Reflections Of A Masochist

In Understanding My Masochism

2011-02-16T16:17:00.000-08:00

Recently, over the last day, I posted a question on FetLife in my Sadists and Masochists group:

This is something I said quite a while ago, but I yet believe it to be true:

'Masochism is not just about receiving pain. But, rather, instead, it is about understanding the nature of the whimpering, desperate female tearfully begging for it.'

(Please insert male or female as applies)

Do you agree, or disagree with this statement, and why?

What might you add to this statement?

I'm curious as to your responses.

I received quite a few responses. Most, negative, but I thought this would be an interesting post to add in here to my blog, and as a result, as well, my response after letting quite a few people get in their opinions. This is what I said:

I've read most of the responses here. Some were quite well written, others not so much. But in each it seemed an opinion was formed, and passed on, and that's exactly what I was looking to see.

It seems that as a result, the majority disagree. So, let me tell you why I agree with the statement I made a long time ago, and what was meant by it.

In almost every experience at the hands of a sadist, I can mark off the progression into the scene. At first, I will be a bit hesitant; not certain how it will unfold. The sadist will take control of the situation, using the implements he desires, and how he desires to use them. The first response I often have to pain, is a defiant, challenging attitude - I want to see how much he can inflict, and conversely, I want to see how much pain I can take. As the pain increases, it becomes an exchange between the two of us; he pushes me, I push him, he pushes me, I push myself. Back and forth and so on, and so forth. During this exchange, I don't hold back. I am not an easy female to either handle, or control. I will resist. I will fight back. I will push the sadist mentally and physically as hard as I push myself.

Power, is my ultimate goal as a masochist. Power over the situation, the pain, and as a result, myself. There comes a point in some of those exact situations after we have progressed to this little dance between the two of us, where the pain is so intense, so perfectly, deliciously intimate, that every shred of power and control I thought I had slips from my hands into his. I am no longer the one in control; he is. I then know, and admit that I never really was in control to begin with. Instead, it was very much an illusion of sorts; I only hold the power I have, to get to the point where I can effectively let go of it.

It is that precise point, of which I refer to in my original quote. When I have stopped resisting, struggling, and fighting back. When my pride, arrogance, and dignity are stripped from me and what is left, is a pitiful, tearful female begging and pleading for more pain because I am no longer trying to convince either of us that I have the control. I have been in that place within myself a few times. I have felt and known the exact moment when I gave over to the sadist, that precious and tightly held restraint which I was certain, was mine and would remain so. It is in those moments where I would say anything, do anything, be anything for more pain and he knows it. And remarkably, interestingly, it is at that point where the sadist stops.

It is that state of being that I want to eventually understand.

Feel free to comment as you will.

Tonja, and Cats.

2011-02-15T13:41:00.000-08:00

Recently.. alright, this morning, I was looking back over a few of my writings on FetLife. One of the more recent ones, made me laugh as I reread what had been written.

So, here. I am going to share it with all of you. And yes, it is a true story of what happened to me one night:::

Alright, I admit, I was feeling all hot and bothered and drippy after watching some of the latest videos on here.

Anyhow, I got all nice and cozied up on my couch with a favourite toy. fuck, yes, I was grinding my dirty cunt up against it like it was the last orgasm I might ever get. It was pumping in and out of me, and literally, I was juicing. I thrusted myself up and down, riding the edge right before a damn powerful orgasm...

...when the cat jumped up onto the couch and vomited on my feet.

I've never felt so violated.

...Is Acceptance

2010-03-28T12:23:00.000-07:00

There are some things which will never be. But there are many things which can and will be. I've come to accept that.

I spent my time focusing on what it would take to get me where I wanted to go, and little time considering where I was actually headed. I steered myself into believing that manipulation and control were tools which would allow me to find my self, but in fact, they ended up being the chains that kept me away from it. Each time I struggled to push forward, they pulled me two steps back.

I had created the most wonderful illusion of who and what I am as a masochist. I fed it, nurtured it, proudly showed it off to others as it grew, and eventually clothed myself in it. I wound this illusion so tightly, that I believed it real. And eventually, I fell. I fell hard. Because in order to realize the existence of this illusion of my own making, I needed to. The resounding *splat* was magnificent indeed.

Pain, though an incredible sensation and wonderfully exciting challenge which will endlessly intrigue, fascinate, and stimulate me, is not the means to discovering the core person within. It will not give me the answers, or provide the purpose. It does not define my worth, or sustain my balance. It is exactly only what it is - pain. And I will not be so ignorant or naive in the future to ascribe it any other meaning.

The rest of my self discovery needs to come from letting go of what I think I know, and being open to what I have yet to learn. And whether I believe it entirely at this point or not, it all comes from me.

I've come to accept that.

On The Other Side of a Safe Word

2010-03-17T21:49:00.001-07:00

What does that mean? Let me first say that previous to this weekend, I could not begin to tell you because I'd never had to say one...

And, I didn't want to say it. I suppose though that's easy enough to have figured out. (I'm a masochist, you know.) After all, we masochists for the most part don't seem to have many limitations or boundaries on that ever-elusive pain threshold. For the majority of us that loosely translates into ignoring that such a thing even exists. Is that such a bad thing? Consequences as a result of purposefully allowing ourselves to get caught in that kind of thinking really don't enter our minds - at least, it didn't for me.

I'd really built myself up for imminent failure in a way. Interesting how that works. Over the years I've physically and mentally challenged myself in various ways when it comes to my masochism. I've done scenes with incredible amounts of pain that slowly progressed from one successive level of tolerance to the next. Handling each one was relatively easy because I could anticipate the transition and confidently juggle my own responses. Pain, as I experienced and knew it, could be manipulated, converted, and as a result controlled. And over time with much practice I was becoming quite adept in how I did just that. Unfortunately, my false sense of security (and some might say misplaced arrogance) blinded me into not being able to consider what might happen if the ability to do even one of those things was taken away from me.

I found out what happens, this past weekend.

“Red!”

Once the word was out of my mouth it was as if the atmosphere around me had suddenly collapsed and become unbearably suffocating. The physical pain had temporarily ceased, but the forced acknowledgement of my own actual limitation was an overwhelming tidal wave of emotional torment and suffering such as I have not experienced before. The shame of this new situation found my face streaked with tears, my tightly-held emotional defences crumbling before those around me, and my illusion of control irrevocably shattered. The immediate and unmistakable truth was now placed in front of me. It was not one I was in any way prepared to face.

How could I, in those moments as I lay on the floor hoarsely screaming and crying through my denial, anger and frustration, console myself with the realisation that numerous other masochists have surely reached the same point as I just did; that I am no more unique or different in my ability to suffer; that admitting I cannot take any more of that particular pain does not mean I have failed? I wallowed in my disbelief and self pity. I had begged for my own humiliation, and I was more naked than I had ever been even though I was mostly still clothed. I felt as if something had been taken from me, when I was not willing to let it go. And, it had been. Control was no longer mine.

I wanted it back and as I lifted myself to try and take it, reality reared its ugly head and I backed off like a coward. I lowered myself. I pleaded to be their piggy. I whined and cried for their spit and disgust. I gave up my selfish sense of pride and watched as it too, much like the carpet below me, flattened as I rolled across the floor towards the chairs with the encouragement of their boots.

I sat on the chair against the wall that night... stunned, with tears, spit, and snot running liberally down my face as i tried to contemplate what was now waiting for me on the other side of my uttered safe word. Surely, people were sneering. Of course, they must have been laughing at my ultimate defeat. The whispers were likely already carrying talk of how weak I really was. I didn’t think it was possible for me to fall any harder or lower than I had.

I reached down, picked up my shoes, and carried them and myself to my room.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To understand where I am now, I had to explain where I've been. I'll write the second part of this journal when I return to Canada.

Over the Precipice

2010-01-23T22:31:00.000-08:00

There is something that I'm after. A place, where I want to go. A point, that I have not reached. It won't be quiet or serene. There will be no comfort to be had, nor awe-inspiring beauty to behold. Reality becomes the distant illusion and terror the immediate infusion. Thresholds will be purposefully trampled over and any reservations violently dissolved. Suffering will mark my features and pain will be the only mask I wear when every other one is torn off and destroyed.

