It was Halloween.
To be more accurate, it was 10/27/12.
Imagine, if you would, what you might think a BDSM dungeon normally looks like... Lights a bit dimmed, shining on all sorts of equipment; tools, interesting furniture scattered around the main space; chains, boards studded with O-rings, St. Andrew's crosses... Much of it follows a black-and-red theme; a little bit stereotypical, just for the fun of it.
Now imagine what that dungeon would look like when all decked out for a Halloween party.
I was in the Misty costume I made 3 years ago (and used almost every year since). Almost everyone else was dressed appropriately as well. The space was buzzing with activity and excitement, Halloween-themed scenes left and right, and candy was our main source of sustenance.
DaSade and I got to have quite a bit of fun that night.
As bit of prologue, before all this, I was always hesitant to say that I was a masochist. Sure, I liked to be spanked and smacked around a bit even in my first serious relationship. And sure, I learned later that I really liked the pain of rope biting into me. But my tolerance for impact play was abysmal compared to all of my newfound masochistic friends, coming into the BDSM community. Chalk it up to inexperience or something, but at that point, I really didn't think I liked pain enough to earn that label.
And then, back to the 27th, DaSade and I did our first impact scene. I am not going to write much about it, in favor of focusing on the later one, since that's what my brain did when I got home that night.
1) I couldn't wear the Misty getup for it, because that was to be judged at the costume contest later, and I wanted it intact.
2) He told me to take out anything from his toybag that I found intruiging. From haste and nerves I chose only rope and a flogger, but was really open to whatever he wanted to try. I honestly had no idea what would feel like what.
3) In addition to the flogger, a good number of things were used to smack me with, including paddles, canes, and other toys. They all hurt, some much more or less than others. But I was within my boundaries.
4) I liked it.
Afterward, I learned that I sadly did not win the costume contest because apparently not everyone in the world appreciates Pokemon in the voracious, enthusiastic fashion that I do. But I enjoyed bouncing around the space regardless, and the rest of our time was quite enjoyable, filled with kinky Halloween jokes and sweets.
Eventually, though, DaSade and I somehow decided that we would have another scene. And that is when this starts.
There are some things that are clear in my mind.
The rope blindfold going on, ends being wrapped loosely around my neck, just enough for me to feel that they exist.
My hands being tied, individually, to the arch above me. They are held apart, and pulling on the restraint hurts my wrists.
Being asked what my safewords are, and telling him; feeling the reality of it hit me. Being handed some sort of toy to hold in an immobilized hand. Knowing that dropping it means “red”. Recognizing interally that, also, this would probably be my main form of communication, because I am muttering and stuttering even talking to him now, before we start.
And then, shifting my weight nervously from foot to foot, hearing him rummage through his bag-o-things. I feel him standing before me, and I can't remember if he tells me what he's going to do or not, but I know that this is the part where our agreed-upon destrution of my costume begins.
With a knife.
He's grasped my shirt at the bottom and I can tell even as it's pulled taught away from me that he's ripping it, cutting it where he pleases. My heart is thudding in my chest. I can't tell if I'm scared or turned on.
His voice, reaching through my panicked thoughts:
“This is a very sharp knife,” and his voice is calm and quiet and matter-of-fact. “If you move too much, it will cut you.”
Everything slows in that moment for me to feel the throb of my pulse. I'm at his mercy. Actually.
...I'm also wet.
The cold contact on my skin makes me want to gasp, but I know I can't move. I settle for a slow intake of breath through my nose and I've never been more conscious of how much my chest rises with that.
He drags it across my skin; across my sternum, down my stomach. Presses the flat of it to my nipple, and the coolness of it is startling and terrifying. Sometimes it's just the dull side; sometimes he lets me taste the point of it. It barely hurts. It doesn't cut me. It's just frightening, beyond anything I can recall.
...And then, suddenly, after it's brought away from my body, it's at my neck. My brain doesn't know what to do, reeling with fear and that's hot and god, why does that turn me on, and he's got a fucking knife to my throat.
It's only for a few seconds, only for a few heartbeats, but I swear it was the longest moment in the world.
And then it's gone.
He never outright tells me that he's done with the knife, but I'm pretty damn sure when I feel him behind me, feel the flogger thud across my back. It's a bizarre, intense sense of relief to feel that almost-pain. Almost gentle and forgiving against me.
A lot of it is fuzzy after that, but I am hit with quite a few things. My pain tolerance is tested but never breached. I remember the sweatiness of my palm as I struggle to hold onto my “tap-out”, desperately clutching to it even as I feel tingles in my hands from the rope and position. Sometimes DaSade takes the toy from my clenched fingers and replaces it with another one, only to use the one he's just taken on me. My back and my ass and my thighs feel hot and tender.
Eventually, I feel myself getting close to where I think my real threshold for pain is.
