No More #MasturbationMonday

 

CW: Extreme sadism and masochism

 

One recent Tuesday afternoon something amazing happened.

I said ‘No More.’

Me, high level masochist that I am.

The pain slut who worries that she rarely calls an end to a scene and even rarer finds a limit.

I had enough of pain.

And it felt wonderfully freeing.

How did it happen?

Well it started on late Monday afternoon when I arrived at H’s house.  I was sat in the living room with them and their housemate and the conversation ran to canes and our complex feels about canes.

So I asked H if they’d seen a Little Bastard Stick (LBS) and leapt up to get mine from my bag but not only did I grab the small, evil rubbery cane I decided it would be a great idea to pick up my lil’fecker too.  For those not in the know, it’s a small but thick rubber paddle. It looks quite innocuous. Hurts like a  fecker.

So I passed both to H, and right there in front of their housemate, they set about me with both. Their eyes lit up and I had my thighs marked within an hour of walking through the door.

If I told you every instance of them hurting me up until I called it, we’d be here all week. I’m going to pick out a few and I’m going to leave others for other writing. Some I will squirrel greedily to myself.

They had one specific idea that they wanted to do early on, before my butt got marked any other way. A photographic idea for Sinful Sunday.  I’m very helpful so I eagerly leapt to it.  I helped them paint their knuckles with the Bi and Pan flag. Then I stripped off and waited for them to punch Bi and Pan flags onto my bum.

Now I don’t know why, but I really was just expecting H to press an impression of the flags into my flesh. So I was quite taken by surprise when the first punch rocked me to the core and the second followed quickly and just as forcefully.

Yeah, I know, I don’t understand why I thought they wouldn’t hit me full force either. I know how much they like to hurt me.

Curled up later, watching Doom Patrol, I was winding down for the night when suddenly, out of nowhere, they grabbed the lil’ fecker and hit me and hit me and hit me some more. My thighs, my stomach but mostly my breasts. They made me cry.

Not once, twice.

They held me, and told me I was a good girl and I felt so good. So happy, so content.

In bed, there was more torture. Pokes and prods and pinches. They wanted to find out my favourite Disney songs to beat me too. I wasn’t willing to give them up too easily.

It took a seriously deep bite to the belly to make me give up The Bare Necessities. They got a few songs from me in the end.

Songs I claim to be favourites but…are they? Are they?

Apparently I never learn.

The next morning we shared tender words and loving embraces as we slowly rolled into the new day.

And there was pain. Bitten breasts and slapped thigh bruises. And teeth dug deeply into my arm.

“Well that was a new experience.” I said, “I could feel your teeth scraping against my bone.”

“Was it an unpleasant experience?” They asked.

“No, not really.” I replied and they bit my arm again and crunched and nommed ‘til I was screaming and sobbing.

What did I then do? Reminded them I had other things in my bag.  Luckily only one of them was a hitty thing and was my favourite hitty thing. A studded paddle from Bondage Man.  I’ve said on many an occasion I could be hit with it all day.

H set about proving me wrong.  Hitting my thighs, rolling me over and beating my butt, basically the only the bit of me not already reddened and bruised.

“Hey, that’s cold!” I protested.

“You’re cold?” They said in that sing-song smug sadistic tone of theirs. “Shall I warm you up?”

They hit harder and I squealed and squeaked.

“No, I meant you were going in cooooollllld!” I moaned. Though I was thoroughly enjoying it.

They didn’t let up, so I continued to enjoy it.

Then they started in on the Disney Songs.  That’s another writing but for the purpose of this one, my arse was left sore, bruised, a lil’ bloodied and very, very well beaten.

It was in the bathroom when they body checked me, Arm firmly flying into my chest, taking my breath and leaving my upper arms and ribs aching and sore.

By this point My legs ached, especially the thighs, my stomach, my breasts, my arms, my butt and my chest.  Pretty much EVERYTHING hurt and I loved it.

H prepared us lunch, we sat together and snuggled tightly. Their every movement reminded me of their brutality, viscerally as they gently or forcefully pressed and prodded my marks.

I smiled.

A lot.

Then the whip came out to play and it didn’t take many strikes to have me desperately calling out ‘no.’

I was glad when we left the house. In the outside world, I might have to endure pressure point pushing and them not kissing me, because they’re always a sadistic twat but are very much aware of the consent of the general public too.

I’m not sure I’ve ever been glad for the pain to stop before. I mean, I always am straight away but usually I want more not long after. My weary, achy body was overjoyed at the prospect of several hours torture free.

By the end of Cocktails and Fuck Tales though, I was craving again. H provided, of course they did. They are the meanest of the mean and that is a kindness to me. They give me what I crave, pain, humiliation and control. They give me permission to revel in my masochistic nature with every poke, every slap and every bite.

