Lifestyle Masochism Example (Asking to Masturbate)

This is part of the Lifestyle Masochism series. These are stand alone non fiction/memoir examples of the lifestyle sadomasochism we practice within our irrevocable consent framework, as discussed in the explanation post “What I Talk About When I Talk About Masochism”.

After waiting quietly in Mistress’ office doorway until I’m acknowledged, as always, I ask for permission to masturbate.

My thought process on this is that we have sex scheduled for 9PM tonight, just like every Sunday (and Wednesday and Friday—though the schedule later changed). I’m rarely allowed to come during this, and am sometimes permitted to masturbate afterwards—but unless I do so exceedingly quickly, I end up past my bedtime, which is permitted, but means I lose out on sleep. 

So I ask if I may do so now—about an hour before I’m scheduled to go start dinner. 

There’s the usual response to this. “Why?” and all that. The usual taunts. I explain my reasoning. But I sense more coming. There’s a lot of touchiness that isn’t going somewhere quickly enough to suddenly, teasingly flatline, end with permission and dismissal, nor slowly enough to be casual and actually distracted. There’s the hand around my collar, the hand around my throat, the hand tight in my hair, the way I get pushed and pulled around disorientingly. We end up in the dungeon.  

“Okay,” she says finally. “You’ll get to masturbate. But first, go get something for me to beat you with. And the vibrator.” 

“Yes, Mistress.” It’s a common enough order, the first part at least. 

I consider options, the whips hanging on hooks. Since I’m allowed a choice this time, I ask for an informed one: “Are you going to want me to be able to hear you?” In the case of loud implements, I tend to shield my ears if I can, sometimes meaning I don’t hear her orders, degradations, whatnot. So if she wants to chat while she beats me, I’ll pick something quieter, easily spoken over, something that doesn’t invoke my ear covering instinct. I reiterate some of this. 

“You can pick something loud.” 

So I do. I pick the item I happened to think about the most recently: a belt from a bin of impact toys, and pull the Hitachi from a drawer. 

I give them to her. “I think the cord ended up in your office?” 

“Yeah.” There’s more of the push and pull and taunt routine; there’s the bookshelf shaking behind me as my back hits it. The sun is going down already, and I didn’t turn the light on when I came in; everything is cast in shadow. 

Still, this moves us back towards her office, where we started, better lit. She tells me to grab the cord, grabs her coffee and water. Gives me a little shove, points to the bedroom down the landing. “I want you in that bedroom, naked. Now, march.” 

“Yes, Mistress.” I curtsy as always and go, but again she follows quickly, and I’m still in the process of stripping out of my daily uniform, sneaking in reapplying chapstick. I make sure to shed a few items first out of habit—my slave bell pager, which got the clip securing it to my leggings broken once already when she shoved me over and into the bed to beat me. (We traded clips after that, as she doesn’t wear hers and usually leaves it on her desk.) 

“Have you been a good girl lately?” she asks me. 

“I’ve tried.” I never say yes. I never say no. I can only tell her my intentions; the rest is up to her. 

“How have you tried?” 

“I… I rotated the mattress earlier.” One of my quarterly tasks I did today. “I cleaned a bunch extra yesterday.” Before my mom and sister came over. 

“Why did you choose this?” She holds up the belt as I finish undressing. 

“It’s like…” I try to get out the tropes that it invokes for me. The handiness of it, suited to the kind of random domestic violence we try to mimic, though this particular scenario doesn’t mimic the spontaneity as well as others.

Still, soon enough I’m bent over the foot of the bed, kind of over her knee—she sits at an angle—and the belt comes hard and fast and I’m not ready for it at all; I contain my struggle only enough to prevent another strike from catching my shin, and—thoughtfully, I think—try to bury my head in the blankets enough that the neighbors can’t hear me scream.

It can’t last that long—maybe a full minute—but it feels like so much longer—and it takes me several more seconds to gulp down enough air, like I’ve just surfaced from water. Still, everything in me begs for more. I almost ask. Her hand is between my legs, stroking me. “You know, the way you acted, you’d really think you were being hurt,” she tells me, among other things that become hazy. “But you’re wet.” 

She says more; she touches me more; I don’t remember details, I barely experience it in the moment, my mind only on the belt and if and when it will come again. