#punching

I love sarcasm. It’s like punching people in the face. But with words.

Not A Tumblr Dom just left after a fantastic date. We got pizza, watched Zoo, and then, while we were still cuddling on the couch, he started punching the fronts of my thighs.

He hit both of them at first, and then switched to primarily focusing on the right thigh, which was at a better angle for him. He punched me hard and really pushed me. At one point he told me, “I’m not holding back.” He wasn’t using his whole body, of course, since we were sitting, but he was hitting me with a lot of force.

He had me tense my muscle and punched that, which was even more painful, and then he had me stand up while he punched, which meant my leg couldn’t be relaxed. I had to hold onto his shoulder while he hit me, since there were several times I definitely would have fallen over from the impact if I hadn’t been supported by him.

We moved to the bed and he hit my thigh with the bike tire jack I have, and then said he could hit me win the sweet spot. So I flipped over and he started hitting right where my ass and thighs meet. With a good rhythm and the right angle and strength, that jiggles all the right bits and it’s super sexy and it’s the sort of thing that I could maybe cum from, if I got my mind and the sensations all lined up right (and maybe with a little clit action, too).

I asked if he wanted to hit my cunt from the front, and he did, so I hopped on the bed and turned over. He started hitting, and told me I could tell him if he should hit harder or softer, so I did. I think sometime maybe I could cum from that, too.

He switched back to hitting my thigh, and also used the knife straightening steel I bought for that purpose. It’s thuddy! He hit me with that, switched to the jack, and then went to punching again. The impact on the already reddened and raised area was a lot to handle, but I held out and took more than I thought I could.

We cuddled for a while after I couldn’t take any more, and then he headed home. My right thigh is super messed up. Where he was punching is red and really raised and engorged with blood. It hurts quite a bit to move my leg, and it’s even more painful to bend my knee or walk on it. I’m really pleased with that, especially since I’ll be doing quite a bit of walking over the next few days. He’s so much fun!

Also! During the really intense punching on the couch, Not A Tumblr Dom told me he was proud of me for taking so much for him! That made me grin and do a happy little butt wiggle. I’m proud of me, too. I took a lot of pain and I was such a fucking champ about it!

I’m having to pull an all-nighter for work because I’m doing a training all week, but someone still insisted that it was very important for me to do something for them, so that sucks.

On the other hand, I just had a very lovely evening with The Violinist where he came to my apartment (instead of me having to drive). When he first arrived, we talked about our days and he did some rope with me. Throughout the evening, I tried to be good about responding with his chosen honorific-type address, his name. Of course, I failed to do it consistently enough, and each time, he’d smack me hard on the sternum. I like to think I improved after the corrections. I know that I definitely felt more natural saying, “Yes, [The Violinist]” and “I’m glad, [The Violinist],” and such as the evening progressed. After he put on a chest harness that made taking deep breaths very difficult, he started hurting me, eliciting gasps and whimpers and yelps that made him grin.

Turned on by my suffering and the d/s-y use of his name, the obvious next step was for him to fuck me hard. He pushed in, clearly loving it, and told me, “I missed my cunt.” Then, when he flipped me over to fuck me from behind, he told me, “I missed your cunt.” I responded in kind, that I’d missed his cock. I loved hearing both of those things from him. It makes a girl feel good to know that her cunt is satisfying enough to miss. And it makes me happy to have someone say that it belongs to him, not to mention the second meaning of cunt that tells me he missed me. (Which he also said outright in a super adorable way, “I missed you. Like, way more than I thought I would.”)

He thrust deep, hurting me even more (better) in that position. He went hard and fast, and I pushed back into him, his cock slamming into me. He sped up, his breathing changed, and then he came, sliding in and out of me several more times as he did. He pulled out and we cuddled as he basked in his post-orgasm glow.

When he came out of it, we kept playing. He teased me and grabbed me and drew out some lovely pain noises as we kissed and touched each other. Eventually, he pushed my legs up and started slapping the backs of my thighs rapidly and hard. I gritted my teeth and groaned from the sting. When he stopped, he smiled at me and said, “What’s a warm up?” in a laughing tone of voice. I smiled back and said, “That is a warm up.” The way his eyes lit up almost made me regret saying that.

He repeated the treatment, and when he paused, I dropped my legs and rolled over onto my stomach, whimpering. He asked, “What?” and I pouted and said, “That hurt.” He laughed a little and replied, “I know. That’s why I did it.” Then he knelt on my shoulders, holding me firmly in place. I began to wince in anticipation, gasping when he moved. When he resumed smacking my thighs, I gripped the sheet and cried out. I was relieved when he started punching instead. He started pretty light, but as he got more comfortable with the position and my ability to take what he was doling out, he hit harder, alternating between the two legs.

