always-somewhere-else87:

Frustration

  I’ve always been attracted to orgasm control, to imagine how much frustration I could take and what it would make me feel and do, how it would change me. When I finally had the chance, I started to share some thoughts on this: first how fun it sounded the idea of tease and denial, holding an orgasm for short periods of time, as a way of control over someone, a symbol of submission. He was amused by my fantasies and used them against me over time, to find out more, those little secrets one hides from the whole world, even though they are what we truly want the most to try and/or share.

  I should say he is a true sadist, watching someone struggling because of whatever predicament he built for them is what makes him feel alive and - of course - that has to be the worst (best?) combination for my darker fantasies. It’s more than getting pleasure from having someone submit to unpleasant/painful situations to please him, he just loves other people’s suffering and to find ways to increase the cruelty, little by little, stretching his “victim’s” ordeal without truly breaking them, or having to stop. Taking a step further is always the goal, it allows him to be creative and exercise his brain, like trying to solve a riddle, he gets obsessed.

  So he started to work on his project: making me the most sexually frustrated woman on earth… To do this, the first step is actually to do the opposite: he made sure that I had the best, most  incredible pleasure from sex, the most explosive orgasms, by exploring my body, my reactions, studying the effects of different stimulation he implemented, the best pleasure/pain ratios, everything he could think of and read about. For someone who had a - at best - meh sex life it was… lovely. :)

  But lovely wasn’t the point, was it? So, as time went on, the teasing and denial periods stretched - I didn’t mind, by then it helped me to feel even more intense sensations and orgasms, when finally allowed. I LOVED IT, I felt so good about myself, about my body, my life, everything! And what made me hornier than ever was always the stories he would tell me, how he’s going to make me suffer so badly from constant aching, sexual need… How he’s going to strip me from every ounce of pleasure my body is allowed to feel, until all I have and know from then on is deep, maddening frustration. He will have no mercy, there will not be any relief, even orgasms will be used to frustrate me more, to make me more desperate for something that will never happen - ever again. I will have to learn to cope with it, to adapt to that new way of living, for as long as I will be under his control. I will truly learn that begging is the last thing I’ll want to do to a sadist… It will happen the hard way, because there’s no doubt I will beg. And beg. Again and again, until it dawns on me what I got myself into…

-Is that what you want princess? Are you sure?

-YES YES YES YEEEEES PLEAAAAAAASE!!!!!!!!!!!

-You’re not saying yes just because I’ve been working you up into a horny mess of a girl?

-NOOOOO, I promise you, I WANT IT SO BAAAAAAAD!

-That makes me so happy princess, it will please me so much…

   He knows I’m wired to please others and that I will do anything to please him, I love being under his control. And he will make sure that I choose this for myself, almost as I’m the one pushing the idea on us, the one in control.

Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’m sure of it.

…

Part 2

“And none of that is even remotely true.” Reaction Junkie said this moments after whispering the final, devastating lines of the story into my ear. I sat there, letting the sadness sink in. Then I turned towards him and buried my head in his chest. I hadn’t cried while he was telling me the story, but now the tears started. I was getting into my head, thinking about how it would feel if he actually did that, imagining those emotions. He’d come incredibly close to some of my real fears and insecurities. In fact, he’d hit upon them. Being unwanted, unimportant, replaceable, second best. Having someone I care about pull away from me. Being left alone, with no social support network. Those are some of my biggest fears, the things that would destroy me most readily.

When I stopped crying enough to talk, I looked up at Reaction Junkie and said, “You’re so fucked up.” We both smiled and started talking about what he’d just done to me. I told him how close it was to my real anxieties and how it reminded me of things that had happened to me in the past. I wasn’t mad at him, exactly, but as we talked, I decided to take my upset feelings and use them against him. I put on what I’m sure was a half angry, half pouty face, and said, “Give me your shirt.” Without hesitating, he removed it and gave it to me. I put it on and then licked his face, which he hates. I was grinning now, and when he wiped off where I’d licked him, I told him not to. He told me I’d better cuff him if I was going to do that. I did so, and then held his hands down while I licked him. He struggled a bit, and managed to wipe his face on me. I grabbed his hair in response, and held his head still while I licked his face.

