I Don't Like The Pain...

I became a submissive quiet by accident.

I'm 25, and  successful, by the world's standards. I graduated Summa *** Laude. I've managed to rise from an intern to Director of marketing in 21 months. I'm married to a man I adore. I plan to have children, someday. I have my **** together, so to say.

But at some point along the way, my husband and I decided to open our marriage. Not because we were disatisfied with our own sex life, or that we couldn't meet each other's emotional needs, but just because it felt silly to close ourselves to opportunities that arose naturally. It's not that we went seeking sex partners, but we agreed that when we met someone we were attracted to, we would leave ourselves the option to pursue that as we would have if we weren't 'tied down'. In the last 6 months we've each had a few casual encounters, and enjoyed ourselves, but nothing serious or regular has developed.

Until now. The details of how I met my Dom, Kurt, are unnecessary, except to say that it all happened very quickly. We met, 24 hours later we shared our first kiss, and within 48 hours I was his. We've been seeing each other for a few weeks now. There have been mountain top experiences, and valleys. It takes some time, on my part, to negotiate these tricky waters. Kurt, however, is ever-patient. I am not his first, or fifth, submissive. He continues to assure me of his confidence in and affection for me as I figure out how this fits into my life. Well.. how to fit the rest of my life around what I'm quickly discovering is the core of me. I am Submissive.

Yesterday I met Kurt at a hotel in the middle of the work day like I live in a Soap Opera or something. By the time he arrived I was two thirds of the way through a glass of steel aged Chardonnay, on an empty stomach and whatever reservations I'd had, doubts about Kurt, about whether I was ready to 'dial it up to level 4', were chased away the minute he walked in.

Kurt  is all man. He's one of those guys that you notice, even in a crowded room. He takes up space. Not just because of his strong physique; nearly 6 foot, with broad shoulders and biceps the size of tree trunks, but the air itself just seems to ripple around him. As if he owns whatever ground he's walking on, and the space around him and he doesn't give a crap what anyone thinks about that. But despite the imposing build, Kurt's eyes are gentle when they fall on me, sitting at the bar with my legs crossed, my desire probably written all over my face; he never has trouble reading my expression, somehow.

He strides over, that cocky swagger that few men can pull off without looking like jerks, gives me a quick light kiss--Kurt doesn't seem to be a big fan of PDA-- and nods to the bartender, who gestures in return. He takes a seat and removes his ball cap, running the fingers of one hand along his smooth, shaved head and putting the other hand on my leg, as if he owned me as much as that ground beneath his feet.  Maybe he does.

The bartender comes over at some point and Kurt asks for a beer reccommendation. Just as I had asked  the bartender to choose me a Chardonnay. Funny. Don't most people come into a bar with something specific in mind?  Not us, apparently.

We chat, aimlessly, for a while. I don't remember much about the conversation, though it was pleasant as usual, and marked with moments when he would pinch my thigh or my arm, hard,  keeping my eye contact the whole while, daring me to squirm or make an outside indication of the pain. I know I'm not supposed to, and I do my best to carry on conversation as if there's not a bruise currently being made, but I know I need to work on it. Between theatre experience and my general personality, I have trained my face to be as expressive as possible. It's difficult not to show how I feel. It's like trying not to breathe...where thinking about it is actually counter-productive.

The pain itself rarely feels good. A pinched nipple during sex, a lip bitten playfully in a passionate kiss, that's the kind of vanilla pain that almost anyone enjoys. That's not the kind of pain Kurt inflicts on me. A nail digs into my thigh so hard it leaves a red half moon for a few days. A thumb presses, a hand squeezes, a forefinger flicks hard enough  and so repeatedly in the exact same spot to leave a deep purple bruise. Belts, ropes, palms whack hard enough to draw a single drop of blood and a raised welt that paints all the colors of the rainbow across swollen tender skin.

That kind of pain never feels good. Not for me at least. It feels like... pain. It shocks, it makes my cheeks flush, my fingers curl, my back tense, my eyes water. Sometimes a sob escapes if its bad enough.  It's reflex. I dont know if my body will ever be able to take that kind of pain without those natural reactions. I don't know if it's supposed to. ..If I want it to. And it's not just a physical reaction. Mentally, I'm screaming. Thoughts are circling so quickly I can't process all of them, but I know most of them are saying 'I can't do this! I have to stop this!'.

So if it hurts...if my body fights every blow like that, why do I keep coming back for more?

Partly, because of the rush. The instant the pain begin to subside, once I know there won't be another blow for a moment or two, I feel this rush of adrenaline and relief, simultaneously. I feel strong, proud, capable. For every thought that screamed 'just tell him to stop!' there is a point tallied to my mental scoreboard, for making it through. Each time, during the pain, I feel like I've met my limit, that I can't take any more, and each time I make it to the end...I am shocked at my own strength. It's like discovering something new and better about myself, each time. Learning how much more I can take than I would have thought. Realizing how much I under-estimate my own strength. It's an incredible sense of...power.

But that rush, that's only part of it. Maybe less than half. Because when Kurt stops, drops the belt or lowers his palm or fingers, when he wraps himself around me, kissing my softly and murmuring gently, I feel...vulnerable. My tears have drenched my face, my mascara is running, my lipstick is all over the place. My eyes are swollen and puffy. I probably look worse than I can imagine, but  I can't control any of it. I can't hide ANY of it. It hurts, so I cry. I can't HELP but cry. I could no easier escape the meticulous bonds my wrists are in. The tears, the cries, the welts, the shaking, the mascara...it's real. Raw. It's me, exposed, and I don't have to try to look prettier or be smarter or funnier. I don't have to try because it would do me no good at all. I can put on whatever affectations I please before hand, and after,  but when you're in that much pain...when you're really helpless, it's not going to stick. I guess I feel like I am myself in those moments more than I am at any other point, because I have no choice but to be real.

Being held, wrapped in strong arms and hearing words of affirmation, when you're in that state, it's like those words bypass all the filters that would usually be in place, the experiences that make you jaded, all of the things that usually talk me out of believing compliments, they're just skipped over. For a minute.

And even though the walls come right back up, it seems like maybe I feel a little stronger the next day. A little less afraid when my phone rings and it's my boss. A little less sure that the women at the next table in a restaurant are laughing at me when they start giggling and whispering. A little more beautiful when I pull the same old clothes on in the morning. A little more confident that I'm going to get what I need out of a rate negotiation with a vendor in Korea.

It's addicting, that feeling. And it's the reason I'm skipping press conference de-briefings, buying corsets, and telling a guy I just met, and know nothing about, that I love him. And...meaning it.

mrslonelyhearts85 mrslonelyhearts85
22-25, F
3 Responses Mar 1, 2010

Wow. It's like my story, but instead of pain subsitute the bonds. I just wanted to scream out, "Why are you binding me like this? Stop it!" However, something about how he was taking me, controlling me, causing feelings in my through the physical contact that I had no control over made me always come back. <br />
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As someone else stated, I eventually associated the sex and and the bindings with emotions and feelings that were so intense I just couldn't control my need for this. I was strong, independent, and aggressive. Now I am submissive and free.

beautifully expressed. Thank you

mrslonelyhearts85, that was a Great Post!<br />
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The pain is pain at first, and then you might start to associate this feeling to emotions and you'll appreciate the tension and the release. Pain will always be pain but the emotions that come with it will change everything.