#mindfucks

Reaction Junkie pulled the duffel bag out from under his bed. “Get in,” came the not entirely unexpected command. He dropped it on the floor. “I don’t think I’ll fit,” I said, going over to and starting to get in anyway. “Oh, you’ll fit,” came the response.

He was right. I bent my knees back, scrunched down, and straightened my arms in front of me. I closed my eyes as he zipped up the bag. I hesitated a bit before the bag was closed, maybe even protested weakly. But when the last bit of the opening disappeared, I grew calm. I wasn’t struggling, just breathing in the dark, waiting and wondering what he would do. Underneath the calm, however, I could feel something lurking, ready to come out if I started to struggle or think too much about my situation, or if anything else happened to highlight how very trapped I was. I continued to focus on the calm part of my mind, keeping the panic at bay.

I took deep breaths as two conflicting thoughts raced through my mind. One was that I was zipped in a bag with little chance of escape, a dangerous and frightening predicament. The other was that I need to relax and maintain my composure. These two needs battled for control and I barely registered that Reaction Junkie had walked away until I heard something jingling. I felt his hands on the bag, and then he happily told me the padlock fit around the zippers on the bag. “Nonononono, ” I said. I didn’t really mean it, though. I knew he’d take me out if I needed him to. Almost certainly. Eventually.

*CLICK* He secured the padlock. Escape was now impossible. Reaction Junkie taunted and teased me. He picked up the bag, shaking me and highlighting the fact that he could do anything he wanted, take me anywhere he wanted. I would be entirely unable to resist, incapable of even trying to fight back. Although I still felt that undercurrent of fear, I enjoyed what he was doing, and mostly found it fun. Then he said he’d take me out.

I heard him messing with the padlock. After a moment, he said, “Shit. I don’t have the key. These aren’t the right keys.” At first, I didn’t believe him, but he insisted he was telling the truth. Concerned, but unconvinced, I said in a sharp tone, “Are you serious? [Reaction Junkie], don’t do that,” He replied, “Yes. It’s okay. Even if I can’t find them, we can cut you out.” It wasn’t all fun and games anymore, and I started to get worried. A bit of the panic that had been bubbling under the surface throughout this ordeal started to rise up.

That’s when he laughed, undid the padlock, and the bag zipped open. I blinked up at him and said, “Fuck you!” “I love you,” he responded, an impish grin on his face.

Note: I know this is a month late. Sorry! I’m working on catching up, but I’ve been so busy at work and socially.

I had plans to grab dinner with MLAM and Reaction Junkie before the Tuesday happy hour. MLAM and I were to meet about an hour before Reaction Junkie would show up, and have a little time to walk around and catch up one on one. As I rode the train to meet MLAM, I started feeling very nervcited. I hadn’t seen him in months, and we hadn’t talked much lately. When the train stopped, I walked slowly over to the escalator and took a deep breath before getting on. I looked around as I rode up, wanting to spot MLAM. I stepped off, turned, and saw him. I gave him a big hug and he picked me up, grinning. I felt my feet brush against someone and I turned around to see Reaction Junkie. I squeaked, happy to see him, and gave him a big hug as well. I was glad he was there because I love spending time with him, but I was also a little disappointed not to have any time one-on-one with MLAM.

I introduced the two men, both of whom have been major parts of my life, and we started walking. They’re both the bizarre kind of human being who is completely devoid of social anxiety, so they immediately began conversing. I joined in, as well, and we walked to the vegan restaurant for dinner. While we were there, the two men were both being dommy and mean, telling me to do things hurting me subtly , teasing me. They were basically co-domming me. It was a heady experience, feeling submissive towards and dominated by two people at once. I’m not sure if I was having a total blast or was completely miserable. (And of course that’s a lie. It’s obviously the former.)

After we finished eating, we headed to happy hour. I have to admit I was still feeling rather nervous. That resulted in me acting out a bit with Reaction Junkie. I tried to play it like it was me being toppy, but it was really something of a performance. As we walked, Reaction Junkie called me out on my nervous behavior and I worked to reign it in. Reaction Junkie had originally been planning to skip happy hour and go to a meeting, but he didn’t feel well, so he stayed. When happy hour began, I talked with people, introducing MLAM to some of my friends and other partners, but I tried not to be all over him because I wanted to let him do his thing or be too clingy. Looking back, that was silly. We hadn’t seen each other in months, so of course it would have been fine for me to glom on the whole night.