Of course, he’d intersperse this delightful thuddy pain with more smacking, which made me thrash. To no avail, of course, since he was on top of me, keeping me where he wanted me. When he finally stopped, I turned over, laying on my back and looking at him. I said I’d enjoyed it, and he said, “Well, at least the punching.” I did like the punching more, but told him that I liked the slapping as well, since “I like bruises and slapping breaks things” (clearly coherent after that bit of impact play). I also said I liked the fact that he was on top of me, since it made it easier to take the pain. He lifted my legs to admire his handiwork and, after seeing that the right was more red than the left, asked me, “Should they be even?”

I cringed, not answering at first, but knowing full well that I would throw myself under the bus. I hemmed and hawed for a moment until he made me answer. I looked down and said in a small voice, “Yes, they should be even.” He was pleased, and lifted my leg back up. Instead of slapping it, he punched it, not starting soft this time. He punched repeatedly, hard enough that I could tell I wouldn’t be able to take it for very long, even though I like and can handle thuddy better. He was beating the shit out of me now, and clearly super into it. I teared up a bit from the pain and feeling bad about wanting to make him stop. I resisted safewording for a little, but as I turned onto my side and he held my leg in place, the pain and (totally unnecessary) guilty feelings about wanting to put an end to the impact made me start actually crying. I managed to whimper out, “Red, red!”

Without hesitation, The Violinist stopped immediately and lay behind me, holding me as I cried. I apologized for safewording, to which he responded, “No.” I know it’s not something to feel bad about or apologize for, but I did. I communicated that to him and told him that I was okay, I just needed it to stop. He was entirely understanding and reassured me repeatedly that it was fine and good for me to tap out when I need to. That’s obviously the response I should expect, but it’s nice to have it happen.

We cuddled, kissed, and played a little, and then he asked me if getting off would help me get work done. I said, “Whatever you want, [The Violinist],” and he told me to give him a real answer. “Well, it couldn’t hurt?” I responded. He laughed and told me I could masturbate. I caught the wording and asked if I could come.

“Ask again later,” came the obvious response. I lay back and pulled out my bullet, pressing it to my clit. The Violinist sat next to me and watched, slapping and punching my inner thigh occasionally, which both turned me on and distracted me. I settled into a groove and he got on top of me, pressing me into the bed, his thigh between my legs. I moaned and started fantasizing hard. My orgasm snuck up on me, and I almost forgot to ask permission. Almost.

I opened my eyes and asked, “May I please cum?” He responded, “Ask again later.” I tried again, with what I thought was a good enough correction, “May I please cum, [The Violinist]?” but he repeated his previous response. My eyes widened and I worried my orgasm would be ruined. I said, “May I please cum, [The Violinist]? [The Violinist], may I please cum? Please, [The Violinist], may I cum?].” It was some of the most genuine begging I’ve ever engaged in. I was frantic and heartfelt and incredibly desperate. [The Violinist] finally granted me permission and I got back into it. I started to cum and he wrapped his hand around my neck, squeezing. I felt it in my head as my orgasm continued, and rode that lovely combination of sensations as long as I possibly could.

When I opened my eyes, [The Violinist] was looking at me. He looked pleased and said, “Your face when I told you to ask again…” he trailed off, closed his eyes, and made a pleased noise, like he was savoring the memory. Hearing him say that was a big turn on. I really enjoy how much pleasure he took from my reaction to him playing games with my head. Sadists are fun.

What a lovely evening. The fucking and the beating were quite satisfying, and I’m even optimistic that I’ll get bruises out of it. I’m so glad he came over. It was something that both of us needed, even outside of the fact that it was incredibly fun. It was a lovely preward (pre-reward?) for staying up all night doing work.

Happy hour last Tuesday (8.26.2013) went well. I started the evening talking to Vegan Boy. After a little while, I noticed someone new to me, Mad Hatter, talking to someone new to the local scene about the community in the area and about poly stuff. Besides the fact that Mad Hatter and the girl he was talking with were both attractive, I thought the conversation sounded interesting and like I might have something to contribute to it. Vegan Boy and I joined in their conversation. At one point, Mad Hatter made a comment about some kind of fairly edgy play and laughed at the differences in the reaction I had versus the reaction the other girl in the conversation had. He seems fun and I think I’ll try to get to know him better. By which I mean play with him and/or have sex with him.

