So, I may not be a masochist, but I’m definitely going to continue calling myself a switch. For a while I was beginning to wonder.
The past couple of weeks have been difficult ones for me. I felt very distressed and out of control of life. I was in need of some sort of release from my tension — something to break the emotional logjam that I found myself in.
Fortunately, B was more than willing to help me find what I was looking for. Not only is she an experienced bottom, but she also has a good deal of switch to her as well.
We negotiated a few days in advance. She asked for lots of feedback from me: harder, softer, different spot, new toy. I can completely understand that, but at the time I wanted one thing most of all: to be done to, without having to think about it (as much as could be done while still playing safe). I wanted to let go of everything — but B rightfully needed to know how I was handling things. We agreed to compromise as best as we could.
Playtime came. I was definitely in a different mental space than usual. I didn’t want to take any actions. I asked her to undress me first; this is a departure where usually she’s naked, either by my hand or my direction. She thought that this was a bit Dom-like at first, but really it was me just wanting to get into the submissive headspace. She stripped me down, turned me over, and tied my arms and legs to the bed.
It’s amazing how a bit of rope can mean so much. Wearing the rope cuffs feels secure; having them then tied down feels pleasantly restricting. I can describe the reinforcement of the submissive state that it brings me, but there’s something else I feel that’s more nebulous. I really want to explore that further, both as a top and a bottom.
After checking in with me, B started my spanking session. She started off with a slow warmup, knowing that I don’t have the pain tolerance that she does. She asked if I wanted to know what she was using, and I refused, but I recognized the riding crop, wooden spoon, lexan cane, and wooden shoe horn, as well as her bare hands. Each felt different against my skin, but ultimately they came down to one thing: pain.
I generally try to avoid pain. The first time I bottomed with B, I had the option of saying “stop” at any time. I used this as soon as I felt the burning. In my mind, at the time once it started to feel “unpleasant”, there was no point in continuing, so I would ask to stop.
This time was different. I wanted the intense experience. I went in with the intention of not stopping things until it was truly unbearable. I still didn’t know exactly where that was, or how I would react, but I was determined to last longer than before.
I still called out “stop”, but this time B knew to not listen. In addition to “red” as a safeword, we have a number system from one to ten. One means “I barely feel that”; ten means “stop now, scene over.” Nine means “time to stop… but maybe just one more.” (B actually called out a 0.5 after one of my flubbed hits; that immediately earned her a level-eight on the next attempt.)
When she beat me, I would call out “no” and “stop,” expecting and wanting it to continue. It felt good to do so, and I’m not really sure why. I knew full well that I was asking for the pain, and could really stop it at any time — but screaming unheeded negatives still satisfied some sort of inner calling I had.
She took me up the intensity levels one by one. Call out your numbers. When we get to six, then we’ll stop. Are you doing OK? Good, now let’s go to seven. Are you ready to try eight? Time for a break. Now, we’re going to nine. I answered “no” to most of her questions and commands, but we both knew what that meant. Five was pleasant, six was painful, seven hurt a lot, eight was excruciating, and at nine I couldn’t think about anything else.
Sometime around seven was when I started crying.
B talks about how receiving pain lets her be honest. Nobody judges someone who is being beaten that severely, so she can be free to do whatever she needs to in that moment; cry, laugh, scream, swear, beg. Who will criticize you when you’re going through that?
I know what that means now. In the middle of a scene like that you can let go of (almost) all the pretense, expectation, and facade that you carry. And that was something I needed to do.
It’s not an easy thing admitting it. Even past the masculine stereotypes, I don’t like crying or saying that I do. I debated writing about it here. But I want this to be an exploration, and that means peaking into certain places precisely because they are troubling. Once I decide to write, I’m forced to find out what and how, and that can lead me to new things. Like this paragraph, for instance.
When it was over, B asked whether I had enjoyed it, whether I had fun. The best answer I had was “It was what I wanted.” I didn’t like crying; the pain didn’t turn me on. It was not pleasant or happy or anything else normally positive. But I felt much better after than I did before it began. I was relieved. It did what I wanted it to do. And I was very happy for that.