I spent some time in a lovely little cuddle pile with Anderson Cooper, Kitten, Reaction Junkie, and someone else I didn’t really know. The whole time, however, I was watching MLAM out of the corner of my eye, wondering when it would be appropriate to grab him and go upstairs for some time with him in a play-friendly setting. Finally, I decided I didn’t want to wait any longer, and I sidled up and asked him if he wanted to go up with me. He did, and we headed up.

As soon as we got upstairs and I put my things down, he grabbed my hair and led me around the space. He told me to put my glasses in my bag and dragged me back towards it. I asked what he wanted me to take off, but he said he’d take off what he wanted off. I like that answer. I certainly don’t mind when people I play with allow me to take off what I want, and when I’m just beginning to play with someone, that’s the proper way to go about it, in my opinion. But having him tell me that he’d do it, and knowing that I’d take off what he told me to. Mmph. It’s the little things, and he’s very good at those small details, creating and solidifying the dynamic.

Next, he started leading me around my my nipple, which hurt like fuck. He pushed me down on one of the ottomans and I sat facing him, waiting expectantly. He began hitting my left leg a bunch, slapping my thigh repeatedly to warm up, and then hitting me harder. At one point, he stuck his hand in my face and instructed me to lick. I obeyed, although I wasn’t sure why he was doing that. Then, as he slapped my leg again with his wet hand, I remembered. It makes it hurt more because less gas is trapped between the hitter’s hand and the hittee’s body. (Or something physics-y like that. I think that’s right?) I’d forgotten that trick. He continued hurting me, and played with my mind, acting like he was going to hit me, then not, then going to hit me again, again not hitting me, finally hitting me, etc. By the end of the first round, I was shaking from the pain and the mental stress he was putting me under.

When we took a breather, I looked over my body and saw the marks already beginning to form. I asked MLAM if he would show Reaction Junkie how he did things, since he’s so good at leaving the kinds of marks I love. I almost didn’t ask because I didn’t want Reaction Junkie to feel like I was saying anything negative about him, but I know he’s not like that, so I did. They both stood over me. MLAM showed him things as they talked, Reaction Junkie tried them out, and they both mostly ignored me. It was objectifying and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

They both began hitting me. My legs were shaking and I was breathing fast as the two men beat my legs. When Reaction Junkie hit my right outer thigh, which he had destroyed the previous weekend, it overwhelmed me. I curled up around myself and had to take a break. Reaction Junkie got me some water and I caught my breath. When we resumed, I had one man on each leg, each hitting me and toying with me. MLAM showed how much he enjoys stressing people out psychologically with mindfuckery and headgames. It makes the pain worse with less effort from him. I lay back on the row of ottomans and closed my eyes. They were both beating me hard and fast, slapping and punching my thighs. I was shaking and groaning, struggling not to be too loud as I reveled in the sensations I was experiencing.

When there was a lull in the impact, MLAM asked me, “How do you feel about your ribcage?” I was confused for a moment, having gone into a headspace, but then agreed to having him hit me there. I lay down on the ottomans. MLAM started hitting my back, smacking down forcefully with open hands. It stung like fuck, and that mingled with the pain and fear and stress from when they were both hitting my legs. I started crying. I decided we should stop. Partially because I was about done, but more than that, because I don’t want to make people uncomfortable. This was a happy hour, not an official play party, and even if “light play” has no real meaning, I feel like someone crying could have been upsetting to someone in this non-play party context.

I cuddled and talked with MLAM for a little while after the scene was over. When I felt recovered, I got some water downstairs. When I went back up, MLAM was standing with a group of people that included Reaction Junkie. I went and stood by MLAM for a while, and I was thinking about joining Reaction Junkie when MLAM told me that if I wanted to go be by him, that was fine. I didn’t want to leave MLAM, but I also did feel the need to be by Reaction Junkie. So I cuddled up to him and spent the rest of the night talking to him and the rest of the group.

I had a great night, but MLAM apparently did not. He told me later that he felt like a third wheel, like he was intruding. That’s not at all how I felt about him being there. I didn’t realize he would feel that way at all. It didn’t even cross my mind. It likely would have been better if MLAM and I had had some time for just us before meeting up with Reaction Junkie. When I talked with Reaction Junkie about things the next day, he admitted that he had felt similarly, and had been trying to stay out of our way. I’d spent more of my concern about hurt feelings than necessary on Reaction Junkie, and not enough on MLAM. I regret not having alone time with MLAM first, and not spending more time with him at happy hour. Next time, I’ll do a better job of actually talking to people about how they want to interact in situations like that. I’m still very glad MLAM came to town, and the other two times we got together went much better. I do miss him, and I hope to get a chance to see him sometime in the near future.

Part 2

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.