Eventually, I let him get up, and he wandered off, still cuffed. I went over to Mort and told her about what Reaction Junkie had done. She and I talked for a little while, and then parted ways. I figured I should go uncuff Reaction Junkie. When I found him, however, he was already out. I was entirely unsurprised. I joined in the conversation he was having. I mentioned to him that in addition to giving me the emotional bruises with his story, he should touch up the physical bruises he’d given me previously. I was, once again, literally asking for it. And I got it.

Reaction Junkie handcuffed me, brought me to the ground, and started hitting me. He focused his attention on my left thigh, where he’d beat me the day before. He hit me with his open hand, then his fist. He threw in a few elbows for good measure. I was on the floor, half curled up. Because of the cuffs, I couldn’t even do anything with my hands to help me endure the blows. “Please stop,” I whimpered. That had the expected effect of not causing him to stop. I tried to take more, but I was about at my limit. “Yellow!” He didn’t change what he was doing in the slightest. Then, quietly, “Red.” Reaction Junkie still didn’t stop.

No matter how many times he responds that way to my safewords, I’m always surprised, and I always have a moment of panic. That turns into uncertainty and fear, which combine with feeling pleased and excited to create a delicious rush. This time was no different. I didn’t want to say it too loudly, since people are supposed to stop at “red” in most playspaces. I told this to Reaction Junkie later and he laughed and said, “You could be shouting ‘RED!’ and no one would do a thing about it.” Because I’m his. I’m his property. And he can do whatever he wants to me.

Reaction Junkie did uncuff me, but afterwards, he just went back to hitting me again. I pushed away from him at one point, scooting back. Anderson Cooper came up behind me and I sat against him. At first, I used him to help me deal with the pain by squeezing his legs. Then, when I tried to to push back even more, he blocked me. I couldn’t get away as Reaction Junkie slammed his elbows into me. It hurt so much, so deeply. I just couldn’t take it anymore. In the moment between two impacts, I practically pounced on Reaction Junkie, hugging him tightly. The pain stopped, and the tears that I’d started crying during the beating started to slow.

I finally turned to Anderson Cooper and gave him a dirty look. He just grinned at me, having enjoyed his role in my distress. I kicked at him weakly, which he immediately reported to Reaction Junkie. Reaction Junkie said he’d help. Of course, he didn’t help me. As I lay on my side on the ground, he placed his heel on my bruised and sensitive outer left thigh. The pressure was bad enough, but then he kicked down, his heel slamming into my flesh. The pain went through me like a shock, and I curled up around Reaction Junkie’s feet. I stayed there, sobbing and shaking, until I was finally able to stand up.

Reaction Junkie hugged me and put his mouth next to my ear, “You’re mine. Body, mind, and soul.” He continued speaking low into my ear, reinforcing his ownership and reminding me that I belong to him forever. These words contradicted the awful story he’d told me earlier in the night. They turned me on, made my cunt clench. I shivered in response, and Anderson Cooper noticed my reaction. He told me, “I don’t know what he said to you, but I imagine it was fucked up and something only [Reaction Junkie] could think of.” I smiled and told him what Reaction Junkie had said to me earlier, about making me dependent on him and then withdrawing from me. Anderson Cooper looked over at Reaction Junkie and said, “That’s so fucked up…I kinda want to tie him down and pull out each of his chest hairs one by one.” Anderson Cooper is such a sweet guy.

The rest of the night was great as well. Reaction Junkie got on the pole and danced for a group of us, which resulted in laughter and clapping and glee from everyone. I got on the bed with Anderson Cooper and a group of friends and acquaintances. We all cuddled and talked, and people pressed on my bruises. After the party was over, a group of us went to IHOP and sat at a big table of fifteen plus people. It felt like a big family dinner. I was surrounded by fun and friends and affection.

The party went from social anxiety to minor jealousy to fun conversation to emotional anguish to physical pain, and all the way to feeling like I was part of something, a community. Like I fit. It was a wonderful night.

