This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt was “Sad”. Ah, hell, I thought, I’ll give you some sad.
There’s the lingering, self-possessed sad of the loss of W. This month – tomorrow, in fact – is the Big Sad™, and there’s just no escaping it. It’s wound down though, to something that is almost…soft…padded…just below the surface; only occasionally startling me by rising up and sinking its fangs into me when I least expect it. It’s a sad I live with now; have accepted as a price of being me; have made peace with, at last.
There’s the sad of recognizing – and accepting – changes in myself, as I age, as my body changes, as I face my own mortality, and that of my loved ones.
There’s the sad of lost opportunities and missed chances, and of poorly made choices.
There’s the sad of a broken heart, of a broken relationship; of harsh words and anger, and knowing that the longer it festers, the more broken it gets, and the harder it will be to mend. That…maybe…it’s beyond mending.
Of course I missed the Wednesday deadline for Wicked Wednesday. Because fucking hell, can I ever make a deadline?
And then I realized (tonight, sitting at the computer trying to work up a wireframe for my school project) that instead, what I wanted to write about was something that pulls me out of the sad. Maybe that’s why I missed the deadline?
Sceneing, when it’s good, requires me to be acutely in the present. To be there, in that moment, not reliving the old pain, not lingering in the old resentments, the old hurts. Sometimes, of course, I can’t pull myself out of that place, and the scene becomes only physical sensation, and doesn’t give me the mental and emotional release I seek. But even that is worthwhile. It’s one of the reasons I do what I do (besides fucking hot sex.) (Yes, okay, I use BDSM as a form of therapy. Bite me if you object – this is my life.) Anyway, this was not one of those “physical only” times.
There we were. It was a night out, when we didn’t have to be back to relieve the sitter, and he was staying over at my place that night, so an extra special treat. There was a play party that night at a local group’s playspace, and V wanted to attend, because, as he said, he had a rope scene in mind. I was curious and excited and nervous. My body is not the ropeslut’s body that it used to be. Could I do what he wanted? Would my body cooperate?
Would it be a rope-pain scene, in which he binds me and causes me pain simply by manipulating the rope on me?
I say “simply” but it’s anything but simple. It is concise, and measured, and brutal, and exquisitely painful in a way that doesn’t translate to physical pleasure of any sort for me. But there is a grim kind of pleasure in it, because he has caused it. Because of the way he looks at me while he does it, with a fierce intensity that is yet detached, as though considering, tasting on his lips, the essence of the pain he is inflicting on me, pain that he knows I don’t actually like in that weird love/hate way that so many bottoms experience. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once and touches in a way that it’s hard to articulate how it makes me feel, or why. I just know, after it’s done, I both fear and desire it again.
Or maybe it would be a suspension, something that I am less enthusiastic about because, honestly, I find them kind of boring. I want pain – usually impact – and suspensions don’t often offer that. I want, more than anything, for him to do things to me, to hurt me, to not back off. I need that release. And, of course in the back of my mind, always, is my fear that I just won’t be able to do it. That I’m not strong enough, not young enough, not enough. That I will fail, be an embarrassment to him.
We’re there, and surprisingly, there aren’t many others. I love an audience, but since W, I always feel unsure of playing with rope in front of people. Because of who I used to be, and who I am now. As I mentioned above, I don’t want to be…found wanting. To fail. So I am maybe a little happy not to have a built-in audience. I do so want to do this with him, to explore this place that is both old and new. This place that is – tho I had played in rope for so many years with others – so deeply ours alone. Who I am in rope with him is someone his alone. I feel that settle inside me, pooling in my belly, deeper, into the root of me, as I watch him make ready. There is an intimacy there, even in that pseudo-public space. As I stand there beneath the frame where we will play, as he attaches the steel ring and throws out his rope, as it snakes through his hand and coils at his feet, I’m drawn out of the worries and concerns and sad in my head.
I am drawn into the circle of him and me.
He begins with a chest harness. The rope tight, but not punishing. He is careful with tying back my hands – I am still unable to manage a box tie with my left shoulder, and he is careful with the tie, without being so lenient that I could fight my way out of it. Not that I would…
Well okay, yeah I might.
I do, sometimes.
There is a strange dichotomy. I allow myself to be tied willingly. Revel in it, really, feeling the rope pass across and around and over my skin, and as it does sinking deeper and deeper in a sweet, contemplative reverie, one that includes his touch, he taste, his smell, but also envelopes me in a cocoon, a soft web that binds me lovingly and holds this space for me alone, that buffers me from both his presence and everyone else’s. It is a safe space. But then, once things start, I am just as likely to fight against the rope, against the submission that allowed me to be placed in the rope, to be bound in this way. And that, too, is glorious – to fight and not win, my submission now forced upon me. (Even now, writing this, my breath quickens, my heart races. My pussy, that traitorous bitch, twitches.)
This night, as he passes the rope around and around a thigh, lifts my leg, stands me on tip-toe, I am still not sure of his intentions. Until he begins the wraps on my other ankle, and then I know he will make me fly.
I am snapped out of that drowsy somnolence I have floated into…I am fearful…anxious. My eyes catch his. I do not speak, because I can’t? Or because there are no words. I want, desperately, what he wants. I want to submit. I fear…failure. There is a moment, when our eyes meet, a breath…
And then he pulls on the ropes, and I am up.
Held high by the ropes at my chest and thigh, and, peripherally, my ankle. I gasp, I shift, I focus on the pain points to see if they are manageable.
They are. I move tentatively in my bindings.
And I am in my own space, he is not there, the others in the dungeon are not there – is there music or sound? I don’t know. I feel every tendon, every muscle, every skin cell in my body. It is…a call and and an answer, my body to me…a question and an acknowledgement. I feel the rope, sharp, biting; I feel…my body easing into it. I am encased. Embalmed. Alone there in my cocoon. Safe.
The first strike of…something. What? I don’t know. A cane of some sort. My reverie is shattered. My world bursts into a white hot score of pain on my thigh.
I gasp. Twist. Meet his challenging gaze.
And suddenly, it is no longer a solo flight, it is a dogfight. Me against him – tho we are both on the same side.
He strikes, over and over. The pain blooms and recedes, lightening strikes of white heat that I arch against and into. And I discover movement. Movement within the rope, pulling and arching against the lines, with the lines, sending me into curls and the flight of birds; ballet in mid air. I gasp and pant and twist and want to scream in pain an ecstasy. I can’t say, now, if I do either.
And this…it is such a strange place to be. Because he and I, we are inextricably connected, by this rope, by his will, by my submission…and yet we are deeply divided: he outside this space I find myself in, only connected via sharp instances of pain, like bombing strikes that he wreaks upon me.
Later – my vanity likes to think of it as much later, tho it may only have been minutes – I beg to be taken down. I am close to passing out. I am an experienced enough rope bottom to know the signs, and to call it with enough time for him to bring me down without having to resort to cutting rope. Which he does.
Honestly? I don’t remember anything about the after. I was up, and then I wasn’t. And then…some time after…apparently I asked for it…I was standing against a cross with the instructions to hold my Baldy on my clit until I came.
While he single-tailed me. Apparently, I asked for this, which I do, vaguely, remember doing.
And oh my god, the sweet purity of his whips on my flesh, the groundedness of it, the direct communication between his hand, through the whip, to my body. I bucked against the Hitachi, screamed against the pain, savored and hated and loved and begged for every bit of it.
And yes, finally, I came, crumpling to my knees as it crashed over me and through me and lay waste to me.