Humiliation will ensue and shame will follow in its shadow. Rage and defiance may rise from me, but power and control will throw them down with calculated ease. A female will no longer be and the animal inherent will reside. Recognition will fade over time and conscious thought will shatter into pieces too small to be picked up.

Existence becomes a simple concept no longer made difficult.

tonja

2009-10-18T19:14:00.001-07:00

In a writing post of mine on FetLife, I gave my own description, as best as I could of my own personality:

I can be completely despicable in my own selfish nature, because there are times where I simply think I'm better than everyone else and the world revolves around me. I can be petty, snide, sarcastic and rude. I've been jealous and never admitted as much to the men who I've claimed otherwise to. And somehow, I can turn that around and make it their fault, and still feel justified in the end.

I like to hold back my negative emotions, and keep them safely tucked away, because I've convinced myself that to admit them is akin to weakness. I hate confrontations. I can sometimes leave problems to stew and morph into bigger issues because I just cannot be bothered to make the effort to change them. I rarely admit when I'm needing emotional comfort, or could use an ear. When things in life scare me, I laugh them off and even lie when asked what's really bothering me.

I have a deep capacity for affection, but fail to understand what being loved or giving that love really means. I tend to avoid emotional entanglements because I'll sabotage the relationship eventually, out of my own inability to understand what it takes to make one work.

I have an amazing understanding of my own sexuality, and how I see myself in that capacity. I am masochistic, and lovely in the simple hunger that has become as a result of exploring the sensations of pain. I am intelligent and witty, and have an excellent sense of humor which sometimes makes even me laugh and on the odd occasion, snort like a piggy. I love to dress up and go out, and enjoy the company of people.

I cry watching sad movies. I love the smell of rain and the morning air as it comes through my window. I prefer my pillows cold but must be buried under a warm comforter. (That oddly feels as soft as a suede jacket!) I never got chess, and suck at checkers. My hair can piss me off when it does not do what I want, and I have even thought how easy it would be to chop it off. I have no pinkie toenails.

I love the idea of forever after, even if it's a fairy tale. I'm determined that waiting to find the perfect match is better than a string of relationships that don't work. I'm alright with being alone, but hate going to bed alone at night.

I am a complex and even contradicting cunt at times. But, when it comes down to it, I'll almost always admit to myself who's really at fault.

And, I'm still the tonja.

The Sadist

2009-09-30T19:54:00.001-07:00

You are an arrogant, selfish bastard. You revel in your own sadistic creativity and how easily it frightens and torments those who bare it witness- their responses delight and spark your vicious nature, which with each newly resulting cruel machination testifies to the profoundness of your own depravity.

You inflict pain. But, it's not just the infliction of pain that satiates your perverted lust. It is the sight of the twitching, writhing and anguished body laying beneath your brutal touch; the cracked sound of pleading desperation in the trembling and uncertain voice which reaches up even through the depths to tease and taunt your self-restraint; the feeling of utter control as no matter how shrill the resulting cries become, or how violent the body movements of your powerless victim- the pain only stops when you're no longer itching with a relentless, crazed desire for gratification.

You do all this, without remorse or guilt but instead the knowledge that what you have done echoes an internal desire to release your sadistic nature to it's fullest capacity. And, relishing in the ability to simply be who and what you are without fear of reprisal or vehement disdain from within, you take pride from the feeling of accomplishment and purpose such freedom can give to creatures like you and I.

Topics

2009-09-06T12:35:00.000-07:00

Hey, everyone.

I know there are a few of you who do follow my blog. Keeping that in mind, I'd like to ask you for a bit of input.

What topics would you like to see me write on? I'd be interested to see if anyone has some great ideas for a couple good essays.

Feel free to leave your idea in the comments section for this post.

The Unconformable Masochist

2009-08-25T01:02:00.000-07:00

I don't exist, to be defined.

I will not defer to the ignorant desire of some, to classify my person and rape me of individuality. I do not belong in an assumed category of superficial pain sluts dancing on weakened puppet strings directed by the hands of a man. I am a brick wall to weakness, insecurity, or indecision; insurmountable.

Greed without shame; selfishness without remorse; desire without boundaries - those are of me. Intelligence without conceit; power without arrogance; sexuality without depravity - those are not of me.

I do not adhere to any set of standards or rules that others than myself devise. Any inconsistency fuels my defiance, and excuses provoke only disgust. I'm less than you will see, and more than what you can possibly imagine.

I tread on the outside of normality. I'll tip-toe the edges of insanity. And then laugh at your hesitancy.

I am the unconformable masochist.

A Reflection on Pain

2009-07-09T21:49:00.000-07:00

As a masochist I am asked, more often than any other question, what it is that I receive from pain itself. I've been asked so many times that my answer has been dumbed-down (especially for some people) quite simply to, "I crave the mental and physical stimulation and release which pain provides."

In many ways, there is nothing more to it, than that. I am not after sexual gratification, nor do I have the need for a sense of absolution through punishment for past offenses. I'm definitely not an endorphin junkie, and yes, pain does hurt. In fact, it hurts a lot. That's why it is called pain, and why so many people spend their lifetimes finding ways to avoid it.

So then, what is it really? Am I crazy?

Not quite.

I find my fulfillment from the discovery that pain can provide a genuine challenge to my ability for self-control as a female; as a human being. A contradictory statement in itself, because while the continued struggle to remain in the position to manipulate the intense and overpowering sensations that pain provides, is intoxicating and addictive to my masochism - so too, is the desire to have that compelling drive to resist completely stripped and removed; even, destroyed.

Seen. Exposed. Acknowledged. Manipulated. Used. Discarded.

Released.

Freedom is in surrender. Pain, is but my catalyst.

Degrade Me.

2009-06-10T16:36:00.000-07:00

I want to be degraded.

Now, I don't mean simple acts of humiliation that make a sweet little cute blush appear on my round cheeks.

No, fuck that. I want to be spit on, slapped, kicked, screamed names at, and psychologically degraded in every filthy and abusive way for being the fat, useless whore of a slut that I am. Yes, I said that. Did it make you cringe?

FAT.

USELESS.

WHORE.

I bet you think that's easy. I can almost see you smiling. But, it's not; in fact not at all, actually. I am more than likely going to laugh at each and every attempt you make. I'll sneer, roll my eyes, and taunt you to do better. I'll get up, brush myself off, and tell you to get your shit together or call a friend who might possibly be able to give you pointers on how to do a better job, because I'm fucking bored with your pitiful lack of skill. Grow some balls.

Can I make this any more clear? Do you understand what I need here; what I crave? Should I get out the big red markers and draw a picture on the wall? How about Charades?

I have to be reduced. I have got to find that place, with my face to the floor and the tears splashing down my cheeks; pounding my fists against the ground beneath me in anguished defeat as every word, every remark from you cuts through the carefully constructed unbreakable walls of my ego - bruising each one and marking it with your will as you slap them down one by one.

And then, the silence. The acceptance. I've surrendered it all. There is no lower place to be reached.

Don't make me wait. I've waited long enough. You know that, I know it, and every sadist who finds himself in contact with me, knows it. The unmistakable yearning, that unquenchable desire... it's there, waiting. Rape it from me.

Do something. Do it, now.

Degrade me, if you can.

One Girl, One Bucket. (One very big mess!)

2009-04-09T16:08:00.000-07:00

If there is one thing I enjoy the most about R, it is his complete and utter unpredictability; I just never know what the fuck he is going to have me do next. And, let's be honest, he knows damn well that I'll do anything he tells me to do. (Unless it involves diapers or clowns, right?)

I was kneeling in the bathtub yesterday morning, naked, with my piggy bag filled with the piss that he had me collect over night. (Every time I had needed to pee after my initial hop into my nice, warm bed, was to be made in the ice cream bucket eying me from right beside my night table.)

"Make sure you clamp the line this time".

Nice cheap-shot. I think I learned my lesson from last time! -- It was quite unpleasant to have a sudden onrush of liquid spurting into your ass only to realize that there are actual levels of release available for the line from the bag to the nozzle which would otherwise control the flow.

