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.
“Someone hand me that dart, please,” I hear DaSade say, and while I am blindfolded, I can tell that he is across the room, at range. I can picture the blunt, hard plastic.
The panic settles in fast and thick in my chest. Memory of the blowgun scene, of the first time I cried in fear of something, is weighed automatically against the pain and bruises I'm already struggling with in my arms and legs and I pull against the zipties, purely reflexively.
“No!” I cry, terrified. “Please, no... I don't want to...” I can't handle that kind of pain right now, I don't want it, I don't want him to make me take it...
“Are you ready for the blowgun?” His voice comes from across the room.
The fear, real and intense and gripping, “Oh god please no...” My voice is pushed higher and thinner and I can already feel tears, the lump in my throat –
“Count down from three.”
I wail in frustration and allow myself the release of a few sobs, realizing belatedly, again, that hanging my head only increases the pressure of the hard plastic tie around my neck.
But he had told me to count. He is going to make me take it anyways. I had wanted him to be merciless, and now I am getting what I asked for.
Biting hard on my lip, I take a shuddery breath and steel myself, defeated.
Pain is transient. Obedience is not.
“Three... Two... One...” Choked off by my own sob, muscles tensed so hard the ties dig in further, my heart pounding in my ears as I struggle not to cry...
It's going to hurt so much –
God please go easy on me –
His open hand smacks against my thigh and I moan in surprise and relief and let out a shaky laugh even as he slaps me again...
Thank you, thank you thank you thank you...
Adrenaline and relief rushes through me like no other drug in the world.
He ignores the way I push my hips forward for him to touch, the way I beg with my body for reassurance and physical contact and tenderness.
The way he punches my thighs is all the tenderness I can expect.
I will take it. I love it.