I was having such a good time talking to people that I decided to skip the class that was being offered upstairs. I went up to the bar to get another drink and The Violinist made a comment to me about something or other. I’d seen him around and talked with him a bit before. He’d seemed like someone I might enjoy playing with, so after we reintroduced ourselves, I invited him to leave the bar and come join me on the couch.

We started talking and eventually the conversation turned to our kinks, of course. He mentioned rope, but then emphasized a more sadistic side. Then he literally self-identified to me as a “reaction junkie.” Well, obviously my reaction was “Well, hello there!” He started messing with me a bit while we were sitting downstairs on the couch. Eventually, the class was over and we headed upstairs.

The Violinist started hitting my thighs, smacking them with the paddle and his fists. He put his hand around my throat, called me names, dug his nails in, and scratched me. I was squirming around his lap and making lovely little noises. While he was hurting me, we were also having some nice conversation and getting to know each other. At one point I looked over and noticed that Vegan Boy was patiently holding the water I’d told him to bring me. I eventually managed to tell The Violinist that I should give Vegan Boy some attention (also I wanted to hit the kid), and we made plans to go back to my place after happy hour.

I started playing with Vegan Boy. I was slapping and hitting his arms and thighs and built up to punching him. He actually had his clothes off this time, and I was eventually hitting him basically as hard as I could. He asked me if I wanted to spank him, and I said “Sure!” I wanted to have a spanking bench put together, so I turned to Vegan Boy and said, “Watch this.” I went over to one of the nice young men watching, and in a cute little voice, asked him if he would help me put together a spanking bench with the ottomans sitting around. He obviously said yes, because who can resist an adorable young woman asking for help making a piece of furniture so she can hit someone? Vegan Boy bent over, and I started spanking and hitting him. I even got to spend some more time punching him, and from this angle I was able to put my hips into it a little. I know I’m not super big and strong, but oof this guy can take a lot. I need to build up my own stamina so I can hurt him more. And I need to toughen up my poor hands.

At the end of the night, I went to the fast food place with The Violinist and a group of people. When we left to go to the train, he put his hand around the back of my neck and left it there the entire time, guiding me to the station. While waiting for the train, he kept hurting me, mostly by digging his nails in and dragging them along my skin. I really enjoyed the challenge of trying not to cry out in pain when he scratched me. When we got to our final stop, he put his hand back on my neck as we walked to the car.

When we got back to my place, we brushed our teeth and then he dragged me to the bed. While he was hitting me, he made me hump his leg continuously, and any time I’d stop, he’d remind me to start again. When I started doing it without being told, he’d say “Good bitch.” I really enjoyed that, actually. He kept referring to me that way when I did something he liked, like I was being a well-trained bitch. At the beginning of the night, he told me “I’m not going to hit you in the face” (that night). Of course, that didn’t stop me from flinching all over the place, since I was still coming down off spending a bunch of time with Reaction Junkie, who hit me in the face a bunch. And because I just get flinchy around people who hit me. The Violinist beat me and punched me and scratched me and slapped my tits. I was moaning and grinding on his leg like a bitch in heat. Then he bit my tit so hard I cried. The crying didn’t bother him, which was good, but I felt weird about it because it was the first time we’d hung out.

When I recovered from the crying, he hit me for a while longer and then growled, “Do you want to get fucked?” I immediately said “Yes please!” He grabbed a condom and started fucking me nice and hard. He asked at one point, “How important is it to you that you cum tonight?” I responded that it wasn’t important, unless it was important to him. When he heard that, he had me flip over and fucked me from behind until he came. Then we cuddled up and passed the fuck out.

In the morning, we woke up earlier than necessary, and I started grinding against him a little. He asked “You want it again?” Of course I did. I’m an insatiable slut! So he gave me a nice morning fuck. Then I gave him breakfast and drove him to the metro. Before he got out of the car, he said we should do something at an event, so I’m super excited for the next party because I love getting hurt in public. I’m pretty pleased with myself for being such a good slut, having my first real conversation with a guy and taking him home with me the same night. Now, that’s my kind of happy hour.

lesbianmisogynist:

I was asked by a follower what it was I found sexual about punching a girl. This was asked some time ago and in response to something I said. I think I have time to finally sit down at a keyboard and put together an answer. 

Some people want instant gratification and to those people I say this: I’m a sadist, I enjoy it. 