I clamped it, and inserted the nozzle. Dammit, I knew the pee was going to be cold. And through the hours before I heard his familiar voice on the other end of the line, the fear of what that cold pee might do to my insides was making me nervous as hell.

"Ready?"

"Uh huh.."

"OK, release the clamp"

Now, this is the interesting part, you see. I had no intention of becoming a blubbering, whining, crying female. However, this particular form of humiliation seems to have the most profound effect on me. I hate enemas. I detest them more than you could udnerstand. I'd rather do almost anything else than have one. It's all about control for me, and who the hell can control the natural urge to empty your ass when it's being filled with liquid?

However, after ten seconds of cold pee flowing freely into my ass, I was reduced to everything I hate the most. I knew it it was coming, and yet it did nothing to prepare me for the violent urge to release. And that, is what had me crying and pleading into R's ear, while I grabbed onto the side of the tub, disgusted with the predicament I found myself in and the lack of control I was left with.

"You're being incoherent."

"I can't hold it in. Oh, God! The pee is coming back out!"

"Clamp it."

Breathe. Yes, That's important. The piss was running down my leg and into the bottom of the tub, and soon I was kneeling in a nice pool of cold, stale, smelly pee. Of course, that served to probably make my whining into R's ear more pathetic.

"Open it up again."

"No, no, God, no..." I was almost sliding around the tub in my own misery. It no doubt, would have been quite a hilarious sight to see. A fat, smelly, whore such as I, almost bathing in her own piss.

"Do it."

I reached around and opened the clamp, and the rest of the piss flowed into my ass. I really started blubbering then.

"I can't hold it. The pee, it's coming back out. Oh, God, it's not staying in.. R, please!"

"Take the nozzle out. Good, now get the bucket. Release into it."

I think at this point, I was already starting to gag, knowing what was about to come rushing out of my ass. And it came, loudly, as I was on my knees squatting over an old ice cream pail, grunting and farting out the mixed filth. It certainly made a lot of noise as the mixture splattered into the empty bucket, bouncing back to stain my ass and thighs in a drippy, regurgitated shit cocktail.

I'm not sure what R was really saying at about this point. I think I was far too embarrassed at the audio effects which his ear was presently enjoying. The unmistakable stench, was foul, to say the least. I was already swallowing to keep back the insistent knee-jerk heaves which were involuntarily occurring. Though, I knew already the possibility was that vomit would soon be joining the mess on the bottom of the tub below me.

"Take the bucket out."

Fuck, what would be have me do with it? The thought had been running through my mind for a few days, that he must have other plans for that bucket other than just being something I emptied into. As I slid it out from underneath me, the gagging increased. My eye lowered and I tried to just shove it out of the way without directly looking into it. But, come on, we all get curious, right? Who among us does not turn around, and peer into the toilet on occasion? I guess this was no different. I looked, and then looked away rather fast.

"Look into the bucket. See that filth? Dirty whore."

"I see it, God, R, it's gross. I can't believe I just did that..."

"You ever piss me off, and I'll make you eat the whole fucking thing. Got it?"

"Yes, R. I won't piss you off! I won't. I promise!!"

I started heaving, and the more I heaved, the more I realized I also needed to pee. And of course, he made me do it in the bucket, which just added to the nice little offering already present.

"I wonder if I should make you dump it over your head..."

This is probably where the babbling started again. I am fond of saying to people, that I cannot beg. In some instances, like this one, it is true. I, instead, start to plead and mumble and trip over each word while trying to get out the point that I want more than anything to avoid the unpleasantness of the activity - and I'll do almost anything to avoid it.

"Stick your hand in there, and mix it up nice and good. Come on..."

No protest worked. My hand was in the bucket, swishing and swirling around the shit and piss. After a few more heaves of my involuntary response to the quite poignant aroma, vomit was added to the mixture. Everything was mixed together. Quite a cocktail, to be sure.

"Wipe it on your face."

"No, no, no, please, R, I can't. I'll puke, I can't, please!"

"Get some on your upper lip."

You must understand, that some of these actions took me more than a couple minutes. Really, I spent a lot of my time crying, and trying to protest. However, if there is one thing about R, it is the fact that seldom does he not get exactly the result he demanded in the first place. Yes, there was shit now on my upper lip, smeared with a rather shaky hand. And, as the fumes went directly up my nostrils, the bucket received another mouthful of vomit.

"Now smear some all over your breasts."

At this point, that was probably the easier of the two tasks, and performed relatively quickly. God, but there was so much left in the bucket. I had almost managed to completely mix it up, and there were few lumps. I suppose, it could have easily slid through the lengths of my rather unruly curls - had he instructed me to dumpy it over my head. It might not have been so bad, really, because the smell was already invading my nostrils. Would it get in my eyes? Christ, does shit burn?

"What should I do... hmm..."

A sadist, contemplating. Dangerous thing, that.

"I could make you masturbate in your own filth."

Yes, you could, R. You definitely could. You could have had me lay down in the tub, covered in the contents of my little bucket, while I tried desperately to orgasm for your pleasure. It might even have worked, if I had remembered to bring the Hitache into the bathroom. See? I'm not a perfect little masochist. I tend to forget little details on occasion. Some might say, on purpose. I tend to think of it, instead, as exercising the right to a selective memory.

Instead, he had me wash off my legs and feet, and find my way back to the bedroom, and to the Hitachi that was laying there waiting. No, I was not permitted to wash my face or breasts. I was stained with the sordid brown cocktail. I lay down on the bath towel, and I spread my legs. I grabbed the Hitachi and held it against my clit. Just... leaving it there, but not turning it on.

"Turn it on. I want you to come for me"

It went on, and I started moving around on that bed, writhing, moaning, and making some of the most pathetic sounds that a little dirty pig like me makes, when she is being aroused. Fuck, the smell; the sight; the texture of it as it coated my skin. His mind; his voice; the twisted fucked-up things he makes me do for him. And I do them. Why? Because he never asks.

I protested, knowing I would do it regardless. I cried out my own frustration, saying the orgasm could and would not happen. I grunted, groaned, and sobbed.

"Tell me, TELL me!!" I pleaded.

"Come for me, now!"

I came. I came, a dirty, filthy, smelly, naked fat whore, with piss, shit, and vomit painted across my flesh. I bucked against the wand, raising up and meeting it as my cunt spasmed and exploded into a powerfully amazing orgasm which made my words turn into blathered nonsense. All that uttered forth from my mouth, really, was a scream and my surrender. Just, what he had wanted.

"Thank you, R.. thank you."

"Such a dirty whore".

I am. I really am, you know.

You're a Shit Eater"

2009-01-20T00:30:00.001-08:00

Those were his words to me as I licked at the piss-covered shit on my panties...

I tried to get out of it this morning, before it even happened. I had no real idea of what his intent was, to be honest. He does not seem to be particularly fond of sharing what his plans are, when it comes to me. So, all I knew was what I needed to have ready.

He had me put the laxatives in my ass immediately; three to be precise. I have never had a laxative, and in my own recollection, definitely not a suppository either. So, as you can imagine, I was quite uncomfortable. I think, though, the fear about what might happen with my ability to keep from losing control of my body functions was making me panic. I started to writhe and twist on the couch, whimpering and making little pathetic sounds which he found amusing.

I felt a feeling of fullness. I had somehow convinced myself it would assuredly be far worse than the enema. I thought about what might happen if I got up. Could I hold it in? Would it just come out regardless? Would he laugh at me? Yes, he would. He likes to hear me cry. He enjoys knowing how uncomfortable I am. It pleases him to have me in a state where I am nothing more than a dirty, filthy piggy.

"Get up".

"No, God, no, no, no..."

"Yes. Get up, and go to the bathroom"

"I can't.. I can't."

"Why can't you get up?"

"I'm scared... I don't want to mess myself. Please, don't make me mess myself"

"You need to get up because you have to get a pair of panties on"

"Oh, my God, please, R."

He laughed. My misery always seems to delight him.

