#safeword play
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.
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.
“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.