Between all of this, he's playing roughly with my tits and ass, holding me even more steady with his arms so that I truly can't move. His hand migrates to my throat every few minutes and I love the feeling of helplessness that brings... love the feeling of being totally at his mercy. His grip is tighter than it's been before, but he knows that I like that too.
He's moved on to the things with smaller surface areas – the stingier, ouchier toys; canes and the like. I'm trying to flex my fingers to make sure they aren't getting too numb from the rope, but making sure not to let go of my “safeword” as I wait for the next strike.
Without warning, he hits a spot on the outside of my left thigh with some sort of stick, hard, and it fucking hurts. I cry out in pain and flinch, involuntarily, away from where the sensation came from, eagerly awaiting the respite between strikes.
But then he's hit the same spot again, without giving me time to rest, and it's as though my brain was telling me it couldn't get worse but it did, and that makes me reel. I'm whimpering, wanting to curl up or run away. I almost want to sob.
He's let up for a few moments and I am more grateful than I can ever remember to let that sensation subside. But then, as I’m panting and moaning slightly, so, so out of it from everything around me, I feel a strike across the front of my thigh that burns like tiny, thin line, so far outside of my pain threshold that I double over as much as I can with the ropes holding me, and cry out in anguish.
“Fuck!” And that swat he gave me doesn't end right after he’s given it; the sting somehow gets more intense as time slows down for me to feel it.
“Oh my god, ow,” I manage, brokenly, quietly; without the strength to cry out anymore in between involuntary gasps of pain. I’m bizarrely, out of reflex, trying to flinch away from the feeling, even though I know he hasn’t hit me since and probably won’t hit me again until I calm down a bit.
It'd hurt so fucking much and I am so fucking powerless to do anything against it. Panting as my mind slowly comes back to me and the feeling in my leg slowly dulls to an ache.
And it... was hot.
That far-away realization, mid-scene.
I liked that.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
...Why does that turn me on?
I don't have time to dwell on it before he's groping my tits from behind me and he's got his hand around my neck again, and I relax into it.
After that, it's like I can't be scared of any pain he can inflict on me anymore.
Because he's already broken that internal, percieved threshold.
And I'm still gripping that fucking toy in my hand like my life depends on it; trembling, sweating, helpless.
So I'm left to sag in my bonds, legs shaking, weight held by the rope around my wrists as he hits me again, over and over and over. Eventually, after what must have been forever, as each breath blends together with a moan while I can't think straight, I hear him toss whatever he's been hurting me with and relish the sound of it hitting the floor.
I feel him move swiftly behind me, wrapping his whole arm around my neck, firmly. His other hand is holding the back of my head and he’s supporting me with his body, even as my arms sag in the ropes.
Everything tightens around my neck. I can still breathe, but it’s restricted.
He's choking me. That's not new.
The world slows down a little bit. That is.
I’m going to pass out.
Stars and blackness around the edges of my closed eyelids.
...I’m going to actually lose consciousness.
It feels very matter-of-fact in my head – I know it’s a problem, but I feel no panic. As I take my next breath and notice the quickly increasing numbness in my hands and limbs, the fading of the world, the roar of silence in my ears, I do the first logical thing I can think of and relax my left hand and drop whatever was in it, because there is no way I can talk right now. The idea of speaking doesn’t even occur to me.
I don't hear it hit the floor.
Everything lets up, and the world begins to return to normal speed. But haltingly, and unevenly. Still holding my body up, DaSade moves to stand in front of me.
I don’t remember how or why I say it, having already ended the scene with a safeword, but I murmur, weakly, into his ear as he leans down, “Red.”
“Red?” he asks.
“Red,” I whisper, “or at least... a break or something...” But he’s already been undoing the ropes. Someone is gently holding my left arm as it’s being let down.
“...I almost passed out,” I say quietly, almost in awe, as my bounds are being undone. I am not fully there.
He chuckles, not unkindly. “You were in a sleeper hold. That’s kind of the point.”
Through my still-blurry mind, the vague thought of, 'oh, that’s a legitimate thing...' floats past me.
The next thing I remember is the blindfold coming off to let me look at him, after blinking my eyes open. I rest my head on his shoulder and feel his arms around me in a gentle hug. I look to my left to see the person holding my arm – his wife, CC. And then I close my eyes in relief and sigh and lean my head on him again, as he undoes the last of everything.
A cup of cold water is put into my hand as I withdraw from the hug, blinking slowly, and I smile weakly at CC to try to thank her. After I take a sip, even though every muscle in my body feels limp and shaky, I can't stop the grin that spreads across my face.
And looking down at my outfit, shorts cut off and tossed aside with the suspenders, shirt in tatters and barely covering me, I decide, distantly, that this might be the year that I finally retire the Misty costume.