"Well, you don't want to mess your gym pants, do you? Get a pair, full cut"

I started to cry. I was lying on the couch, legs clamped tightly together, trying to desperately remember why I was doing this. Were it for just for my own self, I never could. I would not be able to push myself over that edge on my own. In fact, I could likely sit on the fence for a good while. Yet, he knows I will listen to him. He knows well enough, that the masochist in me, responds well to the sadist in him. And so, of course, I got up.

"Get two garbage bags."

I made my way slowly to the kitchen, wiping my nose, and trying to stop sniffling.

"Two?"

"Yes, two".

I made the way upstairs with the bags, stopping in my room to strip off the pants that I surely did not want to soil! I managed to slip into the panties with a slow attempt, and then thought to myself, "Yeah, this will be the point I lose it, and I shit myself." But, I was wrong. That was yet to come.

I flopped onto the bed, trying to keep my legs together as much as possible.

"Go to the bathroom."

"No, wait.."

Panting. Moaning. Little whimpers into the phone.

"You know, that yours sounds are like sex? You pant, you moan, just like when you are all aroused."

He laughed.

"I bet you wish you had a diaper now, hey cunt?"

"Yes." - was the only answer I came up with, which made me feel entirely lame.

I buried my face into the pillow and started to cry.

"You are so filthy. Get up, go to the bathroom."

He had me sit on the toilet, after raising the lid and seat. Now, there was definitely no protection, no possible splash guard, and being a fat fucking piggy as I am, even my ass tried to sink into the bowl.

"Now shit."

"In my panties?!"

"Yes."

?No, god, no. R, please... I can't hold it, but I can't shit in my own panties. Please, please don't make me!!"

"Let Go. Shit."

I pulled the towel up and bit into it, trying to keep my ass cheeks closed. If I just could move a bit this way..

"Oh my God, I have to poo, I have to, R. Please, please.. I can't do this. Not in MY PANTIES!"

And, after those last words, I shat. I had no choice, my ass was letting loose before I could try to hold it back. Every damn bit of control from being potty trained as a child until now, faded away in a second and I soiled myself. I cried, grunting and straining as I shit myself for his entertainment.

"Oh, you are a fucking filthy pig. Did you shit yourself? Poor baby!"

Grunts. Moans.

"My panties are full, oh God... they are full of poo!"

"Aww.."

"I... I need to pee."

"So, pee."

God, no, not that too, but as it was, could I get any filthier? Probably not. So I figured, anyhow. I pissed on that toilet. I pissed into the shit filled panties, while I inhaled the stench of my feces and tried to hold my stomach back from emptying itself.

"Now, stick your fingers in your panties and rub your clit."

"No, R, no, not that. Please! They are filled with shit, I... can't"

"Yes, you can. Just one. Do it."

Of course I did it. My fingers found their way down into my panties, and I started to rub, and yet I was so frustrated, so uncomfortable, and so messy that sitting there on the toilet was just not working.

"Get up, and take the panties off."

I threw the towel down, and got up. Before I stepped out of the panties, I bit my lip and hastily flicked as much shit as possible out of my underwear and into the toiler with my fingers; oddly finding the sounds of it dropping into the toilet, amusing. Wrapping the panties into the towel, I stood up and made my way down to the couch with the Hitachi that I had been told to have ready.

I lay back on the couch. I had dropped the towel with the panties wadded up in it nearby, and didn't think much about it.

"You want to come, don't you? Turn the Hitachi on."

I crammed it in between my legs. I was determined to get that orgasm. I could not get any lower in those moments. Had anyone known what I was doing, I would have surely been made fun of or ridiculed. As it was, he knew that I was feeling shame at that point. Such fantasies are great, but when the reality hits, and you know it is happening, so many more emotions become involved besides just pure arousal.

"Such a dirty cunt. Feel better?"

"Uh huh.. yes."

I was moving over the couch, fucking the wand as it thrummed in high vibration over my clit and cunt.

"Still got shit on your fingers?"

"Yes."

"Wipe it on your upper lip."

I protested, which did not last long. As my cunt became wetter and my clit swelled, I was finding less and less to say no to. You see, as a slut, once I am aroused there is little to nothing that I will not do for the orgasm. It is what I am for, after all. I am just a hole, a piece of fuckmeat, and I live for the pleasure which is given by men who know how to control and use me.

I wiped the shit onto my upper lip.

"Now, lick it. Lick it and taste your shit."

I did, and I licked. In fact, he no longer needed to tell me after my initial hesitation because I was starting to like the tangy taste. My cunt was now grinding against the wand, and I knew I was going to come soon. It took longer than I had thought, and yet when I came, after he permitted it, I screamed... I screamed again. I licked, and I screamed.

His laugh. I cannot tell you how it drive me wild. I hate it; I love it; It makes me feel so utterly helpless and there is almost a feeling of despair.

I didn't stop fucking myself with the wand, and to be fair, of course, he had not told me to. I was building towards another.

"Oh, you want to come again?"

"Yes, please, R... I want to."

"If you want to come again, get your panties. You're going to lick the shit on them."

"I can't, not that, no R, please!"

"If you want to come again, get them."

Opening up the towel, I looked at the panties. There was so much shit! Still, wadded up, and now longer warm, the crap clung to the fabric. I brought it back to the couch, and lay down again, seriously thinking if I could really do this, or, would I fail?

"Lick it. Lick the shit. "

The Hitachi was purring against my clit once more, and inch by inch those panties made their way to my face. I licked. My tongue flickered across the mushy surface, pulling into my mouth the tangy yet almost tasteless fecal matter. A throb in my cunt. Fuck, I was a dirty cunt indeed. Another lick. Throb.

"You like that? Licking your own shit? God, you're such a dirty filthy pig. You know that? Repeat it. What are you?"

"I'm a dirty, filthy piggy!!!" Lick.

His laughter.

"Come for me."

I pushed myself towards that edge as it came, harder and faster.

"Please, please R, let me lick more, please!!"

"You want to LICK MORE? Do it. Just a little more."

I licked, panting and groaning, almost squealing like that little piggy wallowing in filth.

"Enough, no more. Put the panties down and come for me."

"God, R, call me dirty names, please, please!!"

"Call you dirty names? You filthy, fat pig. Dirty little shit-eating whore..." and his words trailed off because I could no longer hear them as the second orgasm ripped through me. The panties, discarded along with my pride, as I again surrendered to the experience, to his control, and to my own depraved nature.

"Now, thank me."

"Thank you, R, thank you, thank you..."

I breathed. He laughed.

"You're a shit eater, you know"

Filthy, Dirty Piggy.

2009-01-19T15:33:00.000-08:00

I knew it was coming, and I had been dreading it. Most of you know, I hate enemas. In fact, up until yesterday I had only ever had one, because of my particular distaste for them. I refused to ever willingly do one again! Until yesterday...

Yes, I gave myself an enema, under the phone instruction of a sadist I know, who thoroughly enjoyed having me do so. As you can imagine, I tried to get out of it with whining, bargaining, and implied frustration, but he ignored all of that and simply told me to do it. So, naked, I filled up the water bottle with warm water, which he said to keep near the temperature of what I might use for a shower. I guess the alternative of cold water, would have been quite uncomfortable.

"I need to pee before we do this!"

"Hold it"

"Noooo!, No, no, no...damn.." I am glad he could not see the look on my face. I -hate- bathroom control.

"Hold it"

Into the tub I went! After, of course, hanging the bag on the curtain rod so that gravity would bring the water rushing easily down through the clamped line. After inserting the nozzle into my ass, he had me get on all fours.

"OK, open the line"

I did.

Now, never having given myself an enema before, I simply did not think about the fact that there are different setting on the hose clamp. In fact, there are about 4, which control the amount of water which rushes through the line at any given point. I learned damn fast.

"Oh my GOD.. it is rushing into my ass, too fast! I need to poo, I need to poo!" I instantly started crying. Yes, yes, I lost control of my emotions well before losing control of my own body functions.

"Clamp it!".

