#an intense saturday
Reaction Junkie started in on my beaten and already beginning to bruise thigh. He brought his open hand down on the spot, slapping hard, and mixing in punches that made me groan and gasp. Then he began throwing elbows again, his weight slamming into me behind the elbow. With the rope now gone, I had to exert more control over my body to fight the urge to struggle. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to change what was happening, and the attempt to get away or stop him would only result in my situation getting worse. As he hit me deep and hard, I wanted to safeword, at least to say “yellow” to make the pain lessen or maybe move to a different part of my body. But at the same time, I was hesitant to test him. There was the chance that he would ignore my “yellow” again, or even ignore a “red.” To be completely honest, I can’t say which outcome would have upset me more – if he had ignored them, or if he hadn’t.
Before I could put that to the test, the pain from the impacts and the racing thoughts about safewords and not being able to stop him and the fear all became too much and I began crying. Reaction Junkie continued hurting me as the tears started to fall. I tried to stop being a little bitch, but wasn’t able to stop crying. Rather than risk breaking his favorite toy with too much intensity, Reaction Junkie decided to stop beating my thigh. He lay next to me, arms around me, and held me. This break from the physical abuse didn’t mean I was free to relax, however, and Reaction Junkie began to talk.
He told me he was going to take a melonballer to my eyes to blind me. Then he would put drops of molten lead in my ears. Not enough to damage my brain, mind. Just enough to destroy my eardrums, making me deaf. Next, my tongue would be cut out and all of my teeth pulled. After he removed my septum, he would burn every inch of my skin, except maybe my tits. When I went to say something about dying, he stopped me and informed me that he would do all this with me sedated and give me painkillers during all of it. The different mutilations would be performed over the course of a few years, giving me time to heal in between. Reaction Junkie promised that I wouldn’t die from shock, adding, “You can’t get away from me that easily.”
He continued, saying that after he’d done all that, mutilated me and destroyed my body, after that was all done, one day he would gently lead me to the car. He would drive me out to the woods, carefully take me out of the car, and then just drive away. I wouldn’t have any idea where I was or what had happened. He might even do it somewhere where if I got lucky and went in the right direction, I could have a chance to wander into civilization. If I did, someone would find me and take me to the hospital. People will try to figure out some way to communicate with me, but it’s going to be difficult, what with me being blind, deaf, mute, and without fingers. Because of course, he’ll remove my fingers before he lets me go. Scientists will want to study me, trying to figure out how I could have survived the trauma. They’ll assume I was in some kind of horrible car wreck. Who could even begin to fathom that someone might inflict such damage on another person?
I was done crying well before he was finished speaking. At the beginning of the story, I’d been amused by the seemingly over-the-top threats, but as he continued describing the mutilation that would be coming my way, amusement turned to some kind of fucked up enjoyment. It wasn’t arousal, exactly, but I got into the narrative and felt strangely comforted. The level of dedication that it would require to keep me like that made me feel wanted and valuable. A favorite toy. A well used, beaten up, and almost entirely broken toy. But a favorite nonetheless.
Reaction Junkie saw that I had recovered from the beating. He asked me, “Do you know what’s going to happen now?” “No,” I responded with some trepidation. Leaning in closer, Reaction Junkie said, “I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to hurt you until you yellow. And then I’m going to keep hurting you. You’ll probably try to say red, but I’m not going to stop. I’m not going to stop until I feel like it.” As he spoke, I thought about how it felt when he was slamming his elbow into me, about taking more of that, about it not stopping until he decided it should end. Ignoring my “yellow” earlier in the scene had made it clear that I was in a position of powerlessness. It drove home my utter lack of control of my situation. “Red” wouldn’t work, “safeword” wouldn’t work. Nothing would work. I curled into myself and started sobbing uncontrollably.
After making me cry with his words, Reaction Junkie cuddled me close again. He whispered into my ear that there was a DM standing right over us. I don’t like the idea of someone getting the impression that I’m not okay with what’s being done to me (I know, I know. Maybe not the most rational thing in these circumstances, just from crying after being beaten.), so I turned my head and kissed Reaction Junkie. I later found out that the DM had been there for a while and had heard Reaction Junkie talk to me about ignoring my safewords. Thinking about that fact makes me shudder. Of course no one would interfere. He’s my owner and I’m his property. What he does with me is no one else’s business.
