By Vikki Bee, Staff Writer, Emerson College
Trigger warning for descriptions of BDSM scene and consensual sexual violence
We were on the train ride back from a kink event when my partner asked me if I wanted to suffer tonight. I must have blushed and looked away; it's always a little harder to maintain eye contact when I'm saying yes. It's easier when I'm filling out his checklist on my laptop, rating my interest in different activities on a scale of one to five. Bondage (light): 5. Caning (light): 4 . Vaginal sex: 4. Anal plugs (large): 2. Ageplay: 5. It's less embarrassing when it's just me and the checklist, but he still needs to ask me before each scene, and I still need to say yes.
He and I are a good fit for one another. He self-identifies as a sadist on Fetlife and I'm a masochist. The great thing about sadists is that they're used to masochists. They know how to hurt us in the ways that don't feel good. They know how to make us hurt, and I'm the kind of masochist that craves that more than a nice, fun spanking.
He asks me again what I'm willing to do when we reach his bedroom. He never has people here who don't know what he's like, so the bondage gear, his dozens of canes, the funnel gag and the spanking bench are out on display. His collection of toys is extensive and impressive; I haven't felt the touch of half of them, and we've been playing for a couple of months at this point. I tell him I'm too tired for anything sexual, but I want to play. I want him to hurt me.
He bends me over the light wooden frame of the spanking bench, and my wrists are bound with velcro cuffs to hooks at the legs of the frame. He leaves my legs free so I can hold myself steady.
“Stick your ass out, and arch your back. There—hold that position. You could probably get free of those cuffs, but I don't think that'd end well for you. Of course, you can safeword at any time—yellow or red.”
“Yes, I understand.” The cuffs are more there for my benefit; I haven't yet learned the kind of endurance and self-control that I would need to take a beating without thrashing around.
“I'm going to be mean to you now,” he says. When he says now, he means now, as soon as I respond. This is how he marks the start of the scene. I'm exposed, no panties on under my skirt. I'm tied down, and he's eager to try out the new toys he bought today. He's slipping into topspace—that place in his head where he can enjoy making me scream and cry and beg. I feel his energy already, with my heart beating fast and fear rising in my throat; my headspace complements his, and I'm in that exhilarating place of anticipating the strike of the cane, trying not to forget to breathe, remembering how impossible it is to feel prepared for this—and wanting it so very badly nonetheless.
Trigger warning for descriptions of BDSM scene and consensual sexual violence
We were on the train ride back from a kink event when my partner asked me if I wanted to suffer tonight. I must have blushed and looked away; it's always a little harder to maintain eye contact when I'm saying yes. It's easier when I'm filling out his checklist on my laptop, rating my interest in different activities on a scale of one to five. Bondage (light): 5. Caning (light): 4 . Vaginal sex: 4. Anal plugs (large): 2. Ageplay: 5. It's less embarrassing when it's just me and the checklist, but he still needs to ask me before each scene, and I still need to say yes.
He and I are a good fit for one another. He self-identifies as a sadist on Fetlife and I'm a masochist. The great thing about sadists is that they're used to masochists. They know how to hurt us in the ways that don't feel good. They know how to make us hurt, and I'm the kind of masochist that craves that more than a nice, fun spanking.
He asks me again what I'm willing to do when we reach his bedroom. He never has people here who don't know what he's like, so the bondage gear, his dozens of canes, the funnel gag and the spanking bench are out on display. His collection of toys is extensive and impressive; I haven't felt the touch of half of them, and we've been playing for a couple of months at this point. I tell him I'm too tired for anything sexual, but I want to play. I want him to hurt me.
He bends me over the light wooden frame of the spanking bench, and my wrists are bound with velcro cuffs to hooks at the legs of the frame. He leaves my legs free so I can hold myself steady.
“Stick your ass out, and arch your back. There—hold that position. You could probably get free of those cuffs, but I don't think that'd end well for you. Of course, you can safeword at any time—yellow or red.”
“Yes, I understand.” The cuffs are more there for my benefit; I haven't yet learned the kind of endurance and self-control that I would need to take a beating without thrashing around.