Now for a more complete answer. Some people like their nipples pinched during sex and they find that erotic. Some people like to be scratched, to feel nails rake their skin. Some people are into choking. Slapping. Spanking. Paddles. Crops. Canes. Bullwhips. Cattleprods. If those things are all sexual, in terms of eroticising pain, why should a punch surprise anyone? 

I suspect, though I could be way off the mark, that it’s because a punch is something you do in the middle of a brawl and all the other things I listed are either unlikely to be done in a fight or so theatrical and scene specific as to be completely disconnected with violence. In part I guess it’s that very base nature of it that makes me like punching a girl. It surprises them. 

To be clear I’m not talking about a right hook to the jaw. Well, not for the most part. I’d be lying to say that if a girl admitted being punched in the face was within her limits that I would choose not to do it. That aside I am, for the most part, talking about very specific types of punching. One is a form of corporal punishment. Just like spanking I will literally take my fist and drive it into a girl’s buttocks or thighs repeatedly until knuckle-patterned bruises form. It’s a quirk on spanking and it’s fun. Another is tit punching. Some girls have large breasts that hang and wobble and shake amusingly. Sometimes you have to slap them around. Sometimes you have to punch hem. The last is perhaps my favourite and that’s gut punching. 

One single blow to the belly can completely wind a girl and even take her from her feet if you’re lucky. It’s something to do just as her arousal is building up, just when she’s on the edge of losing her mind. A severely ruined orgasm. Build her up and then put a fist in her stomach to take her right down again. 

Considering the breath play, needle play, knife play, cigarette play and the like we see on S&M blogs every day the level of violence represented by a punch really shouldn’t be all that shocking but at least now I hope you understand it a little better. 

To once more return to the concise answer: I find your submission sexually arousing and allowing me to punch you is a very submissive act.

I can say from the other side that this is really on point.

Being punched and kicked are my favorite kind of impact. They’re more personal, more connected, and more degrading than being hit with an implement. I especially love being punched and kicked in the back of my thighs and my ass.

And being punched in the stomach is fucking fantastic.

Part 3

In the morning, The Violinist and I both slowly woke up. I rolled over and gave him a good morning kiss. In return, he grabbed me and started hurting me. Sigh. How do I find such lovely men? He started punching my inner right thigh, working to “even out” the two sides of my body. I realized I had my mean paddle in my purse, so of course I told him. He pushed me towards my bag, telling me to retrieve it. I grabbed it and handed it to him. Next thing I knew, I was on my back and he was smacking my leg with the paddle. I fought not to make too much noise and grabbed a pillow to help me stay still. As he repeatedly hit my leg, I bit down on the pillow to stop myself from screaming.

When he finally stopped smacking my thigh, I needed a moment to catch my breath. He looked down at me, taking in my reactions to the treatment he was doling out, and grinned at me with a sadist’s grin. He leaned down and very lightly bit the bruise on my left inner arm that was the result of The Unknown Quantity’s rope. I yelped and pushed him away. I said, “Ouch! That really hurt. A lot.” He just laughed and hurt me some more.

All of my suffering was turning him on a lot. He grabbed a condom and started fucking me. I started rubbing my clit while he used my cunt. I don’t normally get off during piv for a number of reasons, but I thought it might be possible. Then he started making those kissing noises at me, instructing me to reach up and kiss him. This time, however, he was entirely out of reach. I whined at him and he told me to pick between kissing him and an orgasm. I responded, “A kiss!” and he let me reach up and grab his hair and pull him to me. I don’t regret that decision. I’m always really happy to find someone I actually enjoy making out with.

He motioned for me to assume the position, and I turned over, head down, ass up. Although he’d fucked me like that before, this time he took advantage of his knowledge that when he thrusts deep, it hurts. He fucked me so hard from behind and slammed into my cunt so deep that I actually pulled away a couple times. Each time I pulled away, I moved back, of course, because I know my place. I cried out and trembled, trying to handle his cock and not move. When he came, he came hard, making sexy noises and collapsing on top of me. I know he came hard because when he got up to deal with the condom, he couldn’t walk straight and almost tripped. Hee hee.

We cuddled and talked for a good while after that. He asked what I was doing after the next happy hour. I said I might be able to have him over, but I wasn’t sure. I do like this guy quite a bit, but I was, to be honest, leaving my night open for Reaction Junkie. I enjoyed The Violinist’s conversation and company a great deal, and I’m looking forward to getting to know him better and connect with him more. He’s mean and I like it. Eventually it was time to go, and he sent me off to see my parents covered in bruises I had to hide or brush off and feeling satisfied and happy.