 Part 1

Reaction Junkie leaned in close, his mouth against my ear, and started speaking in a low voice. He told me that over time, he will make me increasingly dependent on him. He will become the person I rely on for support. My social life will go through him. Our finances will be entangled, with him as the only one able to access the money. I’ll be living in his house. As he painted this picture, I realized how close this was to our actual situation. I spend a lot of time with him, the group of friends I have now mostly grew out of knowing him, and we’re planning to move in together once he buys a house. The future he was describing sounded extreme, perhaps, but not entirely unrealistic. It also wasn’t all that upsetting.

Then he continued. He told me that, after making me entirely dependent on him, emotionally, socially, physically, and financially, he will slowly withdraw from me. At first, he will just seem more distracted than usual when we’re together or having a conversation. Then he’ll start focusing more of his time and attention on other people, other partners. He’ll make time for them, but not for me. Initially, I’ll try to write it off, tell myself that I’m being irrational. I’ll think, “I must be imagining things. He wouldn’t just do that.” I’ll tell myself that, but his fade out will continue. And I’ll continue trying to pretend that it isn’t.

First, a text I send won’t get a response. I’ll try to ignore it, to counter that negative self-talk about him drifting away. Then, a whole weekend will go by without response. Even though we planned to spend time together. With this I’ll be so hurt that I’ll finally say something to him about it. He’ll apologize so profusely and sincerely, so genuinely, that I’ll believe him. But it will keep happening. He’ll keep fading out, giving me less and less, and I’ll keep trying to write it off, calling him out, and buying his apologies.

As Reaction Junkie spoke, telling me about my future, I started settling into a headspace where I opened myself up to what he was saying. I was ready to believe it, to accept what he was telling me as a real prediction of the path our relationship might take. I drew on memories of how it felt when people from my past faded out. That cold and lonely feeling in my chest, the hopelessness, that weird numbness in my fingertips I get during a really emotional cry, the desperate attempts to reconnect, to figure out what I did wrong, to bring them back to me.

I dredged up those feelings and linked them with Reaction Junkie’s words. It wasn’t hard. His description of slowly withdrawing and distancing himself hit home, and hit home hard. That’s a very real fear of mine. It’s happened in my relationships before, and I’ve been on both sides of it, really. You second-guess yourself, wondering if you’re just imagining it, just being irrational. You try to counter that negative self-talk, even while knowing deep down that it isn’t just your imagination, that it really is happening. The worst part is, you want to point out to the person that it’s happening, want to ask them about it, but you’re afraid of pushing them away. So you just sit and worry and wait, trying to hold the hurt in and ignore it. But you can’t. And it eats you up.

So, I opened myself up to what Reaction Junkie was saying, letting his words sink in and feel real. He told me that the slow withdrawal of attention, time, and affection will continue,getting worse and worse until, one day, he’ll be gone. I’ll frantically call him, email him, text him, anything to try to contact him. Finally, he’ll respond that he’s gone. He caught a cheap flight to start his round the the world trip. I’ll be stunned that he didn’t even bother to say goodbye or let me know what was going on, but I’m so far in by this point that I’ll just write it off again.

Reaction Junkie told me that as he travels, he be in contact less and less often. He said that he won’t respond because he’ll be busy “fucking some Polynesian chick.” In fact, he won’t even be able to be in contact because he’ll be somewhere without Internet access. It won’t matter to him because he won’t be prioritizing talking to me. He told me that “[his] blog will be less and less about [him and me] and more and more about the fun [he’s] having with other people.” I’ll feel rejected and abandoned and ignored. I’ll be incredibly hurt. And there won’t be a thing I can do about it. Hearing Reaction Junkie talk about fading away from me during his travels hit another real fear, and I curled up against him as he spoke, shaking a little.

