I love being beaten. I love feeling broken afterwards, feeling every ache and twinge after makes me smile. Masochist me loves the pain. My body revels in it.

I’ve been pretty lucky with my body, generally.  Sure, it’s had its trials. I’ve been asthmatic since I was a teen, I’ve had a few broken bones, a few operations, lost a crazed thyroid along the way and now I can’t process gluten but in general I’ve been pretty healthy.

In the last year, that has changed. A run of what was thought to be chest infections and an overnight visit to A&E last October led eventually to a referral to a respiratory specialist and new medication.

The new medication did good things for my lungs. From struggling to do much of anything without coughing up a lung I was able to do about 75% of things I would normally do. Not perfect but better.

Unfortunately, the new inhaler came with evil side effects. The worst of all was anxiety. I am an anxious bean at the best of times but this medication dialled that up to 11.

I noted the side effects straight away, so around December last year. Told the specialist when I eventually saw him in March, was finally listened to in August. My medication was changed. The side effects have fucked off, my anxiety is so much less and that is all brilliant.

But the new inhalers are not as good at controlling my asthma. So where I was able to do about 75% of my usual stuff, I’m back down to it being about 50%.  As an illustration, I’d have happily walked from my home to the local town, walked around several shops and walked home before the asthma worsened. On the old meds I’d have done that with a break or maybe I’d have bussed home. Now I can’t walk to town (10 mins away) without needing to sit and take a break. I have to stop and sit every couple of shops and I can’t even imagine walking home with shopping on top of that too.

It’s seriously hindering me. I am waiting for an appointment to see a super specialist (in the words of my specialist, not me) who deals with complex asthma but fuck knows when that’ll come through.

So, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve just waffled on about my shitty health when I started off talking about my usual masochistic thrills. Well, recently I had a few days with H where I was beaten to the point where I said ‘No More.’  It prompted me to question why I would let myself be so beaten and broken on top of my current state of brokenness.

Every movement is currently harder than it should be. Why the fuck did I let H beat me and cover me top to toe in bruises so that every single movement ached? There are several reasons why, here are the top 3.


  1. Distraction

The process of getting the marks and bruises was fun. I loved every moment of it. I revelled in it. Afterwards when I felt an ache that I knew was caused by H, I would smile and feel better. Compared to the pain and inconvenience of my struggling lungs, I find joy in the pain that comes from play with H. So when I am feeling those aches, I smile and I enjoy the endurance of it. It distracts me from the everyday pain and annoyance of my asthma. So, my whole body ached with good pain, I felt completely encompassed in love and joy and why wouldn’t I want that?


  1. Validation

On the worst days, I feel unable to cope. My asthma means I physically can’t do all I want to do. This means I worry. I worry about what isn’t getting done. I worry about what happens to my boys if I get worse. I worry I won’t be able to make the journey to see H if I don’t get better. I worry about finances. I worry about my own mental health as I rail against the injustice of a body that just won’t do all I want it to do. I worry. I worry and I worry.

Being hit hard time and time again shows me what I can take. It validates my strength.  It validates that my body has its strengths still. It’s not useless (and there are days when I feel it is) it is powerful, it is strong and it can endure a whole lot.

It validates my strength of will. I can take the onslaught of pain at H’s hands. I will grit my teeth I will scream and shout and flail my legs but I will hold out. I won’t give in. Every time I play with H I reach a point where I think I can’t take any more pain but I always do take more because I dig deep and find that determination and there I find ecstasy.

In the days after, when my body aches with every move, it reminds me what I took and pushes me on.


  1. Connection

This is something I can get in other ways. There are loving, gentle, sweet ways I can connect with people. I want to make that very clear. I don’t need to be beaten black and blue to feel connection.

But there is a particular connection when I am being beaten by H. A connection of sadism and masochism which empowers me in many ways.

I am physically connecting with them in a very violent and explosive manner. I connect mentally through that too, as they humiliate and degrade me. My reactions are visceral and immediate. There is no way for me to shield them.  My emotions which are vast and deep and intense connect and flow in a way that I hold back a lot of the time because it’s been so far repressed that I just can’t express the true depths of my emotions in most day to day situations. I can release that in scenes played with H because I trust them with all of me, all my reactions, all my emotions.

When I am enduring pain, be it physical or psychological with H, there is an intense connection with them and with myself.

I am not alone.

My kink, my BDSM in all its extreme glory (and I know it’s extreme and I play high and hard) leaves me feeling stronger, bolder, more able to take on life. It might injure me, physically. It might leave me with marks some people would go to A&E about but those wounds save me. They push me forward and I know I can take on the challenges life gives me.

Being broken by H, a person I love and trust, helps me deal with the realities of my broken body day to day.