It’s become a new thing of the ‘more relaxed nilla’ to spend time each week flitting around the internet and browsing other blogs, articles of interest, that sort of thing. I don’t always leave a comment, but the truth of the matter is that everything I read gets dumped into the giant stew-pot of my brain and may emerge in some form or other, as this is the way that stories get birthed in my head.
Yesterday (which was Thursday as I sit and write this on Friday morning) I spent an enjoyable hour or so watching snippets of porn. Oh, hell yes, some of it was bad, and it didn’t hit the exact thing I was looking for, but it was still…you know…hawt. There are some really, really big cocks out there…(they’re like weapons, I swear!)…and it worked well for the story I crafted later (which is on Dark Fantasies now).
Giving myself permission (why are we so hard on ourselves, anyway?) to cruise and flit through all sorts of things has done wonders for my head. With all the stuff going on in Boston this week, and the unfolding, fluid situation happening now, I need the escape. I shared a great cartoon on Facebook midweek:
A week from today Master and I are supposed to hook up, to use the vernacular of the day. (5 points if you know what movie that’s from!) And as I’m cruising the internet I read jz’s post here (this is twice this week you’ve inspired my writing, jz!), which was echoed in similar vein in another blogpost by faerie here. To summarize (though I do encourage you to go visit the individual posts, they’re really well done!), they are about TTWD.
What the fuck are we thinking when we (that would be the small “s”, whichever sexual orientation you claim) go to be with our Capital Letter (be it S, or M, or T, or D).
We not only let them beat us, we fucking encourage it!
Is this demented?
Well, fuck ya.
Of course it is. 🙂
It is also the very fundamental part of this thing we do, yes? We don’t merely want them to beat us. We don’t merely hope that they’ll beat us. We don’t only want them to want to beat us.
We fucking crave it.
As vital to so many of us subs (though there are those of you out there that are NOT pain sluts, who will NOT relate to this at all) as air. Okay, maybe not air. Water, then. We can live without ever drinking a glass of water…we get it via other means after all…but it’s not the same is it? (yeah yeah, I’m stretching that metaphor a bit…bear with me though…)
We who are pain sluts crave, deep in our bones, the feeling of hands on our bottoms, smacking hard. We crave the intense fiery burn of a whip or a cane or a paddle on our flesh.
Or goddess forgive me, even that fucking pink brush.
I hate it. Standing on the wall, laying on the bed, dreading the moment He asks me “Oh nillaaaa….where is MY hairbrush? Hmmmm?” and knowing that I must tell Him.
Dreading the first whack of it on my flesh. Where will it be? My ass? My hip? My thigh? My breast?
Yet deeeep inside me, in that scary, deeply dark place in my spirit? There lives that craven desire for that slam of pain; it co-exists at the very same time and place where there is that dread. It’s weird, I know, yet I need the gift of His pain, likely even more than He needs to give it. For there are many times, after a playday, when I wish He’d pushed further, hit harder, marked me deeper.
When I wish, actively, that He’d been even more “brutal” to me.
He, however, knows my limits. (and I’ll go out on a limb here and say that He knows my limits WAY better than I do!) Knows what my vanilla responsibilities are, and knows that I need to not be totally brutalized to be able to function once I leave Him to rejoin Vanilla life. He knows I’m a strong, capable woman, but that I’m also not a spry young chicka anymore. He takes all this into account when He plays with me. When He hits me. When He fucks me brainless.
Nonetheless, bearing all that in mind, I’ll spend next Saturday night nearly sleepless. I’ll toss and turn, pondering the outfit choice. Is that really what I want to wear? or should I change it? (sometimes I’ll leap out of bed at 2 a.m. to do just that!) And once I’m done with all the fiddling, the packing of my stuff, the wriggling around because I’ve been fucking O-less for days ….it happens.
My body quiets. I still can’t fall asleep. I will remember His voice whispering sweet and dark nasties into my ear. (who doesn’t get turned on with dirty talk, right? 🙂 Trust me, I am not immune!) I remember His hand striking me, then touching my cunt to find me soaked, remember too, His voice as He tells me how wet I am. What a slut I am. And that I’m His to do with as He pleases. For a few minutes I’ll smile at the memories…
And then…hanging onto the edge of sleep, the nerves kick in again. And I think to myself….yes, still, after over 3 years together….why am I doing this?
Am I fucking nuts?
Who does this shit?
What kind of woman lays awake anticipating a beating? What woman lays awake, barely able to wait to see the face of the Man who will beat and fuck until she is practically raw?
What the fuck is wrong with this woman?
Yes, I will lay there in my bed and wonder. And somehow, just before I fall over the edge and into sleep at last, I’ll smile.
For there’s really nothing “wrong” with me…I’m just on a journey, and this is part of who I am, what I am, what I need. I’m a slut. A pain whore. I’ll do whatever He wants me to do…for all He needs to do to “make me” –is say “do it”…and I will. Part of that is submission. Part of that is love. All of it encompasses trust. They have mixed and mingled and morphed together these last 3+ years until I’m not clear where my submission starts and where the love begins…
I’m more than okay with that. I’m past needing to know that answer. I’m accepting. Of Him. Of His needs. Of His desires. And — too, of mine.
We spoke on the phone the other day–He bested me at something, and I “faux pouted”…”You win again, Master.”
“nilla,” He says, His voice firm, amused, and …just so Dommy…”I always win.”
And that is something that I’m totally and completely happy with.
I have an answer now, for this question, in the rational light of day. Remember the question: Who does this shit?