“I'm going to be mean to you now,” he says. When he says now, he means now, as soon as I respond. This is how he marks the start of the scene. I'm exposed, no panties on under my skirt. I'm tied down, and he's eager to try out the new toys he bought today. He's slipping into topspace—that place in his head where he can enjoy making me scream and cry and beg. I feel his energy already, with my heart beating fast and fear rising in my throat; my headspace complements his, and I'm in that exhilarating place of anticipating the strike of the cane, trying not to forget to breathe, remembering how impossible it is to feel prepared for this—and wanting it so very badly nonetheless.
Still, I need to tell him, “I am perfectly okay with that.”
Crack goes the wood against that tender spot where my ass ends and my thighs begin. I cry out. Hard.
“You think I care?”
“No,” I let out, meekly. This is the first time he's hitting me this hard without a warm-up, and adrenaline courses through me at the unexpected pain. It's always unexpected; it doesn't matter how much we negotiate or how much I mentally prepare. Pain like this is always a surprise.
Crack.
“I'm not doing this because you want it.”
Crack. Crack. Crack. My body shudders and wails, a couple of dry sobs escape my throat, tears begin to fall and I'm sobbing freely.
“You're nothing right now. I hope you know that. You suffer for me. Because it entertains me.”
When he hits me again, I relax more thoroughly into the sobbing. Pain isn't easy, but it's simple. There is a relief that comes with pain, an ease and a restfulness. For a moment, pain is all I need to define myself—a masochist is all I am, under the cane is where I choose to be, and I am defined by my desire to take it. There is security in the assertion, and it is easy to relax into the shame. It is only for a moment, but there is peace in the sting—simple answers to the circling questions I worry about in my day-to-day.
Crack.
The sounds that I make are raw and loud, unconcerned with neighbors or dignity, entirely uncontrolled. I am focused too much on not flinching away, on correcting my posture when my knees crumple, and the noise is how I cope with the hurting.
Crack. Crack.
I scream and my knees buckle, and I let out another sob when I push my ass back out, arch my back again. There must be welts there now.
“Breathe through the pain. It'll help you process,” he reminds me. I'm new to all this, still, and two months of playing once a week is still only a few sessions of beatings, and he is careful to make sure I'm okay. I am all body, too stuck in the experience to feel like his moments of empathy break the flow of the scene. He is still not letting me out, and I will not safeword when I still know I have yet to reach my limits.
I breathe, and then I whimper. Making the pain easier to process doesn't make it hurt any less. The cane is harsh and stingy and tough; it cuts against my skin and sends bright, inescapable hurt blooming out across my body. The helplessness sends sobs shaking through me, and my head hangs low in defeat.
“You like this. Don't pretend like you don't; look at how wet you are.”
My masochism is wetness dripping from my cunt while tears fall down my face. My masochism is addiction to the helplessness and fear. My masochism is the smile on my face after a spanking and the panting in my chest as the nipple clamps come off. My masochism is wanting to be cut down to nothing before he builds me back up in his arms. My masochism is wanting to feel what it's like to be terrified and trapped, to face the brutal reality of physical and emotional suffering, to know that even if he holds the cane, I'm doing this to myself.
This is something I can't explain to people who don't already understand—I am not a masochist because I feel pleasure when I feel pain. Pain may be a turn-on to my body, but it still hurts, it still makes me scream, it still makes me scared and weak and helpless. I am a masochist because I want to feel the simple agony of pain, physical and mental—to bear the unbearable and to come back for more.
When he starts to build me back up, there are still tears on my face, and I still shudder from the sensation and the sobs. He asks how I am feeling. He asks me how I feel about the things he said to me. He asks me if I felt like I needed to say yellow or red at any point during the scene. He holds me close and makes me safe as I reassure him that I'm happy, that this is what I want, that he isn't a monster for wanting this with me.
The things we do are risky and I am not the only one who feels fear. He risks accidentally hurting me in ways I don't want, in ways that will last, in ways that will have consequences. I risk misjudging myself, not reading my own body's signals, getting lost so deep in my headspace that I cannot communicate with him any longer. We both risk our minds and our bodies, the vulnerable parts of ourselves that are dark and scary and that not everyone will understand. We feel lucky to fit together so well. We feel lucky to be able to trust one another. We feel lucky that we are both safe in our mutual warmth, recuperating under the covers. We stay that way for a long time, curled up around each other, feeling and talking and breathing in that rare space I feel like I can rest.
