You cannot punish a masochist

This is a diminutive glimpse into my thoughts on (my)masochism, and punishment dynamics


“You cannot physically punish a masochist”

It’s a blanket statement full of holes where threads have snagged and pulled on emotions drenched in shame.

Where tears fall as realisation dawns
I’ve disappointed him.

Pain tolerance has no bearing now, a moot point soaked with remorse.
The masochist, with understanding and respect, leaves, this isn’t her time.

The submissive sits, throat dry, eyes wet, knowing retribution will be narrated onto her skin. The number doesn’t matter, the number isn’t the point, yet counting out reparation as each blow falls heals the rift, penance is given a voice.

Physical pain is the conduit through which shame is filtered, as punishment becomes healing, stripes earned through misdeed tell the story of attrition.

Tears fall before first contact, continuing long after, drenching raw, heaving sobs, atonement offered humbly at His feet.

Redemption can be found in the welts adorning supplicant flesh, 10 strokes indescribably more painful than 100 for fun ever would be.






I’m terrified to go to sleep tonight, the prospect of more nightmares, more flash backs and panic attacks is too much for me to bear.
So I’m here, purging, instead.


It’s at times like this, when fear drives my actions, that I turn to D/s for comfort, and guidance. He isn’t here tonight, but if He were I know I’d be safe, even if a nightmare found me.

So I imagine that, I imagine His presence, His warmth, His arms around me, soothing me as only He can.
Tonight, He is my protector.

This is what day to day D/s looks like to me.

When He asks me to endure, for Him, He coaches me through it, despite the sadist leading the way.
Tonight, He isn’t asking me to endure, but endure I must, so instead I seek His guidance, I conjure up the words I know He’d say, I can feel His hand resting on my cheek, Him telling me to look at Him as He leads me through the ordeal.

Tonight, this is how I’ll find my way.

To my collar my hand strays, finding purchase on the warm, steel links. I feel it’s solidity, it’s invulnerability, the power infused within the sybolism.
To each wave of terror I assign something tangible;a cane stroke, the bite of the flogger, a coiled length of rope leaving cruel welts on my skin.
Masochism becomes the key to my survival as I draw my strength from Him.

I remember that rope, how I suffered, each viscious sting, having to close my eyes, having to crawl, metaphorically, to process the pain.
This is what I have to do tonight.

So to Him,
this colossus of strength and invulnerability,
I crawl,
into His virtual arms I fall,
ever grateful for their ability, even from a distance, to console.

As I close me eyes, I know that no matter what terrors lie in wait, His aura will ameliorate my fear, that with Him, I am safe.


“Lust is a dangerous thing. It can make you believe things that are not real. It can seduce your mind and lead it blindfolded to the cliff that will be its demise.”
Alessandra Torre

c360_2016-07-31-12-24-19-384This sunday marks the 300th week of Sinful Sunday. Congratulations to Molly on creating such a wonderful, sex & body positive meme.

To see who else is playing along this week,
kiss the lips below

Sinful Sunday

Conflict(ed) part 1

So much of my identity is wrapped up in being desired, however that desire is expressed.
So much of my self confidence
self worth
is wrapped up in how that expressed desire manifests.

But what if it never manifests?

Without those things, what then am I but a figment of someone’s fantasy, an apparition, representative of a ficticious desire which was never going to be realised.
In that reality,
I am nothing,
I have no worth,
needs stripped from me,
wants quashed under the weight of assumptive possibility.


Angry, defeated, dispossessed of my desire to suffer.

I held up my side of the bargain….
“Ask me properly, if that’s what you want”
And I did.
I asked,
I hoped,
my submissive mind latching onto the opportunities.

reflect:I cannot help who I am.

Masochism is a large part of my submission, the two elements intrinsically linked.
To hurt, to endure, physically, mentally;the need for those things is at the core of what I am.
Yet, despite the promise to show him my whole self, the freedom to suffer never came.

question:should I abandon my needs?

I’d taken hope, and shaped it, carved His sadism into it’s facade, imagining how the evening might look.
That look he gets when he’s about to unleash the sadist upon my willing, masochist flesh. The pain, fear-laced anticipation, the look of glee on his face as my flesh canvas is painted with his cruelty.

But it looked nothing like that, in the end.

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I knew it wasn’t going to happen, the moment hope’s facade began to chip away, revealing sorrow’s shadow crouching  beneath.
I just knew.
And I hurt.

He left me to figure it out for myself.
Bereft, abandoned, is how I felt.

In those moments, all confidence in who and what I am abandoned me also.

Pervading thoughts…
Am I so repulsive that the thought of interacting turns him cold?
Do I no longer inspire need/desire in Him?
Is what I offer not enough?
Have I been deluding myself into believing He might actually want me?

In those moments, I wanted to take my kinks and smash them into dust, make them disappear, erase them from my conscious mind, stop them from being the driving force of my desires.

I hurt, I didn’t want them, devastation clouding everything in my mind

I felt humiliated.
I’d done what I struggle so much with, I’d asked for play,
and damn the nerves jangled when I did
yet that still wasn’t enough.
All the fantasies I’d ever had of presenting myself to Him, debasing myself in order initiate play in ways which He said turned Him on, flooded into my field of vision.
They crushed me, humiliating me anew.

I thought of this blog, and all the times I’d put my whole self into my words, been vulnerable for everyone to see, all the times I’d laid myself bare for Him.
And I resented it.
I resented all the times I’d put my fears aside and knelt at His feet.
I resented everything that made me me.
I resented myself, my stupidity, in believing He actually wanted me.

I was angry, I couldn’t look at Him, but neither could I hate Him, even though I wanted to, even though the hurt threatened to consume me.
He hurt too, but neither of us could communicate, we shut down, both wrapping our pain around us, and retreating to replay it over and over in self castigation.

It wasn’t the first time play had been promised and not happened, it wasn’t the first time disappointment had been felt. But somehow this was worse, somehow, this time, it wounded in a way it hadn’t before.

It confirmed my fears, fears I’d thought existed through self doubt and paranoia, that whilst He perhaps enjoyed my company, His desire for me was no longer present, my desires quashing His own.
I mourned the reality I thought I was a part of.
In that reality, I had a man, partner, lover, Dominant, who understood my need to hurt, and who encouraged me to express it. But in those moments of destitution, I couldn’t put my faith in it being so. I doubted His understanding of just how important those things were to me, doubted my ability to make Him understand.

The impact of that night stays with me now, although the hurt is less.

It’s going to take me a while to trust Him again with my deepest thoughts, with my needs.
I’m left feeling protective of them, guarding them, desperate to hide them away.
I don’t want to talk about them, show them, or acknowledge they exist.

I want to remain angry with Him, but I can’t.

Fault lay at the feet of our lack of ability to communicate, both of us have to shoulder that.

I adore Him, and whilst calling Him Sir the following day took all my strength, I have no wish to dispossess Him of that title, no hunger to accentuate His own pain.