He let me get out of the bathtub as soon as I could stand, and release on the toilet. My ass felt like it was exploding as water and shit poured out of me into the bowl, and came back up to splash my ass with the force of it. He told me I was a filthy, dirty piggy, and as I was grunting, crying, mumbling, he patiently then explained the use of a hose clamp, and asked me if I had seen the other little ridges on it. Of course I had, but it had just not registered that there was a need to use them. I had just learned my first lesson.

"Please, I need to pee, let me pee, please, please!!"

"Pee" And I did, fuck, did I pee!

After I had sufficiently calmed myself, which took a few minutes, he had me get back into the tub, allowing me to flush the toilet this time.

"Ready for round two?"

"Uh huh"

"Get back in the tub"

There was a lot of water left in the bag, and I cringed. How the fuck was I going to fit that into my ass?? Back in the nozzle went, and this time, when he told me to release the clamp, I made sure to do so at a slower setting. Instantly, the need to shit again was upon me, and I cried harder. He would not let me go, and I started to writhe and move about the tub, pleading, whining, begging and sobbing into the phone about my obvious predicament.

"Clamp it"

I did, and he made me stay there, holding it in. There was no pain involved in this enema, but just a hard, uncontrollable urge to shit and empty myself. I could not keep myself still.

"I need to poo, I need to, God...please!!!"

"No."

"Open the clamp"

I did, and the rest of the water in the bag slowly went into my ass. I was not certain I could control it any more, and the thought of messing myself in the tub with shit all over my legs and ass, made me cry all the harder. I had never been reduced to such a state! Having to rely on the mercy of a fucking sadist, to even shit? Writing that actually made me shudder.

He had me get up, and again, I did. I stood there, wobbling, trying not to let anything so much as trickle out of my ass. Yet, a bit did, and I could feel a small bit escape to trickle down my leg. Which in itself, freaked me out that I could not just control it.

"Go to the toilet".

I managed to get there, and sit down, holding everything in again until he told me I could let go. Which, he did.

"Now masturbate".

"No, no no no... not on the toilet, please, please!"

"Do it".

"No! I am not going to masturbate on the fucking toilet, I'm not! I can't come like this.."

"Do it, now"

And of course, I did. I hated it, and I hated having my clit respond even when mentally I was so disgusted with myself that feeling any sort of arousal was almost impossible. I sat there, on the toilet, smelling my own filth while my fingers busied themselves in between the folds of my cunt.

"I hate this, I can't come, I just can't!!"

"Why not?"

"I need to be on my back, I just cannot come, like this.. can't."

"Get in the tub and lay down"

I got off the toilet, looking back and almost emptying my stomach as well.

"Can I flush, please?"

"No, I want you to see and smell your own mess."

I got back in the tub, laying down, half-crying as I was now laying in a bit o mess which had leaked from my ass. I could smell everything, and the odor in the bathroom was so strong. Having to masturbate, with that permeating the air, was hard. I stomped my foot against the tub.

"I can't do this, I hate it! I don't want to come, I don't want to!!"

And yet I still masturbated, because I did not have permission to stop. I cried, I moaned, and cried harder. I felt such a strong desire to fling the phone across the room, and do exactly what I wanted. How dare he do this? What the fuck was I thinking? There was no need for him to have control anyhow.

I did not stop.

"I can't, I can't, please, let me go into my room and use my hitache, please!!!"

"What? In the messy state you are in?"

"I.. I'll use a towel, please, please??"

"Do it"

Out I stumbled, taking a glance at the full toilet and hastily grabbing a towel. He permitted me to flush, and then I made my way to my room, having given up trying to get out of masturbating. I damn near rammed that hitache into my cunt! Over and over I brought myself closer and closer to the edge, and each time I simply could not get there. I was so thoroughly disgusted from the experience, that I just could not make my mind relax enough to enjoy it.

"I just can't come. My cunt -knows- what my ass just did!!"

He laughed his ass off, as I struggled to push myself over the edge. He had told me to orgasm already, in fact twice, and the urgency of not failing was making me miserable and frustrated. I was scared I could not do it, and finally I begged him to help by counting down for me.

At 1, when he told me to come, I did.

Such a dirty, nasty, little piggy. I screamed and screamed, when the orgasm hit. There, on the bed, writhing in my pitiful mess, smelling my shit and filth, and squealing like a whore.

After it was done, and I lay there trying to keep myself from passing out, and thanking him for the orgasm, he simply said:

"So, enema next Tuesday?"

Bastard.

Humiliation

2008-09-10T12:50:00.001-07:00

I wrote this some time ago and tonight, as I was reminded of how very intense this particular type of play can be, I thought to share it here.

I am a female who is fond of humiliation play, yet, relatively still quite new to it. I have been considering since the question was raised, the effect such interaction has for me both physically and mentally.

Initially, physically, there is a response much like has been described; my body blushes, creating heat and tingling sensations to course over the surface of my skin. As it becomes more prominent in certain areas, the feeling becomes a very sexual, erotic response to being in a position, or performing an act, which in itself my mind sees as humiliating and therefore something I would normally in most situations, not do.

What makes this such a unique experience to me, and more so what brings it from humiliation to enjoyable, is the utter sense of being exposed. It is almost as if, I have become quite naked. There is an intimate sense of vulnerability; the more vulnerable I become, the more arousal I feel. Because of the inability to hide such open responses, there is a very real sense of freedom as a result.

For a time, I am not living within the tight constraints of a society where my desires and needs are most often seen as abnormal or dangerous in nature. For a time, there are no inhibitions. For a time, I am able to simply be who and what I am..

...Sometimes, that is just a little female animal begging and pleading for more..

Such a lovely state indeed; one that can be very intoxicating and addictive; one, that if not properly controlled, can be very dangerous.

A state, that is no less craved by me, even so.

Submission; A Statement Of Truth

2008-09-04T14:36:00.001-07:00

Submission is not a gift.

Submission, is an act of yielding control to the will of a strong, capable, dominant man or woman; it is a state of surrender to authority exercised.

I do not give control; instead, it is taken from me, and as a result I will defer and yield. There are very few men that I know, who are able to understand this. More so, even fewer, who are able to act upon that understanding.

I do not offer; I present who and what I am as a female. I do not give; I acquiesce my mind and body to dominance and power.

I do not romanticize dominance and submission, by believing them to be an exchange of gifts to be cherished and adored. I do not find the concepts lovely, beautiful, or pretty in display. Instead, I see submission as a very primal, raw, and instinctive response to genuine domination; which can be strong, harsh, and demanding.

Indeed, the men who I will submit to, understand this and do not hesitate to take what is there to be taken.

Men don't wait, for the "gift".

A Lucky Whore

2008-08-29T08:50:00.000-07:00

Yes, I can feel it.

There is no way to ignore it; the tangible, unmistakable trace of disbelief coupled with apprehension when control is no longer a possession of mine.

How amusing and predictable my response must seem, for one who is experienced enough to understand. Enticing, more so, is the knowledge of what may be accomplished with a female such as I, whose ability to steer away from the shameless exposure of her own vulnerability, has wavered.

Yes, I recognize it.

There is no way to ignore it; the stench of my own filthy arousal as it builds within me and pours out through my words, actions, and behavior.

How overwhelming and consuming my responses become, when one who is experienced enough to take, manipulate, and use me, does no more than just that. Painful, more so, is the knowledge that after each time such occurs, I am more grateful than the last for the experience.

Just a lucky whore, I am. No more, no less.

Reality Behind The Need

2008-08-10T12:49:00.001-07:00

I was asked a few nights ago to think on a question which was posed of me. The question was: What would you do, in order to get your needs as a masochist, met?

Now, here is my answer.

It is neither a pretty, nor tear-jerking answer meant to make your heart swell with recognition nor emotion. It is not perhaps, the most in-depth, thought-provoking response which could suddenly turn on the flashing light bulb in some other poor, wretched female trying desperately to understand and manage her own gut wrenching need for pain. Indeed, it may not even be what you thought or expected to hear as a result of my persistent inner-tackling of this topic over the last few days.

Regardless, it will be the most honest one I can offer you.

