It is very, very easy to write about hypnosis. With hypnosis, I know how to get the desired response out of my reader. It is the response I got out of myself. I know how to put into words the mindset and the sensations and the state of being. It is familiar; it is enjoyable.
It is very, very hard to write about pain.
The descriptors I use become meaningless words on a page, pixels on a screen. “Pain” does no justice to the way I'm made to scream when I'm hit, the way the impact burns and the way that sensation overwhelms me. I am left unsatisfied when I read over the snippets of my masochistic scenes. There is simply no written comparison to how the fear grips at me and holds me shaking in desperation.
I fixate, in my mind, on those tiny moments when everything is too real, when those countless blows that have come before have left me an absolute mess, twisting away in terror, aching and sore.
There is no way I can express how utterly sincerely I beg for it to stop; there is no way I can express how it feels when my pleas are ignored.
I do not yet know how to write about the tears, how to explain what it feels like when I am so helpless and abused out of my control that there is nothing left for me to do but cry. Nothing can compare to that moment of realization; panicked, desperate, defeated.
It is hard to accept that I can't make my words on pain as accessible as my words on pleasure. I'm left to close my eyes and dig my nails into my palm and replay the scene in my mind. Intensity is lost when I put those thoughts down. The ability to relate is lost when I put those thoughts down.
It is very, very hard to show why I like to be hurt.
But I will keep trying.