I’m settled on the bus, the familiar repetition of bass, drums and synth that makes up Daft Punk’s Da Funk coursing about me in loud and pounding waves, and drowning out the world – it’s a welcome distraction from the trembling, failing fingertips of emotion and irritability that still grasp my emotional core. A mistake was made, and I know now that I ought to have been more firm with Master. I protested weakly on Thursday evening. I know now that I’ll need to learn to say ‘no’ as opposed it ‘it’s okay, maybe some other time’.
I’d asked to try for subspace. That was my second mistake – assuming that the buzz I’d experienced so long ago was the fabled and romanticized subspace I’d heard so much about. I’d wanted that buzz, that euphoria, that calm and happiness, and asked instead for subspace.
I’m reminded of a tale told during my Spanish classes back in high school, of Mr. D settled around a table during his youth, still on unfamiliar ground with the language, still unsure but trying, and announcing to the table, yo estoy muy embarasado. He’d made a valiant effort, but psudofamiliarity and assumptions led to the announcement of an impending pregnancy, and not the agitation he’d intended. The language of kink is my Spanish. I asked for one thing, under the assumption it was another.
My third mistake was to request a date, and request a date at the end of my weekend. Master, as I have since learned, holds fast to his promises, even against protest. As it happened, vanillas had also mentioned they’d be paying a visit, a visit forgotten in light of other events, and this was met with a momentary curse and a promise that we’d begin as soon as the vanillas had gone home. It was at this point that I began my protest – it’s okay, we could do it another night, I wasn’t upset at all and in truth, considering the passage of time, I was honestly hoping that we would put off the previously scheduled date and try another time, perhaps during the day, or on one of my proverbial ‘Friday’s. But Master holds to his words, and after serving as a fire-cupping example for the vanillas, at the time of their departure, I was instructed to the bedroom, and we began…
I’d stripped and settled upon the floral sheets so unbecoming of Master’s bedroom – the knives, and blindfolds and floggers juxtaposed against the pastel blue. The only bears that ought grace those sheets, I swear, are teddies, and not the hulking behemoth I call Master. I, however, almost fit against them – I admit, I feel small in Master’s presence but never so small as that.
Perhaps it was the new ‘toys’, or the intimidation thereof. Perhaps it was that I knew what was coming or more so that I knew I didn’t. ‘Little one’ he calls me. I had never felt so fitting of that title as then.
Sitting back, I know now, more than ever, the role that emotion and mentality plays in this little game we call kink. Knives frighten me. I’ve cut myself countless times and at countless levels of purpose behind, and every score of flesh and drop of blood has left a scar – I mark more easily than most, a feature both beloved and damned. I scar easily, I welt easily, and I bruise easily. I’m a tiny woman, too, – around five-foot-three and the smallest one in my family – and was raised very much on the premise that everyone is out to hurt me. Knives, especially in the hands of men, terrify me, and there I was, stripped, blindfolded, laying astride Master’s knife and about to hand over all control to a man over a foot taller, over twice my weight, a decade my senior. I was, naturally, absolutely terrified. A large part of me – a very large part of me wanted, then and there, to call red and scramble to my clothing, and rush out the door toward home. I don’t know why I didn’t. Perhaps the knowledge that Master would be at least a little disappointed, perhaps the craving to push past my ingrained mistrust of men, or perhaps the fact that I had been looking forward to my trip past everything I thought I knew and knew I wanted.
The steel was ice-cold against the heated flesh of my rump, and though the dull and flat side of that evil thing was used, it almost felt as though it cut, and my flesh burned behind it more from fright and terror than actual sensation. A few sharp swats with the flat stung. Even now, a good few days later, my mind is swimming again with the terror and sensation. I’m frightened and excited all over again. It barely played into the scene, and yet…
Whether the blade was sheathed or simply tucked to the side I do not know, or do not remember. There was certainly the slice of twine, that much is for sure, as I soon had chopsticks clamped upon my nipples – normally able to put up with a great amount of abuse until, it seems, Master takes over. Tight, they pinched, and brought a flood of sensation, not all of it pleasant, and I became suddenly and acutely aware of my flesh and breasts; this in itself is a wholly new sensation I’ve experienced with Master almost solely.