Vikki B. is the kind of awesome person you totally want to have at parties. She's a pole-dancing, hoop-spinning, cloud-staring writing machine who won't take shit from any of the creepy dudes in Allston, but who still won't post her full name for fear of Conservative Russian Dad Googling her. When she's not doing this, she works at her local sex shop and extols the virtues of cold-brew iced tea.
Crack goes the wood against that tender spot where my ass ends and my thighs begin. I cry out. Hard.
“You think I care?”
“No,” I let out, meekly. This is the first time he's hitting me this hard without a warm-up, and adrenaline courses through me at the unexpected pain. It's always unexpected; it doesn't matter how much we negotiate or how much I mentally prepare. Pain like this is always a surprise.
Crack.
“I'm not doing this because you want it.”
Crack. Crack. Crack. My body shudders and wails, a couple of dry sobs escape my throat, tears begin to fall and I'm sobbing freely.
“You're nothing right now. I hope you know that. You suffer for me. Because it entertains me.”
When he hits me again, I relax more thoroughly into the sobbing. Pain isn't easy, but it's simple. There is a relief that comes with pain, an ease and a restfulness. For a moment, pain is all I need to define myself—a masochist is all I am, under the cane is where I choose to be, and I am defined by my desire to take it. There is security in the assertion, and it is easy to relax into the shame. It is only for a moment, but there is peace in the sting—simple answers to the circling questions I worry about in my day-to-day.
Crack.
The sounds that I make are raw and loud, unconcerned with neighbors or dignity, entirely uncontrolled. I am focused too much on not flinching away, on correcting my posture when my knees crumple, and the noise is how I cope with the hurting.
Crack. Crack.
I scream and my knees buckle, and I let out another sob when I push my ass back out, arch my back again. There must be welts there now.
“Breathe through the pain. It'll help you process,” he reminds me. I'm new to all this, still, and two months of playing once a week is still only a few sessions of beatings, and he is careful to make sure I'm okay. I am all body, too stuck in the experience to feel like his moments of empathy break the flow of the scene. He is still not letting me out, and I will not safeword when I still know I have yet to reach my limits.
I breathe, and then I whimper. Making the pain easier to process doesn't make it hurt any less. The cane is harsh and stingy and tough; it cuts against my skin and sends bright, inescapable hurt blooming out across my body. The helplessness sends sobs shaking through me, and my head hangs low in defeat.
“You like this. Don't pretend like you don't; look at how wet you are.”
My masochism is wetness dripping from my cunt while tears fall down my face. My masochism is addiction to the helplessness and fear. My masochism is the smile on my face after a spanking and the panting in my chest as the nipple clamps come off. My masochism is wanting to be cut down to nothing before he builds me back up in his arms. My masochism is wanting to feel what it's like to be terrified and trapped, to face the brutal reality of physical and emotional suffering, to know that even if he holds the cane, I'm doing this to myself.
This is something I can't explain to people who don't already understand—I am not a masochist because I feel pleasure when I feel pain. Pain may be a turn-on to my body, but it still hurts, it still makes me scream, it still makes me scared and weak and helpless. I am a masochist because I want to feel the simple agony of pain, physical and mental—to bear the unbearable and to come back for more.
When he starts to build me back up, there are still tears on my face, and I still shudder from the sensation and the sobs. He asks how I am feeling. He asks me how I feel about the things he said to me. He asks me if I felt like I needed to say yellow or red at any point during the scene. He holds me close and makes me safe as I reassure him that I'm happy, that this is what I want, that he isn't a monster for wanting this with me.
The things we do are risky and I am not the only one who feels fear. He risks accidentally hurting me in ways I don't want, in ways that will last, in ways that will have consequences. I risk misjudging myself, not reading my own body's signals, getting lost so deep in my headspace that I cannot communicate with him any longer. We both risk our minds and our bodies, the vulnerable parts of ourselves that are dark and scary and that not everyone will understand. We feel lucky to fit together so well. We feel lucky to be able to trust one another. We feel lucky that we are both safe in our mutual warmth, recuperating under the covers. We stay that way for a long time, curled up around each other, feeling and talking and breathing in that rare space I feel like I can rest.
Vikki B. is the kind of awesome person you totally want to have at parties. She's a pole-dancing, hoop-spinning, cloud-staring writing machine who won't take shit from any of the creepy dudes in Allston, but who still won't post her full name for fear of Conservative Russian Dad Googling her. When she's not doing this, she works at her local sex shop and extols the virtues of cold-brew iced tea.