A View from the Floor

I’ve gotta ask, in advance, that y’all forgive the rambling nature of this post. I know it’s going to be rambling because I have seventy two million random thoughts in my head and none of them are going in any one direction. They’re sort of knotted together in a mess and I’m gonna try to work the knot loose and toss the thoughts out there - just to be free of them - without worrying about them making sense, without worrying about them being profound or teaching me something or bettering my mind.

S’here goes.

I’m all tangled up lately.

Still craving some mad, crazy, intense and horrifying pain and use and yet I’m craving intense sweetness and love at the same time.

I think things have just been very “middle of the road” lately. A bit of this, a bit of that but not enough of any specific to sate.

The last few times we’ve fucked it’s been very….

Hmmm….

I feel like a pocket toy.

Just a few holes he can wrap around his dick and be done with it.

Good, in some ways, since part of me feeds upon that sort of use but it would be better if he were more verbal about it, if he poked at the pain of it more.

Does that make sense?

I guess some people would simply thrive on it but I”m just kind of like…  eh…  yay.

The reality of it is I’m jonesing for some very verbal, slap me around, drag me around, put me in my place shit and when what I get is simple, rather unemotional use it doesn’t do much for me.

Which would be okay if he was like, “yeah, fuck you, it’s not supposed to do anything for you” but it’s not been like that.

I dunno.

I think we’re just sort of out of sync at the moment.

Our sleep schedules are all fucked up, it’s winter, he’s bipolar and I suffer from a mild case of  SAD, we’re broke and struggling with the vanilla side of life.  There’s no getting around the fact that those things will - and do - creep into the BDSM. That’s life, yanno?

I’ve been disassociating too much lately, too.

I’m not necessarily getting what I want - which leaves me cranky and pissed off and hurt and whiny and screwed up in the self esteem department - so I tuck all the emotion away and just…  zone.

Like…

He’s plugging away with is dick and I’m thinking…

Gee, this would have been a lot more fun if we’d gotten me aroused in the first place.

And he’s expecting me to get all sorts of joy and satisfaction from just gettin’ to have his dick up my ass - which I guess I normally would - and I”m just not really there.

Yeah, I get off.

Yeah, the physical pain of fucking without being ready does something for me.

So does the emotional pain of being used that way and of him not giving a shit that it’s not what I wanted.

But at the same time…

Eh…

I’m stuffing the pain down along with the dissatisfaction of it not being enough, not being what I need, and so I”m not even benefiting from the pain. Yanno?

Just like the session we had last weekend at the party.

I know he intended to do something very specific but I just sort of disassociated. We didn’t have long enough for it to really break me down, for it to really be as effective as I think he wanted it to be.

Man. I dunno.

Part of me feels like he needs to take me in hand and bludgeon this coldness out of me, rip the emotions loose.

Another part of me realizes he really shouldn’t have to.

It’s not his job to “fix” me.

It is my job to freely give him what he wants and needs and I’m not doing that when I’m stuffing my own emotions down and not giving them to him.

He can’t feed if I’m starving him.

Then part of me realizes he absolutely knows where my head is and he’s likely got a reason for giving me exactly what I’m NOT wanting at the time, for keeping me from being fed myself.

There’s a wee volcano building inside me and it’s pretty likely he’s built it himself, intentionally, and is just waiting for the right time to detonate it.

Or maybe not.

Maybe we’re both just stagnant at the moment and it’s just another hump in the road we’ll get over eventually.

I do know he went to work on fixing my collar last night - the one he made me for our collaring ceremony and that began to stink after a year so we took it off - and he put spikes on it.

WTF?

Do I LOOK like a spike girl?

I mean, honest to fuck…

I’ve never chosen to wear spikes in my life.

They make a collar I can wear virtually anywhere into something noticeable and out of the ordinary on me.

But he likes them.

So…

Another example.

Is it just that he likes them so they’ll be there, period?  That it’s not about me?

Or is it that he’s off in la la land and never thought about the fact that I might loathe them?

Maybe that’s where I’m so tangled up.

Not sure if anything at all is intentional lately or if he’s just as zoned out as I am.

I can handle intentional neglect and pain and denial of my wants and needs.

I’m not so sure how I feel about being a non thought.

I dunno.

Maybe kaya’s recent post and all the conversation it spurred has me thinking…

Maybe I am to the point where it all just is, where I don’t have a choice, where it’s not a matter of consent or submission or whatever and it’s no longer M/s or D/s or whatever it’s just a zone and I’m feeling like a thing and I’d prefer to go back to feeling like a submissive.

I dunno.