I will use whatever means that I am able, to have my needs met, when I am in the presence of a man whom I feel is capable of providing that release. In all honesty I will compromise what it takes; what I am able to justify in my mind as being necessary to create the situation in which I am able to have my needs met. Be it through begging, pleading, crying, or another form of manipulation; as long as the result is what I am looking for, in my mind, I have succeeded.

Fuck training. Fuck protocol. Fuck integrity and morals. They can all be sacrificed.

Do I feel guilty? No. Do I regret being so? No.

I am exactly who and what I am, as a female, as a masochist, and as a slut.

I just don't fit into a box.

2 Minutes

2008-06-20T01:48:00.000-07:00

I was given a task. Relatively simply, you might think. I was to masturbate for 2 minutes, and at the 2 minute mark I was to begin my orgasm. I thought to myself, "Yes, I can do this". After all, I have done so in the past, in less than a minute.

I had been aroused on and off all day. It was fascinating, for every time my thoughts wandered to anything remotely sexual, I could feel the stirring between my thighs; twitching sharp pangs of arousal and need. So it was that I found myself later that evening, on the phone to a man whose voice makes me lose whatever shred of self-control I have ever had, and become nothing more than a gibbering, messy little fuckhole who can think of nothing more than screaming out her release.

The fantasy he was speaking into my ear, was easily igniting my already wet cunt. Every word he uttered, was equivalent to the soft but insistent urging of fingers stroking my clit, and teasing the engorged meat that responded far too eagerly. I was writhing on the couch, half naked, my legs spread, and displaying myself wantonly without shame nor care.

The 2 minutes began.

I fingered myself, furiously building on that fevered pitch; each flicker and mashing of my fingers against the already sensitive clit was driving me forward, to seek out the edge. Yes, I knew where to wait. I had been on that shaky, unstable precipice before, and forced to remain just teetering until the command was uttered. I knew it was coming, I knew, it was just out of reach. All I needed was that command..

The command came.

I threw myself into the orgasm that I was so completely sure was about to happen. It did not. I reached out harder, grasping, and caught nothing. The release that I was so desperately wanting, escaped me at the last second.

I screamed... and then the tears flowed; the angry tears of frustration and undeniable, gut-wrenching need that would not be sated. For you see, I was not allowed to begin again, if I failed. No, not this time. I literally sobbed as my fingers ripped and tore at the blanket near me, my knees drawn up almost painfully. Everything within me was crying out for release. That lovely, blissful edge that I had teetered on, was gone. It was as if I had been rudely yanked back by the scruff of my neck, and cast aside, only able to yet glance back and see where my feet had touched briefly.

Yes, I am a responsive and needy slut. I admit, my own vulnerability, is my sexuality. In it, I have become my own enemy. I am raped of any dignity I might have, when I am well and fully aroused, for there is no pride, no modesty, and no ego. I am nothing more, in those moments than a female who is much like an animal. My mind washes away, and what is left, is the raw, primal creature who knows nothing that exists presently is more urgent than the pleasure flowing and rippling through her starved body and mind. I drink it in. I feast. It fills every crack and crevice of emptiness imaginable. There is no possible way to be more full, and there is no overflow area. Something, must give; a release must happen, demands to happen...

2 minutes.

The command came.

My body failed.

More, Than Less

2008-06-08T09:13:00.001-07:00

I am more, than what you hear and see, and less, than what fantasies inspire. I am complex, and unique, and have an untouchable depth, and yet remain so very simple in essence.

I am a masochist. I am a slut. These things are true. Yet, they are not the whole of me, nor do they encompass every part of me. Each is only a piece, a fragment, of the one whose fingers type these letters and form the words to which your eyes read even now.

Is it so difficult to be able to understand the essence of any woman? To see, for example, how her intelligence, sexuality, and strength are interlocked in the very fiber of her being? To see the emotions, desires, and needs, plainly displayed and evident in her own femininity?

I will not be suffocated by the ignorance. I refuse to say all that I am, can ever be just one or more particular traits or characteristics defined by those other than myself. I will not subscribe to the notion, that anyone could ever know as much about myself as I, by knowing what is the norm for others.

I am content to search for men and women who can understand this. I have learned too much, in my time, to compromise my own self for the superficial trappings of temporary satisfaction.

I am more than less. Those who can see, will understand it. Those who cannot, won't.

Reluctant to Safe Word

2008-05-11T14:12:00.001-07:00

As a developing masochist, (and being quite aware of the risk involved
in most of my play or scenes) I am very grateful for, and respectful
regarding, the use of safe words and gestures. The importance of
which is perhaps is intensified by the fact that I am not within a
relationship dynamic, and therefore must utilize the safe word
precaution that is provided to me upon engaging in play with a
partner.

I am a female, who feels and responds in ways which are sometimes on
the borderline of extraordinary and extreme. The lengths to which I
will offer my body, and my mind, for the pleasure of a man willing and
capable of inflicting some of the most cruelest forms of pain, remain
uncapped. I have opened myself to sensations and experiences that
have forever dissolved within me, the former ignorant understanding I
had of my own sexuality.

In this time of discovery and development, I have not once used a safe
word to end a scene.

There were times, where I felt on the edge of mouthing it; where even
my own tolerance for pain began to falter, and yet I continued to push
myself on. The desire to bring my body past the invisible precipice
on which I teetered, so intolerably alluring; to feel the seductively
sweet surrender in the moments where sanity and control no longer hold
meaning, and the only truth in existence is the breath that follows
after the next.

I am a masochist, and I am reluctant to safe word.

Is there a sound, objective reason, for which I should be made to safe
word? Is there a need to experience the reality of having to use
one? Is simply recognizing and accepting that I do have limits,
enough? Is this a lesson to which I must learn?

Questions, for which I have yet to find answers.

Accepting Individual Kink : A continuation of My Kink, Your Kink

2008-04-20T10:26:00.000-07:00

I was asked, by a member of my local group, to write with regards to this topic after enjoying a lengthly discussion with other members, via the irc server. After composing the post, and having delivered it, I thought it might be of interest to offer it here as well, as some who read this, are not members of that particular email list.

I have a penchant towards writing, as some of you may know. There are forums, groups, and even personal blogs where this has been displayed openly through the past few years. It is well known, because of this, that I have certainly been involved with a variety of different kinks and lifestyle choices.

Over the last couple years, I have come to accept the fact that I am a masochist. This knowledge was certainly not always present, even with the blatant and obvious hints that my behavior displayed. In fact, when I entered this group 5 years ago, it was as a dominant female with no design on submission, masochism, or otherwise.

Within the first year, I became increasingly frustrated and even perhaps, angry. I had no idea of the source from which it originated, but I recognized the feeling of stagnation which blanketed my participation as a member; dominance, in any form, did not come naturally to me, nor was it something I could pass off as such, and there was no desire within me to present myself falsely. It was at this time, that I left the group for a couple years, to further invest energy and study in personal development, which was the catalyst for my growth as a female masochist.

I went on my knees before men, and on my belly before them as well. I crawled, pleaded, cried, and begged, in some of the most humiliating and degrading ways. I felt the grip of a man's hand in my hair, and listened to the tone of his words as instructions were delivered to me. I was addressed with titles such as submissive, slave, and slut, and more which were designed to remind me of my place. I learned how to perform tasks, duties, and assignments. How keenly, I felt the pleasure of doing well, and conversely, the displeasure when I did not. I had become what I had feared and misunderstood through my ignorance, and yet, found comfort and a freedom I had not known previously existed within me.

Though, there is always more to be discovered; carefully examined and explored through navigating some of the darker depths that reside in each one of us.

I was brought to uncover my masochism, by way of a man, who perhaps knew more about me than even myself. He encouraged, shaped, and developed the responses his increasing probing found within me, into the female many of you see and know now. He used my intelligence, sexuality, and strength to help me recognize that which I had not acknowledged.

Pain: Such a lovely and beautiful reminder of my own existence. Pain: Such an incredible, breath-taking addition to my sexuality. Pain: Such a unique and unpretentious sensation that leads my mind and body to blissful contentment. A hunger; a burning and raging need, which uncontrolled has the ability to consume and destroy.