Part 2

I drove The Violinist and myself back to his apartment. We stopped on the way to get food, since I was starving. The first thing he said when we walked through the door was, “Strip.” I smiled, relishing being ordered around. I took off my clothing and we talked and ate. He was sitting in a chair and instructed me to sit at his feet, which I appreciated. When we were done with the food, he grabbed me and tossed me onto the bed to start hurting me. He’s most definitely a sadist, judging by how thoroughly he was enjoying my reactions to the suffering he inflicted on me.

He pushed me over so that I was face up on the bed, and got on top of me. He’s a boney motherfucker, so when he jabbed his knees into my already tender thighs and leaned his weight on me, it hurt like hell. He was slapping my thighs and tits, and then started punching. The thighs I could handle, and, in fact, I like having my thighs punched. But the tits? Oof. I much prefer having them slapped. I felt his fist pounding my flesh and writhed and fought my instincts, trying to stay still.

Throughout all of this, and the rest of the night and the next morning, he would make kissing sounds at me, like you would make to get the attention of a dog or cat, and lean just out of reach. I’d have to stretch up, usually worsening whatever pain he was currently causing, and struggle to kiss him. I don’t like kissing most people most of the time, but I enjoyed both the belittling, degrading nature of the game and the way he kisses.

We have an ongoing joke that he needs to even out my bruises after he spent one night giving all of his attention to my left thigh. I foolishly pointed out the bruises on my upper inner left arm to him. He started to press on the bruise left by The Unknown Quantity’s rope, but I jerked away and told him it was incredibly painful. He was feeling magnanimous, I suppose, because instead of using those bruises against me, he grabbed my upper right arm and dig his thumb in. I thrashed around, but of course I had no hope of stopping him. He left two obvious thumb prints on my arm, which, in combination with the ones from The Unknown Quantity on my left arm, mean that I’m back to constantly wearing a sweater or hoodie at work.

The Violinist wasn’t done yet. Far from it. He started grabbing my sensitive thighs and digging his nails in. I struggled and half-tried to get away, making nosies that were much louder than they should have been. I pressed my face into the bed as The Violinist mercilessly squeezed my thighs. I tried and failed to stifle a half-groan, half-scream, and he pushed my head harder into the mattress. He continued to work at my legs with his hands and I kicked and struggled not to be too loud. As the pain grew, screams turned to whimpers, and whimpers into tears. I’d started crying.

While crying isn’t a safeword for me, upon making someone cry, some people choose to stop of their own volition, especially when the crying wasn’t expected. Although I know crying doesn’t bother him (he seems to enjoy it, in fact), The Violinist allowed me to have a chance to catch my breath and stop crying. When I had recovered, we got back into things, him hurting me, me making pain noises. Eventually, he pushed me towards the bathroom and told me to take out my tampon.

When I returned, I lay down on the bed and spread my legs for him. He pushed his cock into my cunt, and I moaned. He has a nice cock that hurts a bit when he pushes it in the whole way. When he discovered that I made pained expressions and noises when he did that, he was delighted. He fucked me hard, continuing to hurt my tits and slapping me in the face a few times. He motioned for me to flip over, and fucked me from behind until he came, groaning and panting.

When we’d both caught our breath, he let me go get my vibrator. He wouldn’t tell me that I had permission to cum before I got close, so I started masturbating with some trepidation. I hadn’t gotten off since the previous Monday, but this time, the arousal from the party and playing with The Violinist did the trick. Within a few minutes, I was close. “May I please cum?” I panted. He waited a couple of beats before giving me permission, and I came hard, shuddering and moaning. I continued to experience aftershocks from the orgasm for several minutes. We cuddled up and both passed out, exhausted from the evening.

I was in need of a good weekend. The week before last I’d had a depressive episode that left me feeling down, unlike myself, and with a mostly dead sex drive. Seeing Legolas on Monday helped me come most of the way out of it, spending the night with Reaction Junkie and hanging out with Legal Lolita on Wednesday helped even more, and so did not being home alone and awake for more than a couple hours a day during the week. But I still wasn’t completely out of it, especially with regards to my sex drive and ability to get off. I was hoping the weekend might help, since I was planning to go to at least one, probably two, parties. Little did I know, I’d have a fucking fantastic weekend where I’d get to spend lots of time with Reaction Junkie, have some excellent play with someone new, and make awesome new friends.

