They turned her around, and the heat of the fire was against her back. A hand seized one of her breasts, a mouth fastened on the tip of the other. But suddenly she lost her balance and fell backward (supported by whose arms?), while they opened her legs and gently spread her lips. Hair grazed the insides of her thighs. She heard them saying that they would have to make her kneel down. This they did. She was extremely uncomfortable in this position, especially because they forbade her to bring her knees together and because her arms pinioned behind her forced her to lean forward. Then they let her rock back a bit, as nuns are wont to do.

“You’ve never tied her up?”

“No, never.”

“And never whipped her?”

“No, never whipped her either. But as a matter of fact…”

It was her lover speaking.

“As a matter of fact,” the other voice went on, “if you do tie her up from time to time, or whip her just a little, and she begins to like it, that’s no good either. You have to get past the pleasure stage, until you reach the stage of tears.”

Then they made O get up and were on the verge of untying her, probably in order to attach her to some pole or wall, when someone protested that he wanted to take her first, right there on the spot. So they made her kneel down again, this time with her bust on an ottoman, her hands still tied behind her, with her hips higher than her torso. Then one of the men, holding her with both his hands on her hips, plunged into her belly. He yielded to a second. The third wanted to force his way into the narrower passage and, driving hard, made her scream. When he let her go, sobbing and befouled by tears beneath her blindfold, she slipped to the floor, only to feel someone’s knees against her face, and she realized that her mouth was not to be spared. Finally they let her go, a captive clothed in tawdry finery, lying on her back in front of the fire. She could hear glasses being filled and the sound of the men drinking, and the scraping of chair. They put some more wood on the fire. All of a sudden they removed her blindfold. The large room, the walls of which were lined with bookcases, was dimly lit by a single wall lamp and by the light of the fire, which was beginning to burn more brightly. Two of the men were standing and smoking. Another was seated, a riding crop on his knees, and the one leaning over her fondling her breast was her lover. All four of them had taken her, and she had not been able to distinguish him from the others.

They explained to her that this was how it would always be, as long as she was in the château, that she would see the faces of those who violated or tormented her, but never at night, and she would never know which ones had been responsible for the worst. The same would be true when she was whipped, except that they wanted her to see herself being whipped, and so this once she would not be blindfolded. They, on the other hand, would don their masks, and she would no longer be able to tell them apart.

Pauline Réage
The Story of O

pain tells me that I am loved

September 16, 2018

Hanging around the office

By any standard pain is powerful, but for a masochist it is even more potent. Pain can unlock the mind, or shut it down. For a masochist, it can quiet the loudest of thoughts, and leave in their place the echoes of affection.

Sadness, for most, will mean that they need to be held until the tears stop. When other women are angry they may need space to cool off. Perhaps when they are frustrated they need time to think, and work through the problem.

But that isn’t what I need. I need pain.

For a masochist, for me, pain can heal. Do I want to be held? Yes, of course. I need to feel the firm pressure of your arms around me, and your soft words whispered against my ear. I need you to hold me and tell me that it will be okay, to talk me back to reason, and remind me that this too shall pass.

But first, I need you to pull me over your knee and warm my skin with the touch of your palm. I need you to coil your hand around my neck until my sorrows fade to black. To tie me down and multiply my tears until there are none left to be cried. I need you to drown out my inner monologue with the floods of pain.

Not because I’ve been bad, not because I shouldn’t be sad, not because you don’t want to hold me, but because you know that your hand on my skin is affection. Because you understand that the lingering heat, the sharp sting, and the aching marks your hand leaves in its wake, still my mind. They remind me that despite the storm, I am yours. Because you know that the pain tells me that I am loved, and some days the voice of pain is the only one I hear.

Pleasurewhore
The Power of Pain

to be submissive

April 15, 2018

restraint

Showing yourself to be submissive is not a sign of weakness…it , in fact, shows great courage, confirming who you are, your true inner identity…That’s why you, as submissive, and always with the premise of taking care of yourself, must not hide away your emotions or your inner motivation. Above all you demonstrate you know your place which implies, in my opinion, that you will never let others coerce you, blackmail you or impose anything on you – unless you want it. To please others should not mean to stop pleasing yourself.

Confessions of S
Anon

Her broad full bottom

January 14, 2018

Love bowling

January 14, 2018

Unforgettable School Days

December 31, 2017

Left hanging

December 31, 2017

Oh, yes, it’s true. We can endure much more than we thought we could…

burn between their legs

December 24, 2017

unwanted toys

She said, ‘As a child I liked best torturing my brother’s action figures. I used to do it with my best friend Caitlin. Twist their arms and legs and pretend to hear them scream. Once we tied them up and used one of mother’s cigarettes to burn between their legs. When we were older Caitlin and I tortured each other. Simple, but great fun. And the cries were real, no need for us to pretend.