Reaction Junkie comforted me and then began beating me again. I begged him not to hit that thigh any more, and he kindly agreed. Just as he was starting to hit me in the tits, a DM came over to us and let us know that time was up. Reaction Junkie had been abusing me for too long. Or, from my perspective, not long enough.
When I started coming out of the headspace the scene had put me in, I suddenly realized there were a lot of people there. I had been entirely within the scene, so focused on Reaction Junkie, that I hadn’t noticed them at all. He and I gathered our things and walked to the couches outside of the main play area. We sat down for some aftercare, cuddling and talking. I had no way to know that this aftercare session would be just as intense as the scene that preceded it.
Reaction Junkie said something teasing, and I responded, “I hate you,” which, of course, I didn’t actually mean. His response took me entirely by surprise, “No you don’t. You love me.” My mouth dropped open and I couldn’t find words for a moment. Then I squirmed and buried my head in his chest. I said, “No,” and reiterated my hatred, “I hate you I hate you I hate you.” Reaction Junkie interrupted me, saying, “You say you hate me because if you didn’t, you’d say you loved me.”
I was shocked that he was bringing this up in this way, that he was just saying these things. Who does that? I was even a little mad at him. He was pushing me out into the open, making me confront feelings I hadn’t yet labeled even to myself. Finally, I was able to say, “I like you a lot.” Reaction Junkie shook his head. “You love me. You’ve loved me for weeks.” I stopped trying to dispute the emotion, although I also wasn’t ready to admit it. I instead focused on the timeline, “I don’t know about that.” He accepted that aspect, but continued to insist that I loved him.
I kept up my denial for a while. Finally, I admitted to it, “Okay. You’re right.” I said that it wasn’t something I had even acknowledged to myself. I’d brushed against it in conversation with friends and things I wrote for my feels blog, and even talked about the word “love,” but all in roundabout ways. Reaction Junkie said, “You know how I knew? Because of the jealousy feels.” He was talking about the first night he and I spent with Kitten. I shoved him a little and pouted. We continued talking and, as we did, I started thinking about everything that had happened that night and might happen now that my feelings for him were out in the open. I started crying, sobbing really, both from the pain and fear during the scene and because of the emotional intensity.
Reaction Junkie held me and comforted me. He asked what I needed, if there was anything he could do. He said he didn’t have a blanket and asked if I wanted to put my clothes on. I wasn’t sure what I wanted and was trying to sort it out when a guy came over to us. Normally that would be rude, but in this case it was actually really nice because he told us where the aftercare room was. I looked at Reaction Junkie and sniffled, “Can we go in there?” I felt bad for monopolizing him. I didn’t want to keep him taking care of me instead of going off and having fun with other people. But at the same time, I still needed care. Now it wasn’t just from the scene; I needed afteraftercare.
Obviously, Reaction Junkie immediately agreed we could go to the aftercare room. We cuddled up on a couch. He put a blanket over us and held me while I cried into him. We talked about the word “love” and about fear of saying it. My mind was racing as we talked. I wasn’t sure I wanted to say what I was thinking, but I decided to just spit it out instead of holding it inside and continuing to be upset about it. I told him, “I’m mostly upset because I don’t know how you feel.” Reaction Junkie paused. Then he told me that he’s also afraid of the word “love,” but that I should know he feels the same. He asked, “Would you feel better if I said it back?” I told him I didn’t want to make him say it, didn’t want to push him. He looked at me and said, “I love you.” I smiled at him and replied, “I love you.”
We stayed there talking for a long time, about our issues with sharing feelings, about not wanting to risk being hurt, about life, about the future, and about “our” possible future. My favorite moment was when Reaction Junkie said that he wouldn’t have said “I love you” to me unless he meant it. When I mentioned the times he’d said it sarcastically or in teasing way over the past few weeks. He repeated himself, “I wouldn’t have said it unless I meant it.” I looked at him and he added, “I said it sarcastically, but that was a way to protect myself and get myself to say it.” That means each time he’d said it over the previous weeks, each time he’d told me, “I love you” in a joking tone that would seem to imply he didn’t really mean what he was saying, each time, he’d meant it. He’d been saying “I love you” to me for weeks.*
I felt giddy and contented the rest of the night. I still get that warm fuzzy feeling when I think about it. We’ve grown even closer since then, and I’m ever so pleased with the way my life is going. It’s full of love, caring friends and partners, and hella fun.