Maybe that’s a load of shit and it’s just my SAD.

I just dunno.

I had more up in my head but the knot is stuck and I keep breaking fingernails trying to undo it so I’ll have to come back to it another time, I guess.

So…

I’ve said for a long time that S/m isn’t exactly sexual for me.

Sure, my body responds. I get wet.

If we’re home and in private sex is definitely incorporated into our play.

But it’s usually pain then sex.

Sometimes Taylor will stop and caress me during play. He may stop and shove his dick down my throat for a few minutes or stick a hand between my legs and force a shuddering orgasm.

Sometimes he’ll kiss and bite and scratch and pinch, mixing arousal with the s/m, with the pain.

Sometimes, afterwards, we’ll have rough, rowdy, sex - sex that is more force and pain than sex.

Sometimes it’s pure use and abuse of my limp, mindless body.

Occasionally it’s even tender, loving and soft.

But during the play, during the flogging or caning or whipping or paddling or punching, slapping, choking, grabbing, tossing me around s/m shit…

Anything sexual blends into it. It’s just as rough. Just as painful. Done with pure, sadistic glee and dominating control.

It blends. It melds. It entwines with what we’re doing. It’s…

Argh.

I can’t explain it so well.

Here’s the deal, though.

The other night we went to our group’s monthly play party and he did something so fucking whacked, so different, so abnormal I actually went into a crying, loathing panic. My mind twisted and bent into incomprehension. My brain and my body were in a full fledged battle, utterly unable to process. I was so mad at him!

He had me hold onto a ring strung from the ceiling - pretty normal for us. It’s his preferred way to flog me. No restraints, I have to hold on and stay still on my own, my body stretched, arms taut above me, head able to bow forward to keep my hair off my back . But then he had a female friend of ours sit in front of me. (Two, actually. First one, then the other) And while he was laying into my back with floggers and singletails - with pretty much no warm up - he had her very softly caress and kiss my chest, breasts, face and stomach.

Normally I process soft, female touch in a certain way.

I also process pain in a certain way.

In both instances I sort of shut down and focus solely on the single sensations. I take them in, let them work their magic, my mind and body get into a narrow groove with little room for anything else.

I absolutely couldn’t do that with both things going on at once.

The floggers and whips felt like pure, horrible pain. Jarring, blunt and cold.

The touch felt vaguely intrusive and foreign, distracting, confusing.

Two things that normally feel so fucking right felt…

Argh.

I really don’t have the words.

I couldn’t relax into the touch. Every time something felt good a whip would crack or a flogger would punch into my back. I couldn’t settle into the pain because every time I started to ride those sensation a wet mouth or a soft hand would be tickling at my breast and pulling me out of the mindset.

And it just kept happening, over and over.

I’m standing there, my mind racing and tripping over itself trying to process what my body is going thru and totally unable to do so, tears leaking out of my eyes, fighting with all I have to control the vaguely claustrophobic sensation it’s creating, struggling not to drop that ring and just fucking run.

Finally, all I could do is sort of shut down.

I think I may have been chanting “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you” in my head.

I definitely discovered that softness and sex has absolutely no place in my S/m play. Not during, anyhow. Not simultaneously with pain.

My psyche was stretched tight and fraying.

Unraveling.

I cannot process pain and softness. I cannot process pain and sex.

Pain may arouse me, it may make me frenzied and willing to do nearly anything, it may create a sublime state of submission and powerlessness that leads to sex…

My cunt may moisten to the point where my thighs are slick.

But that is so utterly different to me than normal sexual touch.

A whip across my back may make my pussy twitch.

A woman’s mouth on my nipple may do the same thing.

But though I may have the same reaction to both things the process of body to mind to body is different for each.

And having them occur at the same time was a mind fuck of gargantuan proportions.

It was, honestly, more rape-like than anything I’ve experienced before.

Though I have to admit that when we got home and I tugged off my jeans…

My cunt was soaked.

**As a side note: I don’t want either of the girls to read this and feel guilty or bad. It’s not at all that your touch is ever unwelcome. It’s not that you did anything bad or wrong or icky. The entire thing was exactly what Taylor planned, exactly what he was looking for. And, like I said, even though I hated it… it was obviously arousing. Hating it, the mindfuck, is a huge part of what I crave out of S/m so don’t feel bad. K?**

I know a girl who, when her and her Master split up, was told she’d never find another like him. Never find anyone who could do for her what he did.

Arrogant? Sure. He is rather an arrogant man.

Wrong? Possibly. Last I heard from her she was still struggling to find someone up to par and it had been years.

