When he asked me what I wanted, as my reward for winning the game, I think he expected me to demand pleasure. Orgasms, delivered by hand and vibrator, or his wet lips wrapped round my nipples. Maybe a good, hard fuck bent over the sofa. Instead I asked him for pain. “Whip me,” I told him.
Note, this post makes references to That Fucking Virus and These Weird Times.
“If I win, I want you to whip me. Take the flogger out of the cupboard and beat me until I squirm and squeal.”
He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. To him, pain is not pleasure. He’d have asked for blow jobs and nipple play and intense fucking – the things which bring sexy shivers and orgasmic moans and spunk volcanoes. But he is not me, and I am not him.
Now is not then.
I needed something more intense. I wanted to bite my lip and tense my muscles – feel the burning sting of the flogger on my arse, and the heat spreading as he lay one stroke on top of the other, whipping me till I was sore and tired and happy. I wanted the fuck to be something that distracted me – harsh and vicious enough to turn my brain away from other matters.
I wanted to yelp.
Sometimes I need to do this: remind him that our needs are different. Instead of expecting him to remember, I have to beg him for the pain and spanking and debasement that my body craves. When he retreats too far into his own head, he imagines we’re one and the same. He mistakenly believes it’s as easy for me as it is for him to disappear into pleasurable oblivion, so if I’m looking for distractions I need cuddles and coming and comfort. He forgets that what he wants and what I want are sometimes radically different.
No more so than now, when we’re trapped together alone: I need to remind him that we aren’t the same. Remind me, too.
If I want to take my mind off the world, sometimes I need a beating.
He sat on a beanbag in the middle of the living room floor and ordered me over his knee – over the knee being the greatest way to get spanked if you also want to feel someone’s steadily-twitching erection digging into your hip. I stripped from the waist down and positioned myself – back arched and bum in the air, for the first sharp smacks to fall on my naked skin.
Sometimes he does this thing where he holds off on hitting me until I start to lose hope. He touches me all over – fingers roaming into the folds of my cunt, and big hands parting the flesh of my cheeks so he can dip fingers inside me and call me a filthy girl. I bury my head in my arms and try not to shriek with frustration: “beat me, you fucker! Hurt me! What the actual fuck are you fucking waiting for?”
I sense my impatience might somewhat kill the mood: his hard cock pulsing against my hip, the cold air on my naked arse, and every muscle in my body tense for when that first blow lands. In that moment I am all anticipation. No hopes, no worries, no sadness, no joy, no memory of the horror that’s happening outside these four walls. I’m nothing but a semi-naked quiver of impatience.
Then he strikes.
And it explodes through my skin, radiating outward like the way my flesh ripples out from the palm of his hand. The electric, burning tingle flickers through my body and towards my brain, turning off the part that’s dedicated to worry and panic.
Another stroke, another nudge further away from the things I don’t want to think about.
It is not that the whole world melts away. The world is still there. The world still exists. All this nothing keeps happening, and it’ll continue to happen for a very long time. It’s just that now I don’t need to care: now all I need to do is focus on not wriggling. Make sure I am bent over and exposed ready for the meat of his hand and, eventually, the sting of the whip.
When he decides I’ve been warmed up enough, he lifts it above his shoulder, and I can hear the swish of the leather. It’s a nice change from the eerie silence of the streets of London which seems to echo against windows which previously rattled at passing buses and local fights.
Don’t think about it.
When he brings the whip down, the swish/crack hammers through my brain again, yanking me back to the present moment. Focusing me solely on right now instead of what will happen tomorrow or the next day or next week or by the middle of June.
I don’t think he understands this – the abandon and indulgence of being beaten into submission. He does it because I ask him to, because it was my reward for winning the game. He doesn’t understand that it’s also my distraction – that when everything gets too much, a wank will only go so far to take my mind off it. Orgasms can come in an intense and distracting rush, but once the waves have crashed I am dumped straight back into reality, like a cold-shock bucket of water after stepping out of a sauna.
But with the pain? And his hands? And the burning tingle of the whip? Embracing masochism, I can ride the waves of pain for far, far longer. I can sit and feel it coursing through me for the rest of the night. And that pain brings the pleasure of forgetting.
He came all over me that night – great thick ropes of spunk splattered over my back and thighs and feet, as I bent over the sofa with a red, raw arse, getting fucked to help him forget too.
Within these four walls, it feels like we’re the same. Never more so than now, when we’re trapped together, and our daily lives look so similar. When I retreat too far into my own head, I imagine we’re one and the same. I forget that what he wants and what I want are sometimes radically different. I need to remember that we both need different things, that it’s OK to ask for the things I need (whip me), as it’s fine to expect that some needs can’t be fulfilled right now.
We are not the same person, and we never were. I am not him and he is not me and today is a long way from yesterday.