Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

Sometimes words are limits.

They can sting like barbs or sit like lead weights upon the tongue - foul and heavy.

They can stick to the weakened places in your soul and burn like acid or lodge in the back of your throat like bile.

Words can hurt, and words can be too difficult to say.

Growing up, I had a hard time with my peers. I was too different, too smart, to unwilling to conform, and because of these things I suffered a lot of verbal abuse. I suspect that there are things that could be said to me in scene that I would find it difficult to forgive, because they would remind me too much of being powerless … and I am not powerless anymore. They have not come up, and I will not say them here, but everyone has their buttons that should not be pressed.

Other words, which I could take as demeaning, I instead use to empower my sexuality. “Slut” “Cunt” “Pervert” “Toy” are all terms that I take, at least in the right context, as endearment and encouragement. If I want to be someone’s whore, I can hardly take them calling me one as an insult. The things no one should say to me are not things I ever wish to be.

Then there are the other words, the words that people want to hear that you never thought would pass willingly from your lips. The words that roll your eyes, turn your stomach, and taste like knives in your imagination. The ones that come out as spit and venom in your stories and are inconceivable in your life. The ones you tell yourself you will never say, until the day they’re offered to you as a choice and you discover it’s one you actually want to make.

They’re still heavy, they still hurt to say, they still stick in your throat and make you gag, but suddenly it’s in a way that makes you heat with passion instead of anger. When you choke on them, and gasp for air, it’s more like having a cock down your throat than a finger, and the discomfort you feel in your head and chest is the kind that doesn’t make you go… it makes you come.

–
And, with that, I will climb off the hyperbole wagon and admit that it’s excruciatingly difficult to talk about the things that you’re not willing to say.

Not so long ago, my main dominant partner told me to do something that, had you asked me in advance, I would have said was:

1. a hard limit
2. massively squicky
3. not hot in the least

In the moment, however, I did it without question, because he said to, and it blew my mind.

I feel like I should find this problematic, but I don’t. Even though the act in question is still rather squicky in retrospect, I’m not actually bothered by the fact that I did it. In fact, I find it rather insanely hot that, in the moment, I just did what he told me too, and I’m reasonably certain that had it been something that was going to bother me upon sober reflection I wouldn’t have… but I’m only reasonably certain.

This, then, is where my intellectual and emotional responses to submission take a divergent course.

• There is a voice inside my head that  keeps telling me that I should be disturbed by the fact that I not only can give up enough of my control to someone else that I will do things I find instinctively objectionable without even thinking about them  but that I enjoy doing so.
• There is a separate, and much louder, voice that is thrilled to have found a situation in which, and a person to whom,  it feels so safe to thoroughly give up the control that I normally grasp so tightly in my tension filled hands.

Time out of mind is one of the things I most value about submission. It is not something I find easily, and once I get past the difficulty of letting go of thought, giving up control, freeing myself from the usually overpowering constants of analysis and worry, it can be exhilarating, quiet, peaceful, erotic, terrifying, comforting…. or all of the above. To unquestionably do this thing was, in some ways, a proof to me of how much I had given - how much I had let go. That was a good portion of the reason why I found it so hot.

With the partner in question, I’ve noticed that I  tend to say “yes” these days  before the question is even asked, and it is sincere. This largely feels safe because I honestly do not expect him to ask anything I’m truly unwilling to give. Realistically speaking, however, that instinctive and preemptive “yes” actually worries me more than the acting without thinking, because I know that there is every possibility that he could ask for something I am not willing to agree to… and I would hate to renege on my word.

I suppose that’s where I have to, and do, trust in the balance - that he knows me well enough to not try and take me places to which I can not in good conscience travel, and that if he does I will be able to say “no.” This is a trust that has to go both ways, because if I did not choose these things willingly; if I came out of an activity feeling I had been coerced; if I did not like them so very, very much; or if I was unwilling or unable to stop a scene that was going badly wrong, I could, as he is so fond of joking, press charges. The risk for him is low as long as I can, and do, say “no” when I need to, but some of the pleasure for, I believe, both of us, is in the expectation of acquiescence. The alternative would be giving up the simple joy I take in giving him the ability to take me, and I like the feeling that he has blanket permission (within the boundaries of previously expressed limits) to take anything he wants… even though I know intellectually that it isn’t true.

That idea of blanket permission  is a fantasy that I get to live in by giving more than is easy and more than is comfortable and sometimes by giving more than the things I would choose. I think it would be naive to believe that it is a fantasy in which my partner can fully share, since even though our desires in these areas are quite well aligned I know he must have to moderate the things he asks for and the things he takes… if by nothing else than in their timing.

I often think that it must be a very frightening thing to be an ethical dominant sadist, to enjoy controlling and hurting people while worrying about doing physical or emotional harm. To, in particular, enjoy controlling and hurting people who you care about, who you don’t want to damage or drive away. To sometimes actively choose to do what you want regardless of whether or not it’s something your partner would choose for themselves or even like*. To constantly have to worry about consent.

It’s easier, I think, from the bottom - where I can take a perverse sort of pleasure in choosing not to safeword and letting him beat me until I bleed…  even as I am sincerely begging him to stop.  Where I can be constantly surprised by how much I enjoy it when he doesn’t… because it is a visceral reminder that much of how I find pleasure in submission is in giving someone else what they want rather than in getting to live out a particular fantasy, experience, or dream.

–
_{*And even writing that, I doubt that my feelings on these matters are ever not a consideration. They may not be the driving one, but I suspect they are usually at least subconsciously weighed - thus the ethical part of the formulation.}

–

EDIT: Because it came up in a discussion of this post on another site, I should say that the !squick  in question had NEVER been discussed as a limit.  In the middle of a scene is not when you renegotiate boundaries, and if that had been what was going on I would have been livid.