I am aware of my own extreme nature. I am aware of the effects that it has upon men and women who see it demonstrated. I understand that in some ways, I frighten others. I realize and appreciate that there are varying levels of comfort, and my scenes may skirt the edges of what is considered safe or sane. I accept my individual expression of masochism, with the risks and dangers associated.

The topic, is Accepting Individual Kinks, and I have begun with myself.

Education and understanding are key essentials to any community. We are a diverse group of men and women, with varying interests and tastes, and each so very uniquely demonstrated. It is hard to look upon any one kink, and fully understand why it is of interest to another, when it feels so foreign. Yet, does this ignorance, allow any of us to sit in judgment of another?

As responsible adults, we are capable of choice. As aware adults, we accept and recognize the choices of others. As kinksters, lifestylers, and players, we respect choice as being inherent for all involvement in BDSM.

This, is where we begin.

My Kink, Your Kink.

2008-04-06T16:18:00.001-07:00

It is remarkable, and somewhat astounding when considered, how many unique and individual kinks have been expressed, developed, and even taught by the BDSM community. However, for all of the physical exhibitionism of these interests, through events, workshops, literature, and media, there is an amazing plethora of ignorant-minded individuals who lack both the insight and respect when it comes to kinks they do not indulge in themselves.

I give you an example, for starters. It is very well known in my local group, and accepted, that I am a masochist and I have the ability to play very, very hard. This does not mean that each and every time I scene, it is what happens. However, there is an intensity, and a very clearly tangible undercurrent of possible risk, with most of what I do.

There are people who not only, do not understand my interests, but also because of their lack of education, feel it is acceptable to question my judgement and ability to be a responsible, risk-aware participant. Too, some of these same people offer forth the idea of segregating the more edgier kink, from that which is more often commonly accepted and practiced.

Who decides here? Who makes the judgement call as to what exactly constitutes a high-risk sort of play in which there should be a separate area needed? Exactly what is the point of allowing those people to stay within the safe and blessed comfort zone of that which I like to call ignorance? We profess to have tolerance, understanding, and acceptance as a community. I do not believe being divided amongst ourselves with the thoughts of "My kink is OK, but yours is so very wrong" is conducive to growth or development.

As responsible adults, we are capable of choice. As aware adults, we accept and recognise the choices of others. As kinksters, lifestylers, and players, we respect choice as being inherent for all involvement in BDSM.

I am not going to hide my kink behind a screen.

Need, Of A Masochist.

2008-03-06T11:43:00.000-08:00

This is a concept I have, only really in the 2 years, been trying to define and understand as it applies to me individually.

As a masochist, newer than some, and perhaps much more inexperienced than most would believe, I struggled in the beginning with even admitting to having such a need. It was almost shameful, for who in their right mind, would find such pleasurable satisfaction from receiving something simple like a flogging, or whipping? Yet, I did. Too, I found interest in almost any sort of implement that was designed with that purpose in mind; and even some that were not. On odd occasions, I would find myself glancing at an object, and imagining in my mind how it might be used to administer pain, and finding a moment or two for that very indulgence. Some instruments which I experimented with worked, and found their way into my little private drawer, others did not and were soon discarded.

Sexually, my fantasies were filled with acts of depravity and pain. I would furiously masturbate to many of them, and then afterwards question my own sanity. I was a female who did not enjoy pain, or, at the very least, was not willing to admit it. Gone, were the memories of what it felt like to scratch, cut, and feel the blood burbling forth from my skin; gone, were the moments of complete and utter pleasure as the rush of intense heat ran the length of my body and infused my mind with erotic desires; gone, were the moments afterwards, when I realized I was well-sated. You must understand, I was taught that all such sort of things were wrong, and needed a cure. I was a young adult back then, and there was little to no tolerance, or understanding, for one such as I.

So it was, that when my mentor first showed me that there was such a masochistic need within me, I fought. I believe, in my own way, not only did I try to fight that very realization, but too, I tried to push him as far away as possible. The thoughts I was having, the desire his words were provoking in me, frightened and sickened me. Yet, even with that, there was a stirring of comprehension within my own core. What exactly was normal and healthy anyhow? Was I not the same female that accepted and spoke of each person, regardless of gender and culture, society or environment, having unique and diverse interests that were no less normal and healthy than another's? Though it may be that the pursuit of certain expressions were less accepted than others for whatever reason, it was of no less of importance for that person seeking a way to actively enjoy them.

I started to realize that within me, is a thirst and hunger which cannot be sated by simple sexual interaction. In fact, sex was starting to bore me. There needed to be an added element of pain and pleasure, balanced and controlled by the hand of a man capable of keeping it so. My mentor became this man for me. I gave to him, the control to encourage and produce responses from me, that were already simply simmering below the surface, only blocked by doubt and disbelief. Through our interactions, he explored and directed my mind and body into accepting that which I could not, and bringing free the heated, sensual animal of a female who thrives on a twisted yet delicious mingling of severe pain and pleasure.

The need began to grow and develop. Often times, I would beg him for more pain, each time finding that sweet release even better for it. Yes, there is something so incredibly seducing about raw, erotic pain; something which makes even the most dry cunt start to sop and leak like an overflowing fountain.

I desired to find more opportunities to enjoy expressing this need at the hands of men. So it was, that I began locally engaging in social and private interactions with sadists. It was in fact, remarkably easy to display that need as well, being as it was so fresh and recently loosed. It was an attraction for any sadist simply speaking to me, for as it has been described since, there is something within this masochist which calls deeply to those holding the counterpart.

As much as I began to hold back the submissive response within me, for the lack of understanding it fully, as I have discovered to my own frustration it yet binds me deeper and more forcefully to who and what I am, as a female. Though it may be with each man, I shall not feel it, for certain, it resides within me. How can one fight nature? I cannot. I can no more fight my nature as a female, than I could further ignore the pleasure of being commanded by, and performing for, a strong, intelligent, sadistic dominant.

Need, is now openly displayed by me, whether recognized or understood by those witnessing it. I have rather strong and intense cravings to which I submit. Perhaps more so, ones that I have yet to submit to. I bear a certain responsibility in this, however. As a masochist, I am yet accountable for remaining aware of the risks I take; too, of using judgment and discernment in choosing those men to whom, during the course of our involvement, I will inevitably surrender control to. My own need, cannot in itself, be allowed to overrun or control my reality. I must and will remain aware of who and what I am, and the dangers to which I have accepted.

Need, does not supersede or negate the necessity for good, sound reason

Feb 16th's Play Party.

2008-02-18T14:46:00.000-08:00

It was an interesting night to be certain.

I had not gone with the intention to scene, when I arrived that play party. The person I had planned to do so with, had canceled, due to an opportunity to attend an event that I could not blame him for deciding to participate in. Though, to be honest, the loss of his presence, and more so, of the scene itself which had promised to be a very intense one, kept me from wanting anything else really.

My attitude changed, however.

A girl who had been attending the munches with me locally, had joined in attending the party. I was well aware she had an interest in play, but seeing as she would be relatively new to most of the implements and toys that would be available, I, and a male top she was comfortable with, decided to go slow. The girl responded naturally, almost too naturally, to a collar and leash. She became not unlike a little pet, to whom I delighted in leading around. When soon after, she slid her naked form onto the spanking bench, I watched as she seemed to enjoy the feeling of the slightly chilled padding below her, brushing against undressed skin.

It started with a small little spanking; each cheek, here and there, lighter and harder as her nods and assurances dictated the fall of my hand. The male top brought out more toys, including a paddle, to which he began to use on her, and a flogger, as well. Though, which order we did these things in, my recollection is not clear. Seeing as it was her 23rd birthday, she was given a task to perform, while she held her body on that steady little bench; each hit, each slap, would bear a number starting with one and going forth from there. "One, Sir..two, Sir". The poor girl! I knowingly sabotaged her more than once, and she had to again restart. Then, I took my turn of her, and did something I have not done in 5 years now, which was flog her backside. I rather enjoyed the feeling of that flogger in my hand.