*I’ve told multiple friends that bit of the story, and pretty much each person has responded, “Awwwwww!” That is the correct response. It’s sweet and adorable as fuck.
Just as quickly as the knife had become the focus of my attention, it was gone. My trials and tribulations were far from over, however, and Reaction Junkie began to use his hands. He started hurting me, hitting my tits and my stomach with open and closed fists, making me breathe heavily and gasp with the impacts. Still blindfolded, I was taken off guard when the first slap hit my face. Then there was another, and another. These were hard slaps, and as I yelped, he told me to be brave and take them, making it clear that he’d read the post I wrote about wanting face marks. Everything I said in the post is true, but imagining how painful and difficult it would be to handle enough impact to get a mark, and thinking that he meant to leave one on me during that very scene was enough to freak me out. My whimpering intensified. Then, suddenly, bright light hit my eyes, making me squeeze them shut. There were tears in the corners of my eyes from being poked with the knife and from the face slapping. I peered out from half-lidded eyes and saw Reaction Junkie’s grinning face. I grinned right back, and he leaned down for a kiss.
The blindfold now gone, the scene continued. Reaction Junkie began smacking my outer right thigh, warming it up. Then he began punching it increasingly hard. What had been controlled movement on my part turned into writhing, and then thrashing. Grabbing my leg, Reaction Junkie held me down and still and began elbowing me. The first time he did it, I was unprepared for how much it would hurt, and I cried out in surprise and pain. He repeated the action, kneeling next to me and dropping his elbow into my thigh, putting some of his weight behind it. I felt a deep pain each time, like he was hurting me all the way to the bone. I started whimpering, and felt the tears starting. Reaction Junkie made fun of me, asking, “Are you going to cry like a little cunt?” I nodded, and began crying. Just like a little cunt.
I took as much of the elbowing as I could, but after only a few impacts like that, I felt like I was going to break. “Yellow, ” I panted out. Reaction Junkie just looked at my frightened face and pointedly ignored my request to dial things back. He slammed his elbow into me again, just as hard as before. As he set himself up to do it again, I started to breathe faster and faster, half-panicked at the thought that there was nothing I could do to stop him. I watched him dropping his weight into me again, his elbow landing hard, and groaned loudly in response, the tears rolling down my face. He hit me again, and then again. Finally, he decided to stop. It wasn’t anything to do with me wanting him to, of course, but because he felt like it.
Just because he stopped hurting me that way in that location didn’t mean he was stopping altogether. He straddled my legs, sitting on them. That put weight on my now battered thigh, making me grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut from the pain. He started slapping my tits and my face. I struggled, but my arms were bound and now my legs were held in place, so it was even more futile than usual. When he paused for a moment, I realized that my thumb felt numb. Not an emergency, but also not something I care to experience for longer than necessary. I opened my eyes and asked Reaction Junkie if the rope could come off. He sat me up and obliged me, wanting his toy to be fully functional. By the time he finished untying me, my thumb was back to normal.
When the rope was off, Reaction Junkie allowed me a few moments to rest. He comforted me, telling me, “There, there. You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay.” By the end of the night, those words would provide no solace. To the contrary, because of the way he was saying them, and because he would tell me such things in the midst of frightening me and hurting me, each time he said them, I became more and more certain that he would do the very things he was saying he wouldn’t. Promises not to hurt me meant pain was imminent, guarantees of safety meant certain danger. In my mind, reassurances turned upside down into threats. In fact, Reaction Junkie eventually had to switch to telling me “You’re not safe. I’m going to hurt you. You’re in mortal peril.” to convince me he meant me no harm. My mind was thoroughly and deliciously fucked.
When I stopped crying, Reaction Junkie resumed his lesson about what it means for him to own me. He made a comment about the horrible things he could do to me, and I replied that he probably shouldn’t do some of them there, at the playspace. He looked at me and, using that voice, he said, “I don’t think you understand how much power I have when it comes to you.” He reminded me that I’m his property, that no one else cares, and that he could kill me and no one would even notice until it was too late. Then he began to hurt my thigh again.
