When it comes to thud, I am a heavy impact masochistic bottom. I love a controlled measured thud, be it by belt or by flogger and it sends my head into deep, sleepy, amazingly relaxed spaces. Sting, on the other hand, is a horrible sensation that I struggle to process. Yet I still want it…
Recently, I’ve had a couple of play sessions where I’ve experienced lovely thud. The flogger coming down hard and fast on my back, across my shoulders, over and over in a punishing rhythm. Each hit sending me further into a delicious subspace, a space that I crave.
The belt, doubled over, easily controlled. Thick stripes covering my bottom, hit by hit by measured hit. Each impact harder to take than the flogger, but still reverberating through me, sending all the right signals to my brain. Every inch of my arse covered in red stripes, down to the tops of my thighs. A willing canvas.
The flogger used on my bottom. The main impact taken by my waiting, wanting flesh. The tails slowed by the hit, the ends wrapping round to catch the side of my thigh. Slight sting in comparison, but the proverbial icing on the cake. Taken to that headspace, I love to stay there, taking more strokes, letting them wash through me and over me.
One of my MFM fantasies involves being restrained, one man on either side of me, taking it in turns to lay their belt across my arse. They’ll take their time, setting up a manageable yet fast pace, each one wanting to hit harder, make me moan more. And I’ll sink into that headspace, taking all they can give.
Yet I struggle to process sting. Thud is easy. Thud connects physically, mentally and emotionally. Sting hurts.
Sting, whether cane or paddle has to happen slower. A bigger warm up. I don’t sink into any headspace where I can’t communicate in a flash. I slow down in the end, but it takes a beating for that to happen and I’m always able to signal somehow.
I hate a switch between implements and don’t cope easily with syncopated rhythms or random strikes. I need to know how many there are, have the encouragement to take them.
And being made to count is a horrible thing. It hurts my head. When there’s a set number of impacts and they’re at an even pace, I just about manage. My words slur into a litany of numbers and repeated phrases. In the past there’s been all sorts: asking for another, saying thank you and when we’ve played with dynamic, remembering to say ‘Sir.’ Having to keep two separate counts in my head was a hideous experience, particularly as there was no set rhythm and I became really concerned I’d failed, to the extent that I needed to talk about it afterwards as a debrief.
I would never choose sting. But it turns me on.
It turns me on precisely because I haven’t chosen it, that it’s being inflicted on me and it’s not my choice. It’s the ‘want not want’ effect.
TSH finds lovely ways to hurt me like this. He’s incredibly capable of finding just the right spot to hit. Enough that it hurts, but not too much and he’ll do it over and over. He’ll tell me what he’s going to do, even as I’m trying to say no, but in his words, “no is not a safe word.”
Recently, he spanked a very specific spot on the top inside of my thigh, just where my bottom and thigh meet. As he hit, the air pushed through my legs, across my cunt. Fear that he’d catch me somewhere really painful mingled with the synergistic sting of multiple blows in that same place.
In the past he’s caned the inside of my thighs as I’ve begged him to stop. I didn’t safe word. But I hated every second. Struggled to cope with the pain and was pushed to my limits.
At other times, he’s played with my head, hitting my calf over and over in the same spot, at a fast pace. Never enough to actually hurt but the building sensation tells my brain that it does. It hurts like hell but doesn’t hurt at all and I hate it.
And I also loved every second.
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