Tag Archive: self injury


That was the year I first remember hurting myself deliberately. I concentrated very hard, considering what I was about to do. I remember assuring myself, steeling myself, saying to myself, the next step, this next step, I’m going to do it, no matter how much it hurts. Continue reading


Drawing Up the Contract

There’s a lot of backstory to all of this, but I promised myself not to write this blog in chronological order. If I started at the beginning and worked my way to the end, I’d never be finished. There’s so much I’m here to discover and enjoy.

I have had all kinds of problems in my history believing certain things, good things, about myself. I was raised by alcoholics, who are well known for their ability to defer blame — it was not their fault, it was my fault, kind of thing. I grew up in this environment, somewhat toxic, with a stunted ability to love myself, to believe in myself, to stand up for myself, to know I was lovable.

I’ve struggled with mental health issues and relationship issues, especially among best-friends. I felt for a long time as if nobody would understand me, as if I was perhaps so weird as to be unlovable. That is, until I met my Master.

He loved me, and loved me so hard — it’s as if he believed that by loving me hard enough, he’d be able to reverse the brokenness in my brain. Well, he’s discovered that he can’t reverse this thing simply by loving me hard enough, but together, we’ve come up with a plan.

We’ve long enjoyed together games of power and lust and controlĀ … especially with him on top, and me being submissive to him. We’ve decided together that we’re going to come up with a plan … a plan to help train me to be the person I am capable of being — that person who is lovable, and who loves herself. I’ve long frustrated my Master with my tendency to brush off compliments but take criticism in close — he has determined that there should be punishment for such a slight against his judgement, and I agree with him.

Maybe it seems a bit extreme — a beating for some self deprecation — but the upside is it’s something we both want. A new realm to explore, sexually, something special just for the two of us, something we’ve dreamed about for a long time.

I enjoy the pleasure-in-pain that comes with BDSM. I wonder if it reduces my tendency to self-injure, and why — I know I have had far fewer episodes of SI since we started talking seriously about doing bondage. That said, there’s things like stretching my piercings that some would see as SI that I am not defining as such — but the days of head-scratching lip-biting skin-pinching are over.

Mostly I enjoy deferring control to him. I worry about everything, all the time. This is no different when I’m having sex — I worry about pleasure, his pleasure, my pleasure, whether we’ll have orgasms, together, separately, whether he’s enjoying my body, whether it’s a good position, etcetera. I spend very little mental time actually enjoying the feelings of having sex … I think this is why I like to defer control.

If I’m being controlled while somebody takes me, I need not be concerned for their pleasure — it is up to them to be concerned for their pleasure. Nor do I need to be worried about my own — it is up to them to take me and have me how they will — I’ll simply enjoy the act of being taken by force and lustfully fucked.

I’m incredibly lucky in this sense to have who I have, this nonjudgmental person, gentle but strong, firm when delivering those whistling strikes to my ass. He enjoys the submissiveness of the situation too, though I’d be hard pressed to say specifically what it is about said submissiveness it is that turns him on.

I know I enjoy the feeling of helplessness, limbs restrained, as digits and perhaps toys probe my nether regions. I enjoy not being able to control what happens to me sexually — I want all the attention I can get, nevermind the technical nonconsensuality behind it. I love being something so lusted after that he can’t help but mount me and fuck me given the opportunity.

Of course, rules need to be drawn up. When is it appropriate to correct me, and for what? What are appropriate levels of correction for each infraction? What requires a single correction and what justifies an entire afternoon spent in a scene, slowly torturing me and punishing me into a whimpering pile of woman, mewling softly for cock.

I must say that the more Master and I talk about his plans for me, how he plans to train me for the future, I get all wet and excited. He assigns me homework — toys to get used to, since he’ll want to use them on me, that kind of thing — and then demands pictures via camphone. I don’t dare let anyone look at my cell phone album now — if they did, they’d see some very compromising things.

Maybe that’s part of his ulterior motive, I wonder … to make me walk around, all self-conscious, wet in the panties and with a shot of my pussy in my pocket.

That would be humiliating in the perfect way to amuse him.

He’s far-far away now, on this business trip, and we talk on the phone… he whispers to me, in a hoarse and quiet voice, hiding somewhere … a storage closet, maybe? … all the dirty things he wants to do to my body, and make me do to his. Sometimes it’s all I can do to not sink to my knees right there, at the sound of his husky master-voice, the voice he only uses with his slut, when he calls me his slut.

Until I can get close to him and see him and taste him, have me scoop me up in his arms and trot me off someplace, I will have to content myself with this — with imagery, with text, and with that expectant feeling between my legs.