bench, those awful tools used to open and pry and invade…
Another thing about the basement is the sound. Everything is muffled, insulated by the thick stone walls, and yet, curiously, amplified because there are no other sounds–no music, no outside sounds–other than the ones he and I are making. The hiss of rope snaking out, the squeak it makes as a knot is tightened, the moan as it is stretched around a post. The slap of an aluminum strip on flesh, the thud of a wooden paddle, or the swoosh as a hand or foot cleaves the air before it connects with tender skin, with meat already tenderized by those other implements. The sound of his breathing, and mine. Whimpers and sharp, staccato cries, grunts as flesh meets flesh. A sigh and a growl and a whispered imprecation. The sound of a zipper being lowered, and of fluid raining down…
The basement is a place where the true dichotomy of W’s personality comes clear. On one hand, he is the engineer, the inventor; detached and precise as he creates his bizarre contraptions. On the other, he is someone less reasoned; still controlled, precise, but somehow this dark place lets him put aside the civilized thinking man. As we venture into the depths of his house we are reaching a place where the primal sometimes overtakes the thinker, and allows a baser, more visceral self to emerge; he becomes a creature of lust and violence, something the light of day might not allow to be freed.
Not knowing which side will emerge is half the excitement, half the dread. Anything can happen down here, and often does.
I love the way he fucks me up. So totally strips me down to nothing, to a mewling mess on the floor, til I don’t care who or what I am, as long as he is there, as long as I am what he wants. I love that feeling when I break open, completely surrender, nothing left in me but what he puts there.
This day was one of those times.
It wasn’t enough to tie me to the post, to kick me and slap me, to strike me, over and over, with whatever implements he had at hand. It wasn’t enough to piss all over me, in my hair, in my face, and take pictures as it dripped into my eyes and mouth. This time, when he finally brought me down, it wasn’t even enough to let me sit there, sniveling in my humiliation, in the stench of it.
Before I had time to register what he was doing, he had wrenched my hands behind my back and pushed me face down onto the dirty basement floor, shoving my face into a rivulet of urine-soaked dust and cinching my ankles up in a hogtie. I think I may have struggled…I know I wanted to. But maybe I didn’t. I honestly can’t recall. There are long moments where I just floated, somewhere between the real world and another. Once again he had managed to wipe my mind clean of anything but him, and I, there, in that moment.
I have friends that enjoy piss play. And by “enjoy” I mean just that. It is a gentle kind of play, mutually pleasurable and sought after by them both. There is no power dynamic in it. Some time ago I played with them, and, because I knew they wanted me to, I tried to engage in it with them. But I have such a complex (some might say fucked-up) relationship with my bodily functions, I just couldn’t do it for pleasure. This kind of play isn’t pleasurable to me. It’s not about pleasure. It’s about embarrassment, and, ultimately, the power dynamic. I don’t have a power dynamic with the Top half of the couple, and so when he tried to “make” me do it, it didn’t happen. Not because I didn’t want to do it, but because I physically couldn’t, and he didn’t have the power to compel me to. There was no release of will in it for me, no release of control. And if he had pissed on me, it would not have had the same effect that W pissing on me does. Because I know that for W, it is about power.
With W, it is always about power. The power to degrade me, to piss on me, because he wants to, because I am his to piss on, to beat up, to use and degrade.
And to make me come, my face grinding into the dirt and piss of his basement floor.
I’ve read women’s blogs and posts on Fetlife by women that scoff, and even sneer, at the idea of forced orgasm. “Oh no,” they say sarcastically, “he’s making me have an orgasm! No, no, Master, not that! Don’t make me come!” and I can understand their reluctance to accept that it might be something that truly isn’t desired by the bottom. Who doesn’t want to have an orgasm, right? But there have been many times when I really don’t want to orgasm. When having an orgasm is as humiliating as being pissed on. Like those other bodily functions, the loss of control in an orgasm, being made to lose control that way, is embarrassing, and as much about power–and powerlessness–as anything else. The first time I was made to come in public, by my ex, was deeply humiliating–and, for that very reason, it was also incredibly hot. But the fact of the matter is, I didn’t want to lose control like that, in front of roomful of people. But the fact that he could force me to do so made it hot.
There have been other times, too: when I am exhausted, or simply satiated, or tired or sore or have already come so much I just don’t think I have another one in me, when he makes me do it, either by physically forcing me, or more recently, by commanding it of me. “Do it again,” he’ll say. “Make it come.” It’s not, “Give yourself pleasure,” it is “Do it because I say so.” And then, suddenly, it truly isn’t about pleasure, or at least not mine. It’s about power. The power to make me do a thing simply because he can.
Laying there in the basement, breathing in the rank odor of his urine, feeling the dirt and wet beneath my cheek, my body bruised and mind numb, I was as far away from wanting an orgasm as I had ever been. And even when he pushed my legs apart and shoved his fingers inside of me, I held onto my pride (what little there was left of it) fighting against what I knew he wanted from me. I would not come in the dirt, covered in piss, like some animal.
And then, of course, I did. He fucked me with his hands and with his cock, thrusting into me like the animal that I refused to be, fucking me, using me in the dirt until I became the animal he was making of me and began to thrust back against him. It was the dirtiness of it, the nastiness, the fact that he was crouching there above me, shoving his fingers and his cock into me, manipulating me, physically and emotionally, knowing perfectly well what he was doing, knowing that I was fighting him and knowing full well that, in the end, I would give in. I would capitulate, because I had to.
Because he has the power, and I do not.