My point in bringing this up?

I’ve come to the conclusion that I am exceptionally lucky to have Taylor.

And that if we ever split up it would be absolute hell finding someone who can do what he does for me, who understands me so well, who matched me so precisely in so many ways.

I read blogs and on web forums and the like and most days they all find me shaking my head, not “getting” these folks at all.

Arguing with them because when I speak they don’t understand me.

Perhaps I am just that odd. As alien to the masses as they are to me.

Which just makes me realize, yet again, how lucky I am to have someone who absolutely gets me.

So this isn’t a real post. It’s just a response I made on a forum the other day.

Taylor had started a thread about emotional sadism and masochism and the word abuse was being tossed around like a beach ball - which of course compelled me to reply.

I don’t want to lose the words, the thoughts, cuz I rather like them.

So here they are.

The word abuse has been tossed around quite a bit in this thread.

I suppose hurting someone emotionally when it’s non consensual would be abuse. Just as smacking someone upside the head without consent would be.

Perhaps it’s my own error but I generally assume, when speaking on a BDSM forum, that we’re talking about consensual relationships.

I suppose one could make the argument that even with consent abuse can occur. But that’s for another thread at another time.

The initial post in this thread was speaking about emotional s/m in a consensual relationship.
And that’s what I’m going to talk about.

Just so we’re all clear.

The need for pain is a driving force in my life.
It’s not just something that makes me horny. It’s not just spice for my sex life.
It does make me horny and it does spice things up in the sack - I’m not going to act all superior, like I don’t get turned on by nipple clamps and a nice rattan cane - but it also goes way, way beyond that for me.
My life is missing something, my life is incomplete, without pain.
I thrive on pain as much as I do happiness and joy.
If I don’t have pain as a regular part of my life I am utterly fucking miserable.

And while a nice, warm, freshly spanked ass can be pleasant as hell and just what I need at times it’s not the sort of pain I’m talking about.

I need excruciating, gut wrenching, tear jerking, sob inducing, intense and overwhelming pain.
Pain that leaves me breathless and stuttering.
Pain that numbs the mind and makes me forget my own name.
Pain that blinds and deafens me to anything but the singing of the sensation itself.
Pain that breaks me down and leaves me a limp, sobbing, beaten and broken wreck upon the floor.

If I don’t get it in a consensual relationship I’ll find other ways to get it.
I don’t self harm. I never have.
But I’m accident prone and become more so when pain is lacking in my life.
And I make the most horrible, painful choices when I’m not being given pain in a way that is helpful rather than harmful for me.

It’s not just physical pain I crave.
I jones for emotional hurt just as often, just as deeply.

That ball of hurt in my chest thrills me as much as an oozing welt across my bottom.
That knot of tortured pain in my gut feeds me as well as a back layered with bruises and abrasions from the flogger or whip.
The mad screaming ringing in my head when I’m being emotionally bludgeoned is just as satisfying as the crack of a paddle or the pinch of a clamp.

These are all things I need, things I crave, things I’ll go to stupid lengths to get if I’m not being given them in a consensual relationship.

There’s nothing abusive about it.
No more so than there is in any of the other aspects of BDSM.

For me it’s not about growth and releasing horrible memories from the past.
My growth as a submissive doesn’t come thru pain. My growth as a person doesn’t come thru s/m. And I just don’t have enough horrible things in my past to attempt to use pain to release myself from them.

Pain, for me, is sensation.
I am a very contained, calm, middle of the road type of person most times.
Stable.
Content.

Intense happiness thrills me.
Intense fear exhilarates me.
Intense pain intoxicates me.

Intense feelings are, for me, rare and beautiful and absolutely necessary to bring color to my life.

And whether he’s cutting my flesh with a sharp, flashing scalpel or welting my skin with a hissing, biting single tail or squeezing my tender heart in his hands until it bleeds…

It’s all necessary, gorgeous pain to me.

Perhaps if I were vulnerable and weak as some have implied a partner of Taylor’s must be I wouldn’t be able to handle such things.
But I am gloriously strong and revel in being broken down on occasion - be that physically or emotionally.
It thrills me.
It feeds me.
It balances me.

Is it wrong to subject someone who is not strong enough to bear it to such things? Of course. Just as it’s wrong to force physical pain upon someone who neither wants nor can take it.
Can we emotionally harm those we don’t know or love? Of course. Most of us have been hurt by strangers or casual friends at least a time or two. We don’t need a key to get in, don’t need someone to love us in order to hurt them. We humans can hurt each other all too easily.

