I hit pause.
I didn’t want to, but in October my Dad died, suddenly and unexpectedly of cancer. I couldn’t connect with kink, hell, I couldn’t connect with life for a long while. Yet, I had to continue. My work is kink, the erotic tombola, content writing, erotica – I had to keep going to keep the money coming in.
I was a spectator.
There wasn’t a way I could join in. At first, it was because I didn’t want marks for my Dad’s funeral (as much as the masochism bubbled like an underground brook every time I was at a kink event) and then I was scared of what might happen if I was beaten. Maybe I’d start crying and never be able to stop.
I started small.
My husband is so kind and understanding, he let me take my time, gave me the pain I needed in any way I needed it. No matter how awkward I was in taking it. It was almost impossible to let go, as much as I wanted to. There was still a part of me, deep inside, that just kept saying “Dad’s dead.” And every time I thought that or felt that, it derailed any happiness or peace I was feeling.
I can’t tell you what. I still get sad. I still have moments when the loss is so raw and overwhelming that all I can do is cry. I still spend huge chunks of time just going through the motions, almost as if I’m not there. Not engaging, not emoting. Just doing. But something clicked inside and I started to engage my kink brain again. I wrote my kinky bucket list, inspired by others and my sleeping masochist began to stir.
I didn’t know it was going to happen, but last week we went to an event just to have fun, no work. I went in my jeans and jumper, I had no real plans at all. Then from a mention of stapler and ribbon I got pretty thigh staple corsets that felt amazing. I loved showing them off to everyone. I was feeling good. So I asked for a beating from one of the best meanies I know and she gave it to me good and hard.
The glowing ember reignited and this masochist remembered the joy of pain. The ecstasy of the bruise poked and the uncomfortable seat. It’s not like something dramatic happened, there was no big decision moment, no revelation or epiphany. I just went with the flow and found the deep desire for pain again. I felt more like me than I have in months.
Something to look forward to.
This past Sunday was a work day but there was going to be time for play too. I was eager and anticipatory, for the first time in a long time I was looking forward to going out, not just going through the motions. Plans were afoot (It seems my inner pain slut is the brave one round here) and I was looking forward to something new, with someone new.
I’ve never really planned a scene in advance before. You might laugh, but I just tend to end up getting in the way of things. Like multiple whips at once for example. I go to places where mean people are and sometimes I end up being a target. It’s all good. I like to be spontaneous.
Meeting someone for the first time face to face when you’ve planned a scene in advance is very different to just letting something happen.
Turns out, it’s awfully good fun though.
New anticipations, new firsts, new pains. Feeling the rhythm of want and need, played with unknown timing by a fresh conductor. The joy of masochistic flesh meeting sadistic hands wielding evil instruments. The cadence of impact, the dance of response. The music of squeals, squeaks and yelps. Deep breathing and grimaces but also huge, joyful grins. The screaming crescendo and the peaceful end. Taut, hot skin and quietened mind. Satisfaction.
Then even more.
Sometimes when you start something, it just rolls on in crashing waves that you just can’t stop. High on the stinging throb of marked bottom and thighs, surrounded by naked, relaxed kinksters I confessed a desire to be bitten. And was. Not once, but thrice. Soft smiles, eager teeth and gentle undulation that throbbed delightfully. A build-up of pleasure that burbled from my lips in purrs and mewls and happy noises.