I think it’s quite apt that my post is about pain,humiliation and crying when the prompt is ‘Pleasure.’ This is all pleasure to me. Even though it seems like quite the opposite. It is my greatest pleasure. And thanks to Molly Moore for letting me know Humiliation is the Kink of The Week, which this post fits so perfectly!

I love pain. One of my most regular responses to it is giggles. Oh, don’t get me wrong, it still fucking hurts but it also tickles.

I scream, shout, dance, twist and turn and scramble and babble incoherently. But even the worst of pains tend to do nothing more than bring a tear to my eye.

Note, there are some pains I simply do not fucking like. Cattle prods for example. I hate that pain and will no longer let anyone near me with one. Oak paddles, specifically wielded by Animal, but there’s something about that wood that does not agree with me.

There’s some pain that I really fucking hate but I enjoy enduring them. How come? Well, in part it’s the reaction of the person doing it to me. Another part is taking it. Doing it because basically, I enjoy showing how much I can fucking take.

In recent visits to H, we’ve played more gently. They’ve been poorly. When they visited Manchester last week to perform and we spent some time together the lust was palpable. We couldn’t do much, being out in public. They did try a few of my pressure points though and I could see the sadist in their eye then, feeding off my veiled for the public pain responses.

Heading to Leeds I had a good idea that the Sadist would be waiting for me, eager to give more pain and see more responses.

So within moments of me walking in H had me restrained, trapped with an arm around my throat, unable to breathe. They bit my neck, deep, penetrating pain that made me shudder with pleasure at a need realised.

They punched my breasts, kicked my thigh. At one point knocking me flying onto the sofa where I collapsed in laughter.

Of course I followed them when they went to get coffee. Of course they hit me. With fists and elbows and feet. And kissed me. So deeply, so passionately, so all encompassingly.

I ached. I was thoroughly turned on. I was content.

Sitting with them on the sofa as they sipped their coffee was not the wholesome relaxing experience you’d expect. They used their feet to hurt me. Finding pressure points and digging deeply into my cunt so hard I came.

“I don’t know what you’re doing. I’m just enjoying a nice cup of coffee.”

They repeatedly hit my humiliation button. Made me beg for their cock. Holding me back with their legs and taunting me.

“What are you?” They asked, staring deep into my very soul. “You’re a dirty slut.”

I nodded and dropped my head.

“Look at me.” They commanded “And tell me what you are.”

I hate it. I hate the way my cheeks burn and my whole instinct is to hide. I don’t want to speak.

“I’m a dirty slut.”

And it continued. They got me to repeat after them, looking them in the eye. Longer and more degrading phrases.  I can’t remember precisely now, I struggled at the time, but each word made me feel smaller, more vulnerable, opened me up.

After that, when I was already in a submissive, meek headspace, they started to pinch me. I was sat between their legs on the sofa. My face against their knee. H pinched my breast and I howled.

A while ago they pinched me so hard on the thigh that they left fingerprint bruises, I told them that I thought pinching me was probably the way to make me cry. We’ve mentioned a few times about crying. They wanted to make me cry with pain, I wanted them to.

I cry at the drop of a hat in some circumstances. If I’m happy, if I’m sad, if I’m angry, if I feel loved. It’s the way emotion tends to manifest in me. It’s not something I can control at all. If I’m feeling something deeply I’m probably going to end up in tears.  But in play, I don’t really cry. I’ve shed a few tears, in shock more than anything but that’s it. And I wonder why I wanted to cry at all?

It has taken me a long time to work that out. It’s control. Yes, when I play I hand over a good chunk of control to the person I am playing with. When I’m being beaten I take what is given to me. However, even there I find ways to control my reaction. I move other body parts, I scream. I breathe deeply, bite my own hand and if it becomes too much I call out for a change of implement or an end to the scene.