Saturday night, I went to a grand opening for a new play space. I picked up Reaction Junkie, Legal Lolita, and Repressed Boy and we headed to the play party. As we stood in line, we said hello to Legolas and talked. Finally, they opened the doors and we walked in. We explored the mostly empty space, poking around at different pieces of equipment, until Reaction Junkie looked at me and said, “You’re far too free. Let’s go fix that.”
We found a space and put down our stuff. Next thing I knew, I was against the wall, Reaction Junkie’s voice in my ear, asking me what a girl like me was doing dressed like that in a place like this. I whimpered in response, already starting the descent into a nice little headspace. He pulled out his knife and pressed it against my throat, saying “You’re going to do exactly what I say. Do you understand?” I said that I understood. He held the knife in front of my face and said, “Now you’ve seen this and you know I have it, so I can put it away and you’ll behave?” I nodded, and he stepped away, telling me to strip down to my panties. I hurried to comply, afraid of the consequences if I dawdled or acted silly.
Reaction Junkie came up behind me and tied a blindfold over my eyes. I’m very glad he did. Since we were in public, and especially because Legal Lolita was there, I would have had a larger part of myself than usual on the sidelines, observing, instead of being fully immersed in the scene and the headspace. Not to mention, being unable to see leaves me with a heightened uncertainty. Of course, the scene itself was making me uncertain. I had no idea what he had in mind, or even what he might do in a public space. At the beginning of the scene, I had been grinning and happily enjoying myself, but as it went on, the smile fell off my face, and the happy enjoyment shifted to fearful, pained, submissive enjoyment. It became an enjoyment of the reminder of my place, of his power, of his control, and the fact that this isn’t a game.
Once the blindfold was in place, he tied me with my arms behind my back. There would be no getting away, no fighting back. Not that I would try to do either. And not that it would even matter if I did try. He was in control of my mind, my body, and the entire situation. The next thing I knew, I was on the ground. He pushed the knife into me, and I felt the sharp tip digging into my flesh. As he pressed the tip into different parts of my torso, he mused aloud, “How much pressure do you think it would take to pierce your skin?” It was all I could do to keep my reactions to a mere tremble, trying hard not to move too much, not wanting to find the answer to that question by accident by shifting unexpectedly.
Reaction Junkie dragged the knife (Okay. I half believe he used the actual knife for all of this, but I also half believe he used parts of the knife besides the blade or something else for at least some of it but wasn’t and am still not sure and I don’t even want to know because I do like the uncertainty.) along my skin, pricking me with it. Sharp pokes like that tend to make me cry really easily, and I like to let people know, even people I know are okay or like crying, that I may cry soon, just in case they don’t feel like having me cry (yet). I told Reaction Junkie that if he poked me much more I might cry. He asked if I was okay with that. Normally, I’m fine with crying, but this would have been crying in a new place in front of people, so I told him “Let’s keep going, and if I cry, I’ll let you know if I need something else at that point.” He agreed and resumed menacing me.
He pressed the knife against my cheek and threatened to fluid bond me to it. As he pushed it into my skin, there were a couple points where I legitimately felt like it might cut me, or wondered if it was. I was strangely okay with that. I don’t like the idea of actually being cut, but if he wanted to do that, I would try my hardest to take it for him. At one point during the scene, Reaction Junkie said something along the lines of “Do you understand that you’re mine and I can do whatever I want to you and no one will do anything about it?” and when I started to say I understood, he asked if I understood it at an emotional level. I did understand, but not at that deeper level. Not until this scene.
Now I get what it means to say that he owns me. Obviously he can do whatever he wants to me. Not just because he’s physically stronger than I am. More than that, I’ll accept whatever he decides to do because all of me, and everything that is mine, is his. And no one is going to stop him because they would see that I want what is happening. Maybe I won’t want the particular thing at the particular moment. In a broader sense, though, I do want it because he decided to do it. My purpose is to take whatever he dishes out, and to give him whatever he desires. I want him to do anything and everything he wants to me, no matter my preferences.
