No Space Bears for you.

Whilst suffering from writer’s block, I put out a call on FetLife for what people would like to see me write about. The most popular answer was “space bears”. I would love to blog about space bears, but they have very little impact on my kink experience. Also, they would maul me if I divulged their secrets. The space bears are benevolent masters unless you cross them.

There was also a request for my experience on the interaction between masochism and submission, so I thought I would talk a little about that this time.

When I returned to London and began to immerse myself in the kink scene in earnest, I had a false start with a dominant whose main fetishes seemed to be rooted in humiliation. This experience was short-lived, for a variety of reasons which I won’t go into here, but I learned some important lessons about myself: namely, that I don’t get off on humiliation at all, that I will not tolerate more than a certain amount of interference with my appearance and daily behaviour, and that I am probably not a lifestyle sub.

There is very little a dominant can say to me that is any more humiliating than what I tell myself every day. Psychologically, I am already fettered by low self-esteem and feelings of inadequacy. Having them reinforced is not remotely erotic to me – it is simply a confirmation of what my inner demons know to be true, and of all the things they whisper to me when the night is dark and I am on my own.

That, and I’m as stubborn as a three-week-old wine stain. If you try to get me to do something I don’t want to or I don’t understand the reasoning behind, I will dig my heels in so hard they leave craters. I wouldn’t say I was particularly assertive, but when I have the bit between my teeth it will take far more than physical punishment to deter me. For me, the attraction of submission – particularly as a masochist – is in relinquishing control and allowing myself to simply feel. As I’ve said before on this blog, pain and compliance help to drag me out of my head and give me a break from my thoughts for a while.

I guess I’d conclude that my submission is dependent on my masochism – I can be masochistic without being submissive (did I mention I love power struggles? I love power struggles), but I can’t really be submissive without being masochistic.

I try to let my submission inform my dominance, and be the kind of dom I would want for myself. My experience with this is limited. I’ve never been particularly confident (see above), and my lack of fine motor control makes me pretty wary when I’m in a position to hurt people. I don’t get off on controlling people’s daily behaviour any more than I get off on having the same done to me. I do get off on that gentle flutter of eyelids, that sharp intake of breath, and those involuntary movements that tell me that my playmate is walking that razor’s edge between pleasure and pain. I have always enjoyed scaring people. My sadism is gleeful, almost childish – somewhere between a pantomime villain and the antagonist from a Bond movie.

My experience of both S/M and D/S (in so far as the latter applies to me) has changed with my recent introduction to rope play. Rope has given me a whole new variety of ways to experience the many facets of my sexuality, and I’m very much looking forward to seeing where else it’s going to take me. The future is, as ever, an adventure.


Masochism and me

I find it very difficult to feel as if I am “present” in my body.

There are all kinds of reasons for this. It’s at least partially because I am very particular about physical contact. With people I know and trust, I can be very tactile. With people I’ve never met or have any misgivings about, physical contact can be repugnant – it makes me feel nauseous, and leaves me with an abiding desire to shower several times and/or shed my skin.

In my day-to-day life, I find it very difficult to focus and to stay rooted in the here and now. I am neuroatypical. I have a laundry-list of ways in which this affects me. On a good day, I am giddy and excitable in a childlike sort of way. Most days, I am depressive, anxious, and prone to withdrawing into the infinitely expansive prison which is my own skull. Moreover, as a genderqueer person, this body is often alien to me. It feels like little more than a meat car. Nominally, at least, I am driving it, but I can put it on autopilot with little trouble or outwardly noticeable effect.

At times, sensation can be an unwelcome distraction. But in the right place, with the right person(s), it can be transformative. It can bring me back into myself from wherever meandering pathway my mind has chosen to lead me down. More than that, it can bring me into true contact with the person providing the sensation. A hug will bring me into the safe space enclosed by the arms of whoever is hugging me.

More effective, however, is pain. More effective still – and this came as a surprise to me, at the time of discovery – is rope play.

Play such as the scene I described in my last post is, at the same time, one of the most grounding and ecstatic things I have ever experienced. The rope (a sensation in itself) binds me, literally and metaphorically, into myself. The pain makes it impossible, inconceivable, to want to drift away, and yet the feelings are like a different world in themselves. My body is more than just a shell I can abandon. It’s a vessel, a journey, a network of tightly packed nerves that are coming alive.

Aside from when I am performing, there are few things that can make me want to inhabit my body more than that.

Playing Rough II

I’m in trouble. I know this because D is brandishing 4mm jute rope, not the 5mm linen he usually ties me with. This is harsher – rougher in texture, with less surface area meaning more pressure. This is going to hurt.

I can’t wait. The anticipation makes the breath catch in my throat.

This is far from being our first tie of the night, but the equipment makes it seem climactic somehow. We’re in a wire cage at the centre of the SM playspace at Transgression. Our first tie here worked much better than our other attempts in the poorly heated area designated for rope, where people keep walking through scenes. People are watching.

D is an exciting rigger to watch. In his hands, rope is a rich tapestry which he weaves with an energy and a sensitivity that I don’t often see. It’s a live animal which he has tamed. It’s his will made manifest.

As he ties my hand behind my back, I have a thought. “Could you blindfold me for this one?”

He nods, secures my wrists, and fishes a thin strip of fabric out of his kit bag before tying it forcefully around my head, obscuring my vision. Yes.

First he ties a harness. It’s tight. A halter around my neck, a harness around my upper body, cinching at my groin. He drags me to the ground, whispering “down” into my ear. A bundle of rope scratches at my inner thighs. He holds me down, elbows on my throat, whilst he ties my legs as tightly as he dares.┬áHe attends to my breasts for quite some time, enjoying my sighs and gasps as the rough rope slides over sensitive skin, bites into pliable flesh. With pain sluts like me, he inverts the knots on his ties. It’s not in keeping with the Shibari aesthetic, but it does mean that the rope bites harder and leaves impressions. Pressure marks. He pulls hard on the ropes.

And that, of course, is when I bite his arm. Later, he will smile and tell me I need a new trick for next time, but I feel he is about to let up and I don’t want this to stop – not now.

He drags me by the hair into a seated position and delivers one, two, three, four stinging slaps to my tightly bound thigh, the three black diamonds tattooed there serving almost as a target. I cry out. The blindfold slips, and he yanks it back on. It feels like he’s reaching for something to his right.

I’m not expecting the sound in my right ear, but it’s unmistakable. It’s the jingle of a tiny bell. Puzzling. What could it – ah!

I cry out, louder this time, as something hard clamps onto my left nipple. Jingling, again. The jingling hurts.

I’m suddenly more aware of the texture of the rope than I was before. As if to drive the point home, D drags it roughly over and around my breast, then my nipple around the clamp. I’m screaming now. A sound in my right ear. Jingling again. I jerk my head away, and hear him chuckle. “Now you’re getting the idea,” he says, and snaps the clamp on.

The way he toys with me for the following – seconds? minutes? Time is meaningless here – is almost langorous. He’s got me where he wants me, the sadistic bastard.

Somewhere between a microsecond and a lifetime later, the ties around my legs start to come off. Tension, and release. Tension, and release. I feel hot, my skin flushed from the pressure and the pain. I am panting with exhaustion and barely repressed desire. He takes a little time, digging his fingers into the gnarls that his knots have left and delighting in my gasps. The clamps are the last things to come off.

The breath I draw after that feels like my first.