#impact play
“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.
I managed to wake up before The Super Sadist on Sunday. I laid there for a little while, trying to decide if it was late enough to try to wake him up with a blow job. I determined that it was, in large part because I didn’t feel like waiting any longer to get my mouth on him again. I pulled down the blanket and was just starting take him into my mouth when he pushed at me and rolled away from me onto his side. I giggled a little at his sleep-rejection and considered trying again. I decided not to, because, although I knew he had very enthusiastically consented to getting a blow job to wake up, I’m still not comfortable pushing that on someone who is actively rejecting it.
I tried to go back to sleep, but he was being a huge bed hog. Which, obviously, is his right as a man. I was lucky he allowed me to sleep in the bed, considering sleeping on the floor would be perfectly fitting for a little bitch like me. Eventually, I went to the couch and half-slept there for a little while until he woke up and came out. I told him what had happened, with him rejecting the oral sex alarm clock, and his reaction was basically, “Damnit!” Looking back, I feel bad that I didn’t immediately drop to my knees and suck him off then and there. We had breakfast and talked about what we were going to do that day. The Super Sadist described our plans by saying, “I was thinking I’ll beat you and then we go get vegan food.” Seriously, y'all, I get used by the best men.
Before the beating began, we talked for a little. At some point, I admitted in an embarrassed voice to liking something I feel like I shouldn’t like. I think it might have been that I enjoy when he calls me dumb. He responded, “I know.” He says those words with this tone…I can’t explain it very well. It’s a combination of understanding, condescension, and amusement. I love it. It makes me feel like he gets where I’m coming from, and, at the same time, it makes me feel exposed and vulnerable, knowing that he can read me so well. All of me is open to him, available for his use, even my inner thoughts and reactions. And of course, when I told him I like it when he says that, he looked at me and said, “I know.”
We finished talking, and The Super Sadist cleared space so we could settle in for a long beating session. He had me hands and knees on the floor, ass in the air. I closed my eyes and listened to him move around, trembling slightly in anticipation. He started beating me, warming me up at first, and then hitting me harder. He struck at my ass and thighs. He beat my shoulders. Hands and fists and feet, elbows and knees. Implements. A dowel, a metal rod, a broken off mop handle. A riding crop. His belt. Whipping me with rope. Next, I bent over the couch and he continued the pounding, focusing on my ass and thighs. As he started punching them, I started to moan. There were a couple times his fist hit the back of my upper thighs, I almost felt like I could have cum. Hands are my favorite things to get beaten with. It’s personal and intimate and degrading and insulting. I love it.
When he was finished (for the moment) with my ass and the backs of my thighs, The Super Sadist told me to turn around so he could start in on my tits. Before he began, I said to him, “You know how I don’t normally lube much?” He said yes, and I told him he should feel my cunt, that I really enjoy having someone hurt me, feel how wet I am, and then make fun of me for it. Most of the time, even when I’m very turned on, I don’t get very wet. This time, however, when he put his hand between my legs, he could feel my sopping wet cunt. I think he was prepared to make a mean or teasing remark about how wet I was for my benefit, since I’d said I enjoyed it, but instead he said, “This is actually pretty ridiculous.” I blushed and looked down.
Before I recovered from being identified as a painslut, he started hitting my tits. He slapped them, punched them, smacked them. I tried to keep my hands behind my back and give him the access that is his right. At one point, it got to be so much that I leaned into him and pressed myself against him, hoping to escape the beating. Instead, I got even harder punches in the tits, and a couple times in the ribs. I thoroughly deserved those. I shouldn’t have moved. Eventually, though, I wrapped my arms around him, hugging him and shaking, and begged him for a break, to stop. He didn’t have to agree, but he kindly did.
I had some water and watched him prop a window open and light a cigarette. Before this point, he had been smoking outside, like he always does. This change let me know I was in for a treat. We’d talked about me serving as an ashtray for him, which is a bit of play I’ve wanted to try for a while now. He had me kneel before him, mouth open, as he started smoking his cigarette. When he was ready to tap the ash into my mouth, I stayed as still as possible and closed my eyes, afraid of being burned. I felt the heat of the cigarette near my mouth, then tasted and felt the ash fall onto my tongue. He smoked the whole cigarette using me as his ashtray. He paused to take a few pictures, each one meaning the lit cigarette was near my mouth longer. He finally finished, but waited a little while before giving me permission to go spit it out and wash out my mouth, extending the experience. Finally, he let me rinse out and start to get ready for my next use.
