#algophilatreia writes

After thinking very much, I’ve realized my truest fear in scene is total loss of control of my body - that is, in ways that aren’t acceptable. Specifically, when my body is under too much duress, I grow faint and nauseous. I am afraid of passing out or vomiting. I am afraid, I’ve found, of even getting close to the hints of either. I am afraid of losing control in ways that aren’t pretty. But ultimately, I would love to no longer be afraid of these things. If I can accept that it will be okay if they happen, I’ll be able to let go and descend fully into important places within myself.

Last night, upon dressing up and getting beaten at a wondrous party hosted by @secretshelfand@petitedeviant, I was inspired to begin posting photographs again. Upon further reflection, I reminded myself I’d been anxious about that for a reason, and I have no good reason to reintroduce anxiety into my life. Instead, whenever I have the urge to document something photographically, I should push myself to document in a way that won’t make me anxious - that is, either posting my photographic work of other people, or writing something. Today, I think I’ll write something.

After about half an hour of getting beaten by the party hosts while bent over a living room table, I tapped out of the scene. This is abnormal behavior for me. Usually, I let the top(s) end the scene when they decide they’ve had enough - as part of my submission, getting to stop when I want to stop is way too much power. I am the type to scream “no” when my body deep down means “yes.”

However, as I’ve touched on before, I am experiencing ups and downs in my relationship with my masochism. After playing hard all the time a little under a year ago, I developed some traumatic responses to kink that I was uncomfortable with - I found myself dissociating mid-scene one night, and I flipped out, terrified I’d broken myself. This came from a combination of hard play and infrequent play; I couldn’t build a tolerance for something I did only every so often. Since that time, I’ve only been able to rebuild my relationship with my masochism in short, infrequent bursts. This isn’t good for reintroducing a practice. While I’ve taught myself again that I do like pain, letting go of my worrying mind during play has proven more difficult than ever. I’m constantly checking in with my body in a way that’s detrimental to my own enjoyment. The joy in pain has always been when I let go and quiet my mind.

So last night, when I was at a point where I found my thoughts getting a little too loud (after they actually did quiet in a marvelous way for most of the scene), I decided to call it quits. In that small act, I was hoping to remind my subconscious that I ultimately do have power over my body, and that these are activities I am consistently choosing to subject myself to. With consistent choice to engage must come choice to disengage. Perhaps if I internalize that in an active way, I can relax in the future. (Or not, maybe pushing through in pure powerlessness in the answer. I’m experimenting.) While I definitely hadn’t reached my pain limit, and while I felt a little weak for giving in, I think this was ultimately a positive lesson for myself.

I’d say I was still successful, in the sense that the tops were impressed with my tolerance and I now can’t sit down properly. And I’ve certainly left myself wanting more.

Sometimes I imagine a life where my only responsibility would be to stay pretty for Master. I’d stay home writing, reading, and painting, pausing to curl my hair or apply a skin mask so I’m soft and glowing. I’d never allow a speck of hair on my body. I’d lounge around in short lace nighties and pouty red lips. I’d be a sweet little creature at the whim of my daydreams and fancies, like a caged bird entranced by the wrought iron bars. And then Master would come home to the pleasure of destroying the prettiness I worked so hard to give him, like a present meant to be unwrapped and undone. My job would be the daily recreation of innocence, the repainting of a shattered porcelain doll. Almost like stitching myself back up. Over and over, built back tenderly and spotlessly as if nothing ever transpired at night, not unless you looked just above my stockings or in the shadowed curve of my neck.

Master: I loved holding your throat while I fucked you last night.

Me: Mm, me too… maybe choke me next time?

Master: I don’t want to cut off your air circulation—

Me: please cut off my air circulation

I very recently set down a limit in kink with my Master that I hadn’t set down before. Play since then has felt so much better and safer for me. I feel like I can open up and sink deeper in my submission without the anxiety that this previous thing will push me too far. But I have a nagging voice telling me that I’m topping from the bottom and/or not fully submitting by placing “things I’m capable of taking but hate” as limits. My head keeps telling me official limits (especially with my Master) should only be things I can’t handle at all (i.e. things that will make me pass out, have a panic attack, trigger my chronic pain, etc.). I’m trying to internalize that I’m not a bad submissive for asking that this desire be honored, and that it’s not unnecessarily selfish to avoid things I don’t want to give. There is still so much vulnerability I do give, and I hope it’s enough. Besides, I’m hoping we reach a point of intimate understanding where I lift this limit and instead trust him to only do the thing sparingly.

I’m visited by old fantasies of being driven insane, alongside new fantasies in which I’m blindfolded, tied to a chair, hypnotized, cut open in little slits across my body, and convinced I’m being dissected whilst alive.