My subconscious Sub-Etha Sens-O-MaticÂ was thrumming with memory and pulsing with perversion everywhere for me this weekend.
I had a lovely brunch with a dear friend on Sunday. He is, among many things, a sadist and of British extraction.
These things are, in my book, two of the the very Pillars of Win.
Being extremely well-hung and madly craving constant contact with my boobs are two more Pillars Of Win.
But I digress…
We’d played several weeks back, and due to myriad reasons (my insanity and odd life-processing methodology, for starters) had not really gone into depth about the scene.
It is easy to forget that sadistic people need love and reassurance too. It isn’t great to leave them hanging with questions like “OK, did they LIKE the scene? If they HATED it, was it the GOOD kind of hate (that makes you squirm and reluctantly crave more of the same treatment)? Or was it the BAD kind (which leads to flamewars and scorched earth blog-posts)?
In this case, I had the added bonus of this being the first scene I’d done in a long time. I had fears that my pain tolerance would be shot to hell.
I was nervous I’d be self-conscious about being butt-ass nekkid in the dungeon.
The wildcard, for me, in any scene isÂ “The Wall”.
Most scenes for meÂ have a moment of clarity where I realize that, on the face of it, this is insane, that I must be crazy, that the situation’s patently absurd.
I can’t ever predict when “The Wall” will be hit.
Andrew thought that the Extreme Clothes-pin-On-The-Nipple-Repositioning-Moment was the tense point for me.
And, fair game.
I did, if I recall correctly, unleash a top-o-the-lung stream of shrieked invective, invoking several deities, possible suggestions of incestuous relations with his Mother, and profane insistence that his derangement ought to be punished and that I would see to that personally.
Just as soon as I was released from the duct tape, plastic wrap ropes and cuffs.
But it was not the pain that was The Wall for me in that scene. It was the order to lick his boots.
Well, not just lick them.
Yeah, lick the sole.
Go ahead. Freak out.
But in that internal way that feels like a 45 minute debate with opening position statements, rebuttals, point and counterpoint, recess, concluding arguments, recess, voting, and presentation of the verdict.
All of this happens within about 27 seconds.
I am hardly a mysophobe. But I don’t make a practice of tonguing the fucking curb either.
After what felt like an eternity of emotional athetosis, I fucking licked the fucking boot.
Why? Because he wanted me to.
And because it gets me hot to do shit I absolutely do not want to do.
That is my simple core of submission. I feel like a million bucks when I can obey someone I trust.
I can fully expect to be doing a bit more of that, next we play, because one of the things that HE enjoys is having someone do something that is edgy for them, simply to please him.
Something else that works for me is being accountable. Te accountability problem is a big one in my life, as I tend to unravel in arenas of my personal space and maintenance thereof if I feel like “No one cares.”
“But do it for YOU!” some of you are shouting at your monitors “You’ll feel better if you keep yourself in a tidy space, sweep and dust and clean and all of those self care th—”
Technically, sure, maybe.
But it brings me no frisson of pleasure to do that shit “for myself”
Now, if I know I am accountable, that someone will be checking up on me, then it becomes far more likely I’ll do the thing.
I hate being responsible. I despise the thought of someone checking up on me. I bristle at the constant threat of being held to measure, being inspected, risking failure.
And because of that hatred, bristling, threatening energy, I love it I love it I love it.
Andrew’s casual aside about possibly inviting himself over for Tea so that he can make sure “everything is in order.” filed me with indignant dread and a smart ass retort and an absolute demurral.
Right. Thanks but no thanks.
And part of me just said