Saturday was another play date with the sadistic bi... woman I met recently. We're getting a lot more comfortable with each other as people and as play partners. We started out with some simple service around the house, then grabbed a bite to eat before cleaning up and diving into play.
This time the play had a slightly more serious feel to it. She was a little more severe, telling me what to do instead of suggesting. She even gave me a stern look when I started to try to help when she just wanted me to stay put. That felt like it amped up the power dynamic a bit and made me think a little more carefully about my role.
We tried some new positions this time. I was posed more vertically, which gave her an easier striking angle with some instruments. She's found some new things to hit me with, her mind seemingly geared to turn anything in her environment into an implement of pain. It's simply amazing how full the world is of swingy, smacky things. A motivated and creative intelligence can pervert these oh-so-easily.
Damn.
The "seriousness" of the session extended to the pace, repetition, and strength of her strikes. And she blindfolded me this time, narrowing my world. A few times the pain layered on in one place so badly that I actually cried out in genuine anguish. Feeling her press against me and comment on how much she was enjoying it all converted "I want to get away from this" to "I want to take it for her amusement." Yes, it's bread-and-butter BDSM, but the power of it feels like marinading my desires in acid tears mixed with sugar. Love-hate. Hate-Love. Need, need, need. "Please let me feel this connection even if I have to pay for it in winces and groans."
A good talk, afterward, as is our pattern; aftercare for the body as well as the mind. I felt a little more childlike this time, a little more stripped of my pride and the self-control that my pride so often demands. There was initial embarrassment at the moments when I cried out. Those moments were genuine, though, and the cries belong only to her ears. The need to take what I can and admit through yelps when I'm bending to her is a good lesson this time around.
A day later and my backside is almost solid bruise from hip to hip, slashes of deeper purple pointing away and sprays of red spidering here and there. Some of that black will be around for a while.
A day later and it's dawning on me that some day I may even cry for her. From her. Me. Mr. In-Control. Mr. Keep-The-Unwanted-Away. Mixed feelings about that and the road from here to there. The trust is certainly building, and there is no Pain Goal out there anywhere. But Mr. In-Control has been challenged and pushed a little bit. Odd what happens when someone works her way through the outer shell; tender caresses and whispers more powerful than any instrument of pain.
QL