As I snuggled into them to sleep, it ached. The act of pressing my front against their back, hurt, really hurt. When reversed, that hurt too. I fell asleep in a haze of pain and it felt good.

Yes, I realise that is extreme, that most people would think it was torture, actual torture to be so bruised and damaged. I’m not unaware of that fact. I do wonder why I don’t. What it is about enduring such wounds that makes me feel so good?

And my answers change a lot but always centre around pleasure, switching off my brain and endurance.

In bed that morning we talked deeply about many things, connected emotionally, learnt new things about each other. During this conversation they said.

“I’m being even more sadistic than usual to you this time.”

I indicated my bruises, maybe a little sarcastically.

“Yeah you are. You scare me shitless!”

They smiled at me, proudly and sadistically at first then I saw something, a brief flicker, so I continued.

“I love it. I don’t let anyone else scare me.  It might be me being control freaky, in fact it is, but I won’t let go like this with anyone else. I trust you to be scared of you. I can really let go with you.”

Their smile in reply was all I needed. See, even mean sadists need a little reassurance once in a while.

H used pain to get me up and out of bed. Pain isn’t the most effective way to make me do anything, usually, but everything was so sore, so achy that bites and pinches to breasts and thighs had me complying relatively quickly. I still fought back a little bit. I can’t help it. I want to make them work for their rewards.

As I moved around, starting to get ready to go downstairs, they lay in bed. I draped myself over their middle to pick up my phone off the window sill.

“Hey,” I grumbled, “why did I have to get up if you’re still lying in bed?”

I may have been so vocally bratty because I was lying over their lap, very aware of my vulnerable position.

It worked, they rained down some slaps on my fleshy behind.

“Oh, that reminds me of what I was going to do this morning. Get the studded paddle.”

Fuck.

Now remember, my butt was already sore. Already bruised. Already causing me to find sitting difficult. I had told H the day before that any seat was torture, when they offered me a choice of coffee shop to sit in, and it was. Even though they chose the place with the softer seats.

I picked up the paddle and handed it to them. Complicit in my downfall. They indicated for me to replace myself over the middle of their body. Yes, they dished out the mean without even sitting up. They were still lounging in bed.

And with seemingly little effort they had me rolling and writhing in pain. I gripped the bedclothes, I pressed up on my arms, I flailed my legs. None of it stopped the onslaught of the studded paddle.

Even when I shifted to my sides to pull my butt out of the way, they hit my outer thighs until I gave in and presented my butt again.

I was thoroughly beaten. So thoroughly beaten that as I dug into the delicious pasta H prepared for lunch I screeched and jumped up.

“What is it?” H asked.

“Stabby intense pain,” I rubbed my arse, “Like you’ve hit me again.”

It isn’t the first time I’ve had these painful after pokes but it was the first time in quite some time.

“Oh, it’s not the food then.”

“No, just my butt.”

They smiled.

I can’t remember precisely what I said as I stood up to move past them but it was assuredly cheeky.

“You think you can get away?” H said, face held in severe judgement.  “Go on then, run.”

I looked into their eyes for a moment.

“I’m not going to run.” I replied. I’m not physically able to right now, but by God if I could have done I would. Looking back on it, I’d love to run from them, to try to escape, to have them capture me and do with me what they will. Rawr. Yes, dearest Sadist, that is a hint.

Back to the moment, I walked quickly away from them and the whip came into play. It licked out and caught my back and butt and turned me from left to right. I couldn’t escape it.

I danced, I flexed. I felt panic with every strike. I crunched myself up, hugged myself and held on. Waiting for the stop. It didn’t come.

“No, no,no, no, no.” Not a safeword, so they continued.

“NO MORE!” I yelled it, turned to them with my arms outstretched.

They took me into their arms and held me a moment then when we pulled apart, they moved quickly as if to hurt me again. Pure fear must have shone in my eyes.

“No, no more. Please no more. Just hold me.”

And they did. We sat snuggled together. I was spacey and sleepy and just at the point where my brain shut down.

When they went off to get ready to go out. I curled up on the sofa and napped.

This is a good thing.

I felt loved. I felt safe. I felt free.

There is something special in the words that I used to call an end to their cruelty.

I didn’t say stop. I didn’t yell red, things you might expect.

“No more.”  Is what I called.

Not because I didn’t want the pain, I had enough pain. My whole being was pain and at that moment I couldn’t take a single bit more. I was full to overflowing with it.

What a gift for a masochist.

H spoils me with their sadism.

And yes, I still want more.

If you’d like to see some of the results from this particularly sadistic few days of pain and pleasure, check out Offering Taken , my Sinful Sunday post