(A long overdue distraction.)

“Does it bother you,” I asked as I took off my clothes, “that I’m just using you for sex?”

“Not particularly,” he smirked, “although I rather think it’s more a matter of me using you.”

“Potato, potahto. ” I folded my clothes and put them on the chair by the bed, “Because for me it’s all about…”

He smacked me hard across the face, making me gasp and then grit my teeth to finish the sentence, “getting exactly what I want.”

I gathered myself together, looked him straight in the eye, and challenged him, “Do it again.”

“You’re in a mood today,” he told me, a glint in his eye, as he ran his fingers across my jaw line, the touch making me press my cheek against his hand.

“Me?” I quipped, “In a mood?”

He raised an eyebrow and smacked me again gently, fisting his other hand in my hair to keep my head still.

“Mmm.” I purred happily, holding his eyes with mine. “No, if I were in a _mood_ I’d say that you hit like a girl.”

“Really?” he asked tapping his fingers against my slowly reddening cheek, “That’s really what you’d say?”

He backed me up until I was against the bed, and then pushed me down onto it and climbed up so that he was kneeling above me.

“How about this, then,” I asked, feeling my eyes going dark and the space between my legs growing wet. “Do it again, please. Harder.”

“Well…” His eyes began to gleam, “if you’re going to ask so nicely,” and he smacked me again.

“That’s what I like about you,” I said, breathing harder. “You’re so obliging.”

He fisted his hands harder in my hair, pulling my head back and making me close my eyes and gasp.

“You say the nicest things,” he said, and as he his hands from my hair I heard the sound of a zipper opening and felt his weight leave me as he removed his pants. “Now let’s see what else you can do with that mouth of yours.”

It was an awkward angle for cock sucking, but you can do anything if you’re motivated, and I certainly was, both by my own desires and by his hands at the back of my head moving me into position or holding me still so that he could fuck my throat.

I love sucking cock. It’s so delightfully undignified, and I gasped and choked on my own saliva as he used my mouth the way he wanted to, moaning my own desire around him.

When he pulled out of my mouth I made a sad little sound of disappointment.

“What was that?” he asked, pushing me back down when I tried to sit up and follow him.

I whimpered up at him wordlessly, trying to figure out what I was supposed to be answering, but as usual having sex with him had turned me into a puddle of incoherent need.

“Disappointed, are you?” he asked, his hand traveling down by body to grab between my legs and make me simultaneously scream and moan. “You don’t want me to fuck you?”

I shook my head, hard, in negation, and said quietly, “Please.”

“Please what?” he said, his hand alternating between causing me pleasure and pain.

“Please fuck me,” I writhed under him.

“Beg,” he demanded as he positioned himself above me and waited.

“Please.” I whimpered, “Please fuck me. Please use me. I love the way you fuck me. Please. Please. I want you inside me, please,” and I gasped as he finally, slowly pushed himself in.

It felt incredible. It always feels incredible, and then he found the angle that pushes him deep against my cervix and makes me writhe in pain.

“Oh god,” I whimpered, as he did it again, simultaneously loving it and wanting to push him away, holding his arms as though I could somehow keep him from hurting me so deeply inside but at the same time not wanting him to stop.

“Yes,” I gasped.

I forced myself to open my eyes and give him both my pain and my desire. It was hard to keep from closing them, but I love the look in his eyes when he hurts me. The fact that it’s a turn on to him to make me ache, make me scream, is insanely erotic. I often feel somewhat selfish as a submissive, and a masochist, just wanting to be hurt and used, so to see in someone’s eyes that hurting me works for them is a powerful drug.

He put his hand over my nose and mouth and took away my air as he continued to push himself inside of me. As always, the action made me go completely still – a combination of fear and submission, my body’s way of saying “Yes. Anything. You have the power over me. Show me. Use me,” and the focus it gave me was incredible. For long seconds, my world was nothing but fear, sex, and the look in his eyes that said he knew exactly how much power he had over me and how much he wanted to use it, nothing but long moments of sensation and terror and wondering if I’d tap out or surrender to my desire to let him do whatever he wanted, even unto insanity.

I tapped out, and gasped for air as he continued to fuck me. It was still so good, but I wanted that look back, that feeling of utter and complete control. I wanted him to fuck me the way he wanted to, and not care about me as anything other than a vehicle for his pleasure, a toy to be used exactly the way he wished. I wanted to give him everything that he wanted and keep nothing for myself. I wanted to put my life in his hands*.

Finally, as I stopped gulping in oxygen as though it were water, I looked him in the eyes and in terror and acceptance told him, “Do it again,” and he came inside me just as I was reaching the point where I had to decide whether to give up or let go. He held his hand there for a few seconds more, reveling in the moment of pure power, before collapsing down on top of me and letting me breathe.

I lay underneath him and made happily burbling noises until my brain slowly began to function again.

“You were right.” I said, as he snuggled me closer.

“Hmm?” he replied.

“It should have been , ‘do you mind that I’m using you to use me for sex?’” I mumbled contentedly and then, after he stopped biting me as silent commentary, slowly drifted off to sleep.

–

_{* I must admit I creep myself out writing stuff like this, but there’s an edge there that is both terrifying and intoxicating. It’s the control, and the feeling that both of us wonder, just a little bit, about taking it too far. I have these fantasies about being fucked with a blade to my throat, by someone who’s as into knives as I am, and I think about walking that line. I think about what it would feel like if the control slipped, and then I have to slip off to my room to touch myself with cold steel and hot thoughts of blood, danger, and sex.}