But that’s not what we’re talking about here.
We are - and always have been - talking about people who do this because they want to, choose to.
Because it leaves them pulsating with sadistic pleasure or quivering in exquisite, masochistic pain.

There are times when I intensely crave specific things.

A dick, thrust between my lips until they are raw and swollen. Not a blow job but a face fuck that continues well beyond the point I’d really like it to stop. A raping of my mouth that coats my face with spit and tears, that has me swallowing back the need to vomit.

A face, heated and splotchy from repeated slaps. That slightly dazed feeling those sharp cracks bring with them.

My body bitten and scratched and pinched and slapped past the point of curling into a little ball, past the point of curling into myself until I am splayed, stunned, beaten down by the tears and the emotions and the pain that never seems to stop.

Torture to my flesh and my mind that goes on and on and on…

My pussy and ass brutalized and numbed by the repeated torment and, finally, the pounding of his relentless dick while all I can do is accept it in my broken down state.

That’s it.

It’s not, perhaps, the specific things but the specific feeling.

Broken.

And while I know that this is what I crave and can fairly shamelessly admit it I don’t seem to be able to accept it.

I mean…

That need builds over time. It’s not something I want all the time, not something that hits me on a whim. It’s a craving that builds and builds inside me; restless, pacing, growing.

And for some reason when it’s grown so large that it’s rising up from my belly, nearly choking me….

I shut down. I block it. I stomp and shove and force it back down, refusing it.

I grow distant. Colder. Bitchy.

I brush off attempts to be touched, I resist efforts to give me what I need, am less than receptive to any sort of play.

Part of me cannot help but resist what the other part of me needs.

I thought, for awhile, that it was a shame thing. An old feeling of discomfort and humiliation at needing such things that I hadn’t removed.

It’s not. I can admit I need things, easily concede that I crave them almost irrationally. I don’t feel weird about it, don’t feel it’s bad or wrong, don’t feel embarrassed.

I do, however, need to be forced. I think I resist and shove the feelings down because the only way it really feels right, really appeases the need is when I am forced.

I can cheerfully accept a flogging, laugh thru a pounding scene with half the toys we own. I can eagerly thrust my hands into cuffs or sweetly and shyly let him know I’m aching for an ass fuck.

None of those things break me down. None of those things leave me gasping for breath, my head swimming with the knowledge of who I am and where I belong but unable to remember my own name.

Force is the only thing that really satiates the desire that has grown inside of me to near bursting.

Force is, perhaps, the basis of what I crave.

I need to be forced to bend and bend and bend until mind and body break, shattering into a zillion little pieces that, when gathered back up, leave me sated and utterly sure of my reality.

I have a single vanity, a single conceit.

My hair.

No matter the color or style I tend to have very nice hair.

It’s thick - oh so very thick. Luxurious. Shiny.

And, at the moment, quite long. It’s layers flirt with my breasts in the front but stream halfway down my back behind me. I’ve recently added quirky little bits of pink to the bangs and the undermost layer; bits that peek and tease from under all the dark.

See?

Vanity. Conceit. Pridefulness.

Taylor’s talked, lately, about noticing it.

Oh, he loves my hair. Loves it this long and actually bought me the pink for Christmas. He strokes it often. Runs his hands thru it and over it. Fondles a few locks while laying in bed, reading a book. In fact, the last time I cut it to my shoulders he didn’t touch it for a good long while.

We had a conversation a week or so ago about it.

Subtle threats were made about somehow altering it, cutting it.

I cried.

I have so little self confidence about my body or looks it would be disastrous to my self esteem to do something with my hair that made me look “ugly”. Not to mention anything he did would likely be something he ended up hating, hence backfiring in a way.

I dunno. I try not to think about it, yanno?

He has the right to shave me bald if he wants to but…

Anyhow.

Most days I don’t bother with a dryer and flat iron and whatnot. I do that routine only a couple times a week. It’s bad for the hair to apply all that heat all the damned time. And if I dry and style it one day it looks about the same the next and I only wash it every other day. Most days I let it air dry, let it fall in it’s natural almost waves. (It’s not curly, not straight - somewhere between wavy and straight.) I clip it up a lot cuz otherwise it gets in our food and all over the flat.

So.

Yesterday we went out for dinner and I did the whole hair dryer, velcro curlers for root lift, flat iron for no flyaways, curling iron to make the ends flirty thing. Taylor likes it best styled so I was glad to do it, knowing it would look nice today too.

Five hours later the asshole dragged my into the bathroom and pissed all over my head and face.

My hair didn’t look so good after that.

I’ve been reminded once again how much I loathe the word “true” as it’s so often used in D/s circles.

“She’s obviously not a true submissive.”

“True Dominance requires this, that and the other thing.”

“If you were a true Master…”

“A true slave must…”

Etc. Etc. Et-freaking-cetera.

What the hell defines a true submissive/slave/master/dominant anyhow? Is there a rulebook that I missed? A universal definition? One way we must all conform to?

Of course there isn’t.

The BDSM world preaches and harps upon diversity and tolerance.

How, then, could there be a true way?

Oh, sure, we all have our opinions.

I’ll be the first to admit I’ve often looked at other submissives and thought to myself “she’s not very submissive, is she?” or “Submissive my ass. She’s just a brat looking for attention!” Or blinked confusedly at a dominant while thinking “what a pussy he is! I’d run roughshod over him in no time!”

We all judge those around us by our private standards. That’s normal. Natural.

But even with these private assessments of others floating around in our heads most of us don’t force those opinions upon others. We understand that there are many, many different types of people and many, many different ways to do these things we do.

We may not like how others do things, may not agree with the labels others give themselves and their relationships, but we understand that disagreeing doesn’t make our way “true” and theirs…   less than.

And then in strolls someone who does use that word. Who does believe there is a true way, a true type of dominant or submissive or slave or master or masochist or sadist. Someone who just can’t conceive of how insulting that is to nearly everyone else.

I’ve said it time and again.

In order for there to be “true Dominance” those who do it differently have to be false. Or less than true.

If a “true submissive” must do this, that or the other thing than you’re, in essence, saying anyone who doesn’t is false. Fake. Not a “real” submissive.

Is there anything more insulting than this?

Most times I don’t allow it to insult me. It’s generally a faux pas of newbies or onliners. I know that, eventually, they’ll learn. (They must since I so rarely hear these words from anyone with a modicum of experience) But every once in awhile someone aggravates the hell out of me with this attitude - usually when their entire argument is based upon these definitions of real or true.

At this point I feel the need to step up on my soapbox and let them know they’re being priggish, intolerant little twits and their attitude is unlikely to garner the respect of anyone they’re speaking to.

There is no true way.

There is no such thing as a true submissive.

No such thing as true dominance.

No true masters or true slaves.

And every time you use those words the message you’re conveying is that your way is true and anyone else’s is false. Even if that’s not what you mean, it’s how the words are taken and you’re sure to insult somebody.

You cannot win an argument based upon your ideas of true this or true that. Those things exist only in your mind and are not valid to the rest of us.

Honestly.

Words like “true slave” or “true Mastery” invalidate your entire opinion - because those things do not exist anywhere but in your own head.

Your version of true is meaningless to the rest of us.

The only truth there is is that we’re all different and cannot be stamped with one, “true” definition.

Happy New Year, everyone!

I was all set to not make any resolutions this year since they just leave me feeling crappy if I don’t meet them and all bound up and obligated if I do.

But yesterday we had a Day of Great Sex and I realized we don’t have nearly enough of those.

Why, you ask?

Well.

He is the boss and, as such, pretty much gets laid whenever he wants to.

That doesn’t necessarily make it Great Sex, however.

See, I’ve been going thru the whole perimenopause thing rather early. (That’s the first, earliest stages of menopause for those who don’t know) Night sweats. Crazy hormones. Periods a little out of whack and quite painful.

I’ve also been less sexual - probably due to the hormones. And even when I am horny as hell my snootch is rarely wet these days. Combine that with Taylor’s odd schedule and long hours and Great Sex is less frequent than it used to be.

So I’ve decided to have a resolution after all.

I’m going to do some research on supplements for the menopause thing and work, daily, on simply being more horny.

Diddle more often while he’s at work so I’m primed and thinking sexually when he gets home.

Buy a gallon of good lube so even decent and normal sex can turn into Great Sex. (It’s really quite hard to get fully into it, even when it feels good, when your body just won’t cooperate and create a buffer between that big thick dick and a dry puss)

Watch more porn. Read more erotica. Write some, maybe.

Dress more sexy and feel more pretty.

And give more blow jobs. Cuz… yanno…  that almost always gets me quite wriggly.

Cuz Great Sex Days make us both feel sooooooooo much better.

And while our d/s dynamic has little to do with sex I have to admit that Great Sex leaves me feeling much more likely a well used cunt which admittedly also makes me more eager to be pleasing in all ways.

So that’s my resolution.

Turn this year into The Year of Great Sex.

Damned if I”m gonna let a bunch of hormonal shit keep kicking my ass and fucking with my sex!

Not much of a blog, I know. Next time.