It’s a Crying Shame
December 2nd, 2009
Some months ago, I wanted to cry and I was ashamed of that desire. Not just cry, I wanted to be Made to cry. I wanted to be pushed so hard that tears came bursting forth in and uncontrollable fury. But I was afraid. I was afraid that this was a ridiculous desire. That it was childish to want to cry for no particular reason. That wanting the release and cleansing of flowing tears was simply weakness. I was afraid that it would change things, too, with whoever made me cry. I had never gone there before and it looked terribly dark. I did not want that unknowable change in my marriage, and that was a difficult decision and a difficult discussion. My lover, more experienced than either myself or my husband, became the giver of those tears. It was the release I needed at the time, and nothing was changed or broken in the giving.
Since then, my edges and the darkness have been moved and pushed and shoved. Tears are no longer shameful to me, but they still have a specific place in my play. There is still darkness when I think of bringing them into my home. The tenderness and love between my husband and myself seems incompatible to a tearful scene.
My lover, more often than not, gets the tears through fear these days. Threats of freshly remembered intense pain or of heightening the current level of pain can drive me over the edge. (Nipple clamps of various varieties are usually present in these threats.) Tearfully begging for mercy or for the pain to stop. Sometimes he grants it, and sometimes not, driving me further into tears or into complete surrender where the tears stop and soft stillness comes.
My other partner has only brought out tears twice. Both were corporal scenes, but they had a heavy mental elements that had more to do with the tearful response. In both situations, expectations were set, and tears came when I failed to meet those expectations. The pain levels were high, but it was the mental game that was more costly.
In the first, I was given a task, an object that was not to be dropped. It fell twice and tears fell swiftly behind it, but were gone again when he gave me another chance after a few choice strikes for the drop. It was an incredibly intense scene, the tears just one more spice in the delicious flavor.
The second, was a flogging scene set to music, and the final song came on, and he said he would flog the whole song at the same tempo and strength. I soon began to falter under the heavy strikes, and tears welled up as I thought I would not make the entire song. As I fell down and stood back up several times, his strikes never missed. Tears were flowing freely as I fell the final time, turning slightly towards him, but my back still raised to accept his strikes. He stopped then, accepting my surrender and my tears. His acceptance washed away my tearful disappointment in myself, and I smiled when he said I would do better next time.
Suffering
September 2nd, 2009
Some days, I suffer to please him. Some days, his darkness needs fed. Even in that darkness, he needs reassurance. Needs to know that it isn’t driving me away. In that darkness, I know that he still loves me, that he is still in control, that ultimately, I am safe. We reassure each other. Exchange I love you’s between begging and denials. This only makes it hotter. Tied down, aching, hurting with every motion, wanting only release from my bonds, coming to tears, thrashing, begging, falling into stillness. Yet, still able to express love, and to acknowledge his.
I know that I can end the scene, I know that Red will be heard and honored, but I hang on, pushing myself as much as he pushes me. I beg him to stop, I beg for freedom, and his passion flares ever higher, fueled by my suffering. My mind begs me to call Red, I deny it as he denies me. It curses me and bargains, and I agree, nipple clamps would be too far tonight. He threatens them, but does not follow through, my fear is pleasing enough.
It is a very tricky line, I grow angry, my teeth so close to his arm, his shoulder. It becomes hard not to bite. Then the pain overwhelms me again, and I fall to stillness, anything to please him to satisfy him, so he will stop. He enjoys the stillness, but wants more, the threats come again and I grow desperate, begging, fucking harder, and the pain intensifies. The cycle continues until I can bear it no more.
I think he is done, he seems more satisfied than other points in the scene, and I cannot take more. Thank you, Sir, Please. He pauses, asks me to repeat. Thank you, Sir, Please. Gratitude our Yellow. I need a break, but I am not calling Red if he is not done. He releases me, slowly, as I whimper, soft kisses on abused joints, rubbing the rope marks.
Then we curl up together, tightly spooning, breathing, loving. We need to get out of bed, set an alarm, clean up, but not yet. We hold tight moments longer, both needing the tenderness of touch after the darkness of the scene. He asks me how it was, but I cannot answer yet, my emotions still riding the roller coaster, the earlier scene was awesome, I say, wanting to reassure him, ask me tomorrow about this one.
A difficult scene for me, but still full of our love, and that makes it wonderful.