I’m No Masochist. I’ve Never Been A Pain Slut.

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memoryanddesire-stirring:

I’m no masochist. I’ve never been a pain slut. I cry when I stub my toe and go to great lengths to avoid anything with even the slightest possibility of pain. My take on paper cuts? A justifiable cause to avoid envelopes. Bang my head on a closet shelf? Cause for medical care and probably an MRI. Clover clamps? Should have been named nipple tourniquets from hell. I know how to take care of myself: avoid anything that hurts.

I know I’m supposed to like it—how does one belong in a BDSM lifestyle without liking pain? I’ll admit I love being bound, immobile, and used. I even like floggings and spankings and the like…to a point. But pain? Real pain? It does nothing for me. I don’t become instantly aroused with labia clips and nipple clamps. Or do I? Is it possible to be sure? 

Because I know, when I attempt those things, I wince, I curse, everything in my brain tells me to avoid it;, but there’s something else that I don’t quite understand: I keep doing it—and at the end of the day, I find myself smiling about it. Glad that I was able to withstand it…for Him. For only Him. 

At the end of the day, when He debases me, I learn my value; when He humiliates me, I learn humility; when He inflicts pain, I learn my strength. I learn that I am strongest when I show Him my weakness…The more I endure for Him, the more I want to give. I give Him this, because He has earned my utmost trust and devotion. 

He shows me patience and kindness, the need for discipline and allowance, and when each is appropriate. He teaches me the necessity for all those things, for myself as much as for others. He is the only person strong enough to help me learn those lessons, to free me from those fears that keep me bound in my own head.

I don’t want to hurt, to feel pain, to throb for hours on end waiting for relief, but I do. It isn’t the pain. Rather, it is because knowing that I withstand it for Him makes me proud, makes me feel stronger for having surrendered to it. 

Because making Him happy gives me a joy I’ve never felt before that goes far beyond any sexual pleasure. Because serving Him makes me better at…well…just being me. It grounds me and gives me focus. It reminds me who I am. Because hearing that He enjoys any task I’ve done solely for His pleasure gives me purpose.

It is not as simple as someone telling me to do something and doing it. It is sublimely different. It is giving in its purest form. It’s wanting to give over everything that I am to the Man who has earned it, whose will I long to follow, the Man for whom I am willing to face my deepest fears and accept intense moments of pain despite my own voices telling me to hide. 

Because that is the way to break down the barriers I’ve spent a lifetime building—to give Him that opening, that exposure, a blossoming of sorts, that no one has ever seen, that no one else has ever drawn from me. Only Him. Only He shows me who I need to be for myself. And in doing so, I feel safe. I feel protected. I feel loved.

I want Him to have it all: my fear, my tears, my anger, my passion…even my pain, and all my pleasure. I want Him to feel every thought, every need, every sense I have, because they belong to Him. To give Him all this, all that I am, all that I hope to be, I am willing to surrender to the fear, to the things I’ve avoided, to a will bigger than my own. 

I surrender to Him knowing that for all His savagery, there is tenderness. For all I endure, all the devotion I offer Him in my suffering, I receive His admiration and care back tenfold. I surrender because in everything I do, I am His: His servant, His slave, His lover, His ward. And He is my Dominant, my Master, my beloved Sir.

So, no, I’m no masochist. I’m something far better: I am His.