Emotionally Unequipped

I’m used to feeling an urge to be submissive. I’ve felt a submissive instinct all my life, that I can remember, even before puberty. I have this hardwired instinct to find a woman who’s worthy of my sacrifice — the sacrifice of my will, my self — and give it to her. To be her toy. Her tool. Her slave.

I get a thrill just thinking of that. Not speaking. Standing. Waiting. Hoping she’ll give me an order, hoping she’ll command me and then praise me for obeying.

But there’s a new urge in my head, in my heart. And it’s the urge to be hurt. But the problem is, being hurt is passive. I can’t hurt myself. (I know it’s possible, but that’s not what I’m feeling.) Being submissive is a state of mind. You get yourself there. But to be an object of somebody’s aggression, to be the recipient of blows from a hand or a belt or a crop — it takes two. It takes her, to hit me, and me, to receive the blows….

And what’s scary is, I’ve had a lifetime of being submissive. In my heart, I’ve known what I want. I’ve read books or watched movies or listened to songs about it and gotten hard and goofy and jittery. But masochistic? The desire to feel pain? It’s new. I don’t know if I’m up for it. Because I don’t know how to express a lot of what I’m feeling to her, to my wife.

I want to be hurt. More than that, I want to be taken to my limits. Hell, I want to find those limits and watch — no, feel — her dance past them a bit. Show me I’m stronger than I think. I want her to hit me and hit me and get me to the point where I want to use the safeword.

I’m simultaneously aroused and ashamed to say I want her to bring tears to my eyes.

I want to be clamped and struck and slapped and have my hair pulled and I want her to hit my cock with a riding crop and bite me. I want her to scratch her name into my back. Over and over again. I want marks and stripes and I’m okay with blood.

She…the last time I was up there, she took these big clips and clamped them on my nipples. And then she started trying to whip them off with the crop and then the flogger. The problem is, I suspect that trick works better with clothespins. So she sat there for five minutes, hitting and hitting and hitting and those fucking clamps never budged, and it hurt, so fucking much, worse than anything she’s ever done to me. I didn’t tell her how bad it hurt because I loved it. I didn’t want her to hold back in the future. My nipples were so sore the rest of the weekend, and so every time she twisted them or bit them or hit them, it fucking hurt so much worse than normal, because of this one session.

But I loved it. I loved it so much, I can’t even express how it felt to have her standing over me with that flogger and just swinging and for my chest to feel like one big glowing sun of pain. I could see her face, normally when she strikes me, when I’m on my hands and knees or on my belly, I can’t see her, and I could watch her as she did it, and she looked so peaceful and angry and thoughtful at the same time.

And I’ve had my whole life to create a language where I can think in terms of submitting, where I can ask to submit, where I can dream about submission, — even if I was ashamed of that language for so long — but I have no idea how to express how much I love her when she hurts me. How I want more. How I want to get to my limits. How I want her to just beat the living hell out of me until I’m tired and sobbing and marked. I can say, “That feels good,” I can say, “I liked that a lot,” but I just have no language in which to say, “More. More. Please, push me until I’m fucking begging you to stop. I’ll still love you afterwards.”

Because I will. No matter how hard you hurt me, sweetie, I promise to still love you. So please, don’t be afraid. It’s up to you. I’m the passive recipient. You’re the hand that wields the belt. I need you to take me there. I need it worse than anything. I trust you to do this for me. I believe in you. Because even if I don’t have the words, I want it.