On Friday, I got to the play space a little later than I’d intended, but decided not to let myself stress about it. I payed and went inside. I actually saw a couple people I know talking, so instead of doing my customary overwhelmed thing where I go to the bathroom and chill for a minute upon entering the space, I just walked over to this group. Anti-Feminist Libertarian Boy was there, and he and I had a pleasant conversation. Also, despite finding his worldview abhorrent, I have to admit that he looked pretty good in jeans and a black tanktop. He claimed that he took his button down off because it was hot inside, and I asked, “Is that the oooonly reason?” He admitted it was also because he knew his arms looked good and owned up to being a complete douche because he’d switched his arm leg days at the gym so he could do arm day just a few hours before. As soon as he said “leg day,” I had trouble not laughing, so I went to go get water.

When I came back out, I started talking with The Unknown Quantity. We’d talked at happy hour a few times and seen each other around. We were talking about plans for the evening, and I asked him if he wanted to do a scene. He agreed and we started negotiating. He said he was more sensual than sadistic, but I tend to bring out the sadism in people, and this time was no different.

After all the pain and discomfort and wiggling and pain noises, he ended the scene when I said “red” to him using two fingers to press in really hard on my left nipple. I maybe should have yellowed instead, but it was probably about time for the scene to be done anyway. I actually did need aftercare, which is pretty impressive considering I don’t usually “need” it. I enjoy it with certain people, and sometimes want it, but I definitely went into subspace and got lightheaded with The Unknown Quantity. I was feeling better after we cuddled, and I got sassy and said “Somebody should wipe down this mat. Not me!” He indulged me and said he would do it if I went and got wipes. When I came back, the guy who wanted to use the mat next said that he would wipe things down, so I handed the wipes to him.

I looked over and noticed that Reaction Junkie was standing nearby, so I bounced over to him, still feeling headspacey and giddy. He told me that the scene was very hot, which made me happy to hear. Then I noticed that he looked not okay and saw something in his face that concerned me. I asked how he was doing. Not well. He’d been having a rough time over the last week, which I’d known from seeing him on Wednesday, but it hadn’t gotten better. In fact, he’d decided it would be best for him not to be alone that weekend. I was glad that on Thursday I’d offered to drive him to the Saturday party and that I would be staying with him that night.

We separated and I saw some more people I recognized. I said hello to the lady tops I’d met a few happy hours ago. When I told them I was doing very well because I’d just had a good scene, they laughed and said I seemed bubbly. It was good to see them. Especially because The Queene, who had offered to teach me CBT, again made me very happy by this time offering to teach me how to do sounding. I need to set up a time to learn, but I’m pretty excited!

When I left that group, I started feeling a little overwhelmed by the night, especially because I didn’t really see anyone to talk to. Since I wanted to write up the scene I’d just had while it was still fresh, I put on shorts and my hoodie (no shirt, obvs) and went outside. I started typing up my post about the scene and was almost done when Anti-Feminist Libertarian Boy came out. He was decompressing from a somewhat unsuccessful scene, and we talked for a minute before he read my signals and left me alone to finish my post. When I went back in, he was still sitting in the lobby, but got up and came back in to the party with me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

When your buddy has your opponent down and locked up in the middle of the backyard ring, always press your boot into his throat…….

…..an elbow to his throat will also work…….

Always yell out when you got some bearded punk in gold trunks down on the mats in pain…….

When you mount him and remind him what a pussy he is, always shove your fingers and hand into this mouth, down his throat, as you talk shit in his ear, reminding him who is in charge……

…..or just claw and rip it the fuck open……

When he tried to bridge up, always stomp him in the fuckin chin!!!

Always put him on the display so the dudes in the front row can trash talk him and remind him what a pussy he is…….

Always show off with your alpha pack the day before the match……

Always check out the goods……

If you’re leaned and tan and you got your slightly bigger pale opponent dazed in the corner, toss him a few more punches, keep him out of it……..

When you’re big bearded and are up against some lean wanna be punk, always aim to take his head off with your clotheslines…….

…..or stretch him out and punch his ribs, that’ll hurt like hell……

When you manage to get your bigger opponent down, lock him up and keep him under your control by going after his nips……

…..otherwise he might turn the tables and gain the win…..

…..or just go after the pec…..

If you have one of the tag partners outside the ring, always stretch out his arms against the canvas and double team that chest of his……..

…..or just go for the balls…..

Sometimes it’s the most basic and small holds that hurt like hell……like just pull back on his finger….look at the pain he’s in, even his partner is concerned……

Here the pull pulls back all the fingers and combines it with a fish hook……pain and humiliation, all in one!!!

Instagram: @gregwilliamsphotograpy

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