He continued talking. By this point, I’ll be entirely dependent on him, including financially dependent. I’ll focus in on this, trying to take solace in the fact that he’s still taking care of me. Then, one day, something will slip. Maybe a mortgage payment, maybe a car payment. Something serious. I’ll send him a bunch of increasingly panicked emails and texts. When he finally responds, he’ll say, “I’ll take care of it, babe. Why are you getting so upset? Don’t you trust me?” What will I even be able to say to that? I won’t have a choice but to trust him. I’ll go on this way for a while, part of me telling me that it isn’t right, that I should get out, but by then I won’t be able to. As Reaction Junkie told me, “I’ll be your entire support system.” He’ll have isolated me from my friends and family. There won’t be anyone to turn to. I won’t have anyone else except him.

Reaction Junkie predicted that as more payments get missed, as he contacts me less and less, I’ll start going down hill. My physical and mental health will deteriorate. I’ll constantly worry about becoming destitute. I’ll lose my job, not that it will matter, since all of my paychecks will be going straight to his account. Eventually, once I’m as low as I think I can get, he’ll prove me wrong. He’ll send me a two word message, “We’re done.”

I gasped in dismay when he told me that, and Reaction Junkie held me tighter and continued whispering my future into my ear. When I receive that message, I’ll finally lose myself to panic. I won’t have anyone to ask for help or any way to get money. Finally, it will all be too much and I’ll kill myself. But not before writing a long, raging suicide note, blaming him for everything, cursing his name. Not content to tell me that I’ll commit suicide, Reaction Junkie added insult to injury “I won’t read it. Someone will probably send it to me, but I’ll see who it’s from and throw it in the trash.” He just won’t care. He’ll go on with his life. As told me, “You’ll be dead and I’ll be happy.”

Reaction Junkie and I arrived at the party and socialized separately for a while. Or, rather, he socialized and I half socialized, half felt socially anxious in a corner. Eventually, I wandered up to him talking to a couple people and joined in the conversation. I’d recently written a post about objectification in which I’d talked about my enjoyment of being used as an object in terms of being a demo bottom, and about having my limits regarding feeling replaceable and/or ignored pushed (by particular people). So, when someone asked him about his handcuffs, Reaction Junkie grabbed me and used me to show them off, not speaking to me, but about me. It was exactly the kind of objectification I enjoy.

After he was done showing the last pair of cuffs, Reaction Junkie didn’t remove them. He left them on me and, with me facing away from him and the rest of the conversation, put his arm around me and talked to the other people, completely ignoring me. A few times, he put his arm around my neck and squeezed, choking me, but continued to ignore me. I wasn’t bored, since I was facing out into the party, so I had plenty to look at. When I looked back to see that he was using his free hand to play with someone else’s tits while continuing to ignore me, I felt somewhat uncomfortable, maybe a little jealous, but it wasn’t unbearable.

Eventually, he let me go, and I started talking to Mort, one of the girls he’d been showing off his cuffs to. We were having a good conversation, enough that, when I noticed Reaction Junkie kissing someone else, I was able to focus in on Mort and get through the jealousy pings without much difficulty. I was so focused on our conversation, that I didn’t even watch where Reaction Junkie went when he left to go play. Mort and I talked for a good while, about all sorts of things, from death, to being submissive, to her time in the BDSM scene in Germany, to wanting to try being dommier and toppier, and more.

During our conversation, I did look around a few times to see where Reaction Junkie had gone, but I couldn’t find him. I laughed and told Mort that he was probably right behind me. I looked over my shoulder, but didn’t see him. Later I learned that yes, that’s exactly where he was. Mort and I continued talking for what felt like an hour or more. She eventually went off to find someone and I sat alone for a little while, thinking about the conversation and considering whether or not to go hunt down Reaction Junkie.

I didn’t have to consider for too long, because he walked up to me shortly after Mort left. We talked for a couple minutes, and then he sat behind me with his arm around my throat. I wondered if we were going to start playing. I’d asked him to make me cry, but requested that he not take the easy way out by slapping me in the face or something like that. What I’d meant was that stingy pain brings me to tears pretty quickly and without too much effort, so I wanted him to make me cry with thuddier, deeper pain, like punching and elbowing and kicking. Reaction Junkie interpreted what I’d said differently. He decided to use his words.