My Masochist's Betrayal

There in the too well lit room where I couldn't hide, He rained down Pain.  It's what I wanted.  I am a masochist after all.  I escaped the world at large until only three elements remained: Him, my body, and Pain.

The music faded.  The Sadistic sounds of the other couples crammed near us disappeared.  The voyeurs became an indistinguishable blur.  And my pride...my pride was nowhere to be fucking found.

I was grateful for every damn bit He gave me.  I greedily drank up His violence, lapping at it like a dog on a hot August day.  I never got to safeword stage.  It was never too much.  I wanted...no...needed to suffer.  Maybe I needed it too damn much.  Lap, lap, lap...I lapped it up, searching for the usual sweetness only to find a dusty bitter tang.

Every smack of His palm, crack of the crop, slap of the flogger exploded across my skin and within the landscape of my mind like a chaotic bomb.  I was neither tranquil or calm or peaceful or serene.  I moaned, whimpered, shouted, swore, groaned, even slapped my hand against the massage table.  I was a mess.  I loved the Pain, but I also hated it and my body for refusing to absorb it like the nectar it had always been for me.

My masochist had betrayed me.

I couldn't connect to Him or the Pain.  My masochist...that bitch refused to make an appearance and bridge the gap.  I couldn't settle into what I loved so much.  I tried to breathe deep and center, I tried to relax, yet every strike ricocheted against my nerves, and my frustration in myself only grew.

Still the Pain came.

My skin turned to fire so quickly...too quickly.  My ass, my thighs, my back, my arms, my calves, my hands were all fair game.  No one had ever so thoroughly explored my body in impact play.  I withered in agony on that table for Him.  I was loud...probably too loud.  (My apologies if I disrupted anyone's zen!!!)

After a long while, He turned me over to rest my pale thighs and bare pink ass.  With quick flicks of His fingers He tugged down my black crochet top that hid nothing to bare my heavy creamy breasts.  He went to work on that tender flesh with two crops.  Each crop's kisses left scorched nerve endings my mind could not soothe.

When He pushed the short-crop into my pussy and slid that leather tongue in and out of me, my whore stirred unable to resist the filthy and public fucking as He continued to punish my breasts.  In front of friends and strangers I moaned both in need and in Pain.  The blatant brutal sexuality had my legs spread and hips grinding in a shameless ask for more.  Like I said...I'd left my pride upstairs next to that sexy fireplace.  Yet still my disconnect persisted.

I could not control my body or alter how it interpreted the one thing that would completely free me of the tension and stress that had plagued me for weeks if not months.  I could only take a few hits to any new spot before my body recoiled and crumpled and shifted away from each blow.

He moved me back to my knees with my ass and thighs the primary targets.

Neither the break or teasing my whore had helped.  After three or four hits, my body instinctively ended up curled in a ball, trying to avoid the Pain.  My frustration and sheer loss of ideas left me frazzled.

Then a pattern emerged in what turned out to be His final round.  He would land a few strikes until my body completely retreated.  The Pain would stop.  He would pet my head for a moment then sink His firm grip into my short platinum hair.  With a calm, gentle, yet persistent pull, He would lead me back to the position He desired on the table.  Two deep breaths while He moved back down the table and His Pain would restart.  Again and again and again He would repeat those steps.  It felt endless, but His patience and Dominance gave me comfort and a direction to follow.

Eventually...finally...my masochist made a brief appearance and took over my body and mind to let my soul be free.  For a few blessed moments, I held still and tasted sweet Pain in that beautiful peaceful bubble she creates.  The ouch stopped though the impact still registered, and I ascended into a silent space of sheer joy and tranquility.

She departed within a few short minutes, and He brought me down soon after, but simply knowing she still existed was reassurance enough.

Over the last week, I've asked myself again and again what I could/should have done differently.  I've asked myself what would have helped.

• Should I have centered more during the day with yoga and meditation?
• Did the stress of the last few weeks, sabotage my masochist's ability to come to the surface?
• Did hormone levels factor in in any way and disrupt my usual chemical response to pain?
• Does my masochist need a stronger more tangible M/s setup before S&m begins?  More...mental D/s foreplay? 
• Why was it so easy to take and process a vicious kiss of a dragon tail crop without the context of play days before than my normal flogger in play?
• Would more verbal communication with Him during play have helped?  Though I couldn't have replied with anything more than "Yes, Sir" and "No, Sir" maybe my partner-centricity holds the key to my masochist.
• I didn't give this to my Sir in real time.  My body of course blatantly gave me away, but I did not know how to explain what was happening within me.  I'd never been in this position.  I kept expecting the pieces to fall back into place.  However, I wonder if some part of me didn't want to fail.  No matter how badly the next impact hurt, I was always fucking grateful that He hadn't brought the scene to a close.

I don't have any answers yet.  However, I understand that my goal to push my masochist further and learn more will naturally have growing pains.  As always, I refuse to sit contentedly in the same place.  Failure (however small) is inevitable when we reach for new heights.  However, quitting is a choice I refuse to make.

Any thoughts, insights, or shared experiences would be appreciated.

~DominaKat