I enjoy pain. I also enjoy showing off how much I can deal with. They go hand in hand for me. I choose when I want to play and who I want to play with. I am incredibly picky about who I do longer scenes with because I need to know I can trust them to play at the high level I enjoy but also I need to know they’ll stop when I want them to stop.

I hate to show vulnerability. I don’t show it in play or in any other aspect of my life either, really. I’m a strong, independent, capable woman and I will do it myself, thank you very much. I spend my life caring. I look after others. I can’t show weakness because I have to be strong for those I care for. I know that isn’t strictly true, really but it’s difficult for me to get past that assumption.

I will accept help on a practical level sometimes because I know I can’t always do ALL THE THINGS on my own. However, mostly I do everything myself and sometimes I do stuff myself even when I should admit defeat. I wear myself out doing too much. I’m more aware of that now than I’ve been before but I still struggle to say ‘no’ when someone asks me to help. I don’t always recognise when I’ve hit my limits either. I’ll push on through to utter exhaustion.

And that, I think, is why I wanted to be pushed to cry. And it’s also why I wanted H to make me cry because they’re the only person in my life I can be that vulnerable with.

So they pinched my breast. Over and over again. Now, of course because it was H, I got a whole world of puns with my pain.

“I’m not sure this is very good you know, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

Each pun got progressively worse and more stretched but what was worse was I knew at what point they would pinch me. I was waiting for more than the punchline each time, I was waiting for the pinchline, so to speak.

“What if there was a website just for people who enjoyed gripping flesh between fingers?”

They said, by this point my boob was more than tender, even a gentle touch hurt.

“It’d be called Pinch-trest.” And on the word, they pinched me, hard. I was scared, it hurt, really hurt. I was stretched thin, part of me wanted to scream ‘No!’ and pull away from H but the other part of me was enjoying being pushed, wanted to see how far H would take it, could they make me cry? Could I let myself be taken to that limit?

My eyes felt wet, the tears were there but it just wasn’t happening. Even with the awful puns that came before the pinching pain on the spots of my breast that were already turning black.  I had not hit a point where I could let go.

I don’t know why H changed the action they were doing but the shock of their palm on my cheek made me gasp. They kept slapping. Hard. My head had nowhere to go, the slaps just pressed me into their leg and the intensity, the sharpness of that almost double impact actually broke me.

I sobbed. I didn’t just cry. I sobbed, deep hard, gulping, gasping sobs, tears hot against my cheeks.

They watched for a bit. I could see the gleam in their eye, when I could see them through my tears or when I wasn’t squeezing my eyes tight shut against the humiliation.

How did I feel? Broken. Defeated. Small. Conquered. Submissive. Relieved.

And then H reached out and stroked my hair.

“I got you.”

I sobbed again.

And H pulled me into their arms. Held me close.

“I got you, I got you.” They repeated. Holding me, stroking me, squeezing my broken pieces back together.

“I know.” I smiled. I did know. With those words, with their gentle touch, I became more. I wasn’t just put back together, I was built up. Given the gift of vulnerability. They tore me down, pulled me apart, ripped into the essential fabric of me. They forced me to let go. Completely, totally, thoroughly let go.

It was so freeing.

But they pulled me back together again. They held me, wiped the tears from my eyes (licked them from my eyes at one point!) and asked me if I was okay.

I was more than okay. I was incapable of expressing it. I still think I’m not capturing the scene to it’s fullest. Language fails me. My vocabulary is inadequate.

I was content. Peaceful. I had been to the brink and been pulled back.

Only H could do that, I’m convinced of that. I’m a control freak. I don’t give it up easily but over time I’ve given it over to H. I’ve given all of me over to H. To be that vulnerable, that open, is scary as all fuck. I cried, I cried because I couldn’t control it a moment longer.

I gave that control, that power to H.

They saw fear in my eyes.

And they loved it.

I felt fear in my soul

And it tore me apart

Revealing all my secrets.

H took those secrets

And held them tenderly in their hands.

Listened to their truth,

Strengthened them

And hugged them back into the centre of my soul.