Later on in the night, after having socialized a bit, I found myself in front of a male dominant who I have discovered an increasing interest in. (I will refer to him as A) Yes, it could be said easily, that I was aroused. I had been looking quite forward to seeing him and his girl (who I had a nasty little fantasy of in the week previous..) and spending time with them. When he nudged my chair into a position between his legs, I felt a twitch begin between my thighs. I was already well on my way to getting wet, when his fingers touched me, briefly tracing down from my face, to my neck, across the half-covered skin hidden below the fabric of my little blouse to my nipples. The grip was amazing. The surge that followed the tightening of his pinch, set my breath to quick little pants, and my cunt to throbbing in frustration. When his mouth descended to bite me, I ached.

It is not untrue, that I hold no fondness for being bitten, but I had not even discussed this with him. I did not find it an unpleasant experience; perhaps, it had to do with the man himself, or his technique, but whatever it was, I was ready to do almost anything. You must understand, I am quite a hungry little cunt. I find it almost impossible to control my own urges, harsh and desperate as they are sometimes, and so releasing that control to the one handling me, is very important. Too, more so, that they can handle that control. He seemed to do this rather well, as he would again make a point of proving later on in the night.

I enjoyed watching a few of the scenes. Most particularly, though, of a man named B. (I am omitting the nickname for respect of his privacy) As a masochist, I have come to appreciate the power and strength in a man's swing. This man had an ability that I found rather fascinating. Too, his movements were arousing; each one seemed to flow into the next. It was as if, he had a rhythm to which he followed without fail. The contrast of his outfit, which was all black, and the paleness of her naked skin, set the visual intensity which I found so incredibly alluring. I found myself watching his play most intently. It was then that I noticed the whip attached to his belt. A bull whip. My cunt throbbed greedily.

When he sat down at our table, I could not help but stare, to be honest. He caught me in that, and so I managed to blunder forth an actual question, which had to do with his bull whip. I shall not admit this, if any of you reading should happen to mention it in passing! He answered me, then was asked another question by the male top whom I had been engaged with earlier on in the evening in play with the girl. This had to do with his rather interesting, and lovely, glove floggers. I have not seen the likes of them before, so, have no appropriate name for them. The leather strands themselves, were attached to the glove portion. Comparing hand size, the top and B realized they were relatively close. B then offered to let him have a go at familiarizing himself with how they worked. Of course, he needed a subject. Of course, I offered.

I knelt on the bench, fully clothed, for I had changed back into my street clothes as it was getting very close to the time we would be leaving. Too, as I said earlier, I had no real intention of playing. I placed my fingertips on the bench, kneeling on the lower portion, with my back facing them. B discussed the fall of the strands, the movement on the gloves, how he would find a rhythm and flow as he noted the difference between holding a handle and not having to. I grinned, and just enjoyed the light little brushes against my back. Of course, I had to point out that they could certainly hit harder. I was rewarded with a few harder landings, which yet felt as nothing to me. W (The DM at the time) asked me “Getting an itch scratched, hmm?”. I laughed, and nodded. Barely!

The little demonstration was over, and it must have been at that time, that he asked me why I had not played in the evening. I responded easily enough, that my plans to do so with V had been canceled, and the scene to which I had been looking forward to was not going to happen. He nodded, having heard of the plans for our particular scene. You see, it was well known that I had been planning to be a subject for skewers and ropes, as it has become my favorite form of play, and had more than a few people in attendance that wished to watch. I have, on occasion, had people join me in my home for such demonstrations, but this was going to be different.

I am not quite certain how then we moved into a scene, but it simply began, and I found myself being flogged by a man who could not only throw leather, but hurt with it in a delicious way that sent my mind reeling. I was thrilling with each land against my back, ass, and thighs, and I was suddenly thankful that I was dressed. Certainly, my arousal would have been easy to see then, easy to smell and distinguish without the clothes. As much as I craved to give control, I was determined to not give it easily. My mouth began to work almost of it's own accord, and soon I was making smart little comments, biting at him, challenging him to really let loose on me. I found it almost amusing to edge off the spanking bench, or slip a leg down and turn around on him. When he threatened me with rope to still some of my movements, I simply thrust out my wrists in front of him. They were then easily and effectively bound.

Ah, but you see, then he left me simply only bound by the wrists, though initially, he had a good grip of them. However, after much twisting, laughter, and further provoking on my part, he then called over another dominant to help, which happened to be A. I knew I was in trouble, and was soon proved correct when A grabbed my wrists in a lock tight grip which made anything remarkably difficult. However, I am a resourceful little cunt, and as they threw me over the bench once more, I continued to squirm and evade some of his hits. This only meant my struggle was getting more difficult, and the rope burned into the flesh on my naked wrists, rubbing furiously against my unprotected skin. That seemed to only push me further.

I was beginning to gather the pain within me, feed on it, if you will. I wanted more, and I wanted him to work for it, to hurt me, to take it from me and not just expect a passive, docile female. For you see, with all I am, I am not a submissive in the way which might be expected. I am a masochist, and so dreadfully complex. I am certainly not the masochist of all masochists, but my tolerance level is certainly higher than most. Do I give that to just anyone? No. I did not know B at all, besides by reputation, and seeing his work. I was not about to make it easy, in any way.

I finally managed to get on top of the bench, and how this happened, to be honest, I am not certain. It seemed to please him initially, until with one small movement, I fell off. Then, I was dragged again by the wrists. A crop was brought in, and a paddle, to which I fervently begged to not have used on me! I have a dislike for paddles, all of them. Leather, canes, whips, are all good and fine. Paddles have no give, and too often leave me not enjoying the pain. So, like a good girl, I was on my knees begging, to the delight of more than a few people watching which I believe at that time happened to be everyone in attendance, though I am not positive. I rubbed my face against his cock, using my bound hands to touch and stroke him, mouthing as best I could into words my plea that he not use that damned thing on me. Ah, but he then had to ask the crowd if I seemed sincere, to which I believe no one was ready to be in favor of. Instead, it was found to be less than satisfactory. This, of course, was even more humorous, and I had to start trying to beg between laughs..

The bench was soon take away, for it had to be loaded, and then it was simply just B and I once more. He grabbed me, pulled, and literally dragged me on my knees across the surface of the floor, by the wrists. I could not believe the burn of the rope, and yet no complaints came from my mouth. The skin of my hands was starting to sweat, to get clammy. I could feel everything yet though, so it was decided they were fine. He cropped me, turning me this way and that. I wrestled, throwing my body around and rolling on the floor and starting to drag him. I swore, bucked, pulled and grunted. He yanked, pushed, slapped, and laughed. Finally, he stepped on my bound wrists, and I could move no more, but when his blows started landing, I caught his foot and threw him a bit off balance. He easily came about me, and as I was laying on my back this time, panting, he kicked me legs open, holding one foot down, and started to crop the insides of my thighs, back and forth, and over the knees as I brought them up. Again, a flogger was in there at some point, but I have no time reference to give you.

I had forgotten about everyone one else, and for me all the existed was the rope, the man, and the desire to be nothing more than a writhing little cunt enjoying the touch of his pain. I was not Tonja the female, the woman, or the masochist. I was a greedy little thing moving about the floor, and yet, still opening myself to him after each hit...still offering..not refusing..only challenging in my own way, which for me was how I begged. My shirt was half riding up my chest, my hair in complete and utter disarray from having the clip broken by his handling and being tossed and throw this way and that from the interaction, and my clothes certainly were not as clean being rubbed all over the floor.

When he untied my wrists, and began to help me up, there was appreciation from those who watched. (Though I did get a nasty little leg cramp and decided to fall back to the comfort of the floor instead, but we don't have to go into that part.) The time was beginning to slide away, and it was well near 1 in the morning. I could have continued, and perhaps too, could he. However, having already used two other females that night, he was sure to be tired.

I was so completely right. He was, a very nasty man, and I knew it. What an incredible experience! I could not have enjoyed the night more. And before I left, I did beg one final request of him: That he whip me with that bull whip one day, when it became possible. For truly, I am certain he would be nothing less than cruel with it.

And that edge, that slim existence between reality and insanity, is what I crave to ride, with the surrender to pain that my mind and body chase after.