Pain coursed my being as the makeshift clamps were twisted and their captives teased each in turn. I’m sure I arched my back involuntarily – in truth, almost every movement I made from then on must have been without conscious thought as all I can remember are thoughts and sensations, and the swift and now-familiar flow of pain. I scarce remember Master’s own queries and utterances. I believe I may have been experiencing that rush and buzz quite fresh into the scene for this reason – most is a haze. A haze of sensation and little else.
The rest of the experience is a blur of intense pain, and the realization that ‘yellow’ doesn’t always mean ‘stop for a second’. There were clothespins clipped to places they ought not have been, and every toy of Master’s was exhausted, including me. Three hours, maybe four – I remember the clock ticking over to four AM, and I’m quite sure we started around midnight – three or four hours of the most intense beating I’d experienced, screaming into pillows, biting my lip, yelping until my voice felt hoarse, and twisting and writhing – an act for which I apologised later, as I knew well that Master dislikes beating subs who squirm and writhe and move.
I don’t remember how I got there, but I remember the trip.
Master asked me one of his questions – ‘what is a good colour for a tank?’ was the query of the night. I remember stumbling over my answer, uttering a confused, ‘hunh?’ and grasping blindly for the answer which was blurted out as a distressed and confused ‘pink!…..?’
Master stopped the beating then.
During my training sessions, Master will often ask questions at random intervals just to ensure I’m still cognizant enough to use a safeword. Usually I can answer well. Sometimes it takes a moment. Sometimes he destroys the lovely buzz of pain by asking something that can be answered scientifically, and I curse his name for the next while as my focus is lost. [As an example, most questions are nonsense, but have a definite ‘still there’ as with ‘what’s a good day to cook a bananafish?’; once, I was asked what colour the sky was on Venus – I answered blue, thought, and then snatched my phone to ensure my answer was correct which, I’m sure, had Master quite confused for a moment.
For the record, the sky is blue on Venus, and though I was proud of knowing that off-hand, my entire buzz and high was ruined for the evening.]
That moment, I had hit, or was a hair’s breadth away from subspace. Real subspace. The subspace that causes your brain to shut down and your motor functions to cease, and everything is funny and stupid, especially you. I dislike that feeling. I hate it. I take too much pride in my intelligence and intellect that being rendered unable to colour a tank (or for that matter, put on underwear,) left me feeling put of sorts, useless and incredibly humiliated. I felt ill and nauseous, I felt sick and twisted. I giggled. I felt on the verge of tears. I was ready to laugh, and cry, and crawl into a hole all in one motion. It was strange and surreal and wholly alien. I was drowning, suffocating, and yet I had no desire to open my lungs, to breathe, or save myself.
Given, I had no chance to enjoy, or really experience fully, that bout in subspace – poor timing on my part had me rushing home within the hour, crawling into bed, sleeping for a grand span of two hours, and then heading off to a nine-hour shift at work.
The crash was terrible. Master blames my poor attention to nutrition – lots of trail mix and water, and a package of instant noodles mostly consisting of sugar, salt, MSG and carbs. In hindsight, I’m forced to agree.
I became snippy, angry, ornery. Working a customer service job, I suffered as much as my customers. My prior mention of Fluttershy still remains – I raged much as she as well. That was my fault. When I battle depression, I’ve come to learn to do so on my own. I refused to ask Master for help, and worked three long shifts with little sleep, little food, and little care and attention save for the comforting texts that Master sent me.
I failed miserably. Something a sub ought to rejoice and seek, and somehow, I found it a terrible experience.
I’ll ask Master for another try one of these days. I’ll try anything twice…