A few days after Reaction Junkie and I had our conversation about d/s, we stopped at the grocery store on the way home from work. In the car, he had taken a  dominant tone with me, and he didn’t let a little thing like being in public prevent him from continuing. As we walked through the store, he kept grabbing me and whispering comments into my ear, reminding me of my place.

I was getting turned on by what he was doing and saying and Reaction Junkie could tell. He laughed at me a little, and asked if my cunt was clenching. He didn’t need to wait for my response to know the answer. Of course it was. I always get turned on when he exerts his dominance over me and reminds me that no matter what we do, at the end of the day, he owns me.

At one point, I knelt down to look at something on a bottom shelf. Reaction Junkie came over to stand next to me. He made some comment about me being on my knees, which obviously made me think about sucking his cock. Just as I was thinking that, he said, “Suck my cock.” I thought he meant over his clothes,   and when I started to stand up to continue shopping, he said, “Suck my cock.”

At first I thought he meant for me to put my mouth on his crotch over his clothes. The idea of doing that made me a little nervous, and more than a little excited. Being seen doing that probably wouldn’t land him, or even me, in any trouble, but I would probably be too mortified to go back. I was about to ask if that’s what he meant for me to do, thinking I would definitely do it, despite my worries about doing so in public.

Before I could say anything, however, Reaction Junkie added to his command, “Take it out.” That threw me, since I didn’t know whether or not he meant it. Actually having his cock out in public could potentially negatively affect him, not just me. If I hadn’t been concerned about what consequences he might face, I would have immediately grabbed his cock and started sucking. As it was, however, I started to stand, deciding that he wasn’t serious. The look on his face made me uncertain again.

I returned to my knees, then tried to get up again. I went back and forth between kneeling and standing multiple times, not knowing what the right thing to do was. I tried to figure out from his expression what he wanted, even tried to ask a question, but Reaction Junkie just looked entertained, and I couldn’t figure out what to ask. He even added to the mindfuck, instructing me to stand and then ordering me to suck his cock in quick succession.

Being ordered around and being fucked with had me turned on and subby. I wanted so badly to obey, but I had no idea what I was supposed to do. Reaction Junkie had broken my brain.

He laughed and made fun of me for being unable to decide if I should get up or stay down, telling me how I looked, confused and stuck half-way between standing and kneeling. Finally, he told me I should stand. We finished grocery shopping, and the whole time he kept whispering to me about what had just happned. My desire to do what he’d commanded, my uncertainty, and my vascillation between standing and kneeling.

The fact that I would have sucked his cock in the aisle of the grocery store proved that I will follow his orders even if it would make life difficult for me. And fucking with my mind demonstrated that it isn’t just my body he owns. My mind is also his to do with as he will. He’d given me a perfect reminder of where I really stand (or, in this case, kneel) in our relationship.

Part 1

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.

Two Sundays ago, I spent the evening and the night with The Violinist. The first thing he did when I walked in the door was to institute a new rule. When I’m in his apartment, I’m not to wear any clothing. I grinned (I love rules like that) and stripped. We talked for a little while, and then he picked me up, threw me onto the bed, and we started to play. There was lots of impact, grabbing, scratching, squeezing, and fucking. It was mean, painful, frightening, and hot.

My favorite part of the play we did involved a little game The Violinist was on top of me, pinning my arms and legs down with his legs. I had told him I wouldn’t be able to take as much impact on my right tit as the left because Reaction Junkie had focused on that side the night/day before. The Violinist slapped my left tit hard, kissed me, and then slapped me again. Kiss, slap, kiss, slap, kiss, slap. The switch between the painful impact and the enjoyable kissing threw me for a mental loop, even besides the obvious physical pain. I started trembling, whimpering, and flinching whenever he came in for a kiss.

Finally, he stopped, and I thought it was over. He made out with me, and I relaxed a little until he sat up and said, “That was ten kisses.” My eyes went wide, and I started shaking. These were not little slaps he was going to do. He was going to hit my tit hard, many times in a row. He started slapping, and I fought the urge to cry out. He did five in a row and then paused. I was starting to cry as he began again, completing the other five slaps.

Then he kissed me again. I tried to move my head, desperate to avoid more pain (terrible plan, I know). He forced me to let him kiss me, and then administered five more good hard slaps to my left tit. I was crying pretty hard by this point. He looked at me, pleased with his work, and said, “I think that’s enough for now.” I nodded, unable to answer verbally.

After I’d recovered, I wanted to check in with him, so I asked, “You don’t mind tears, do you?” He smiled and responded, “I like tears.” I like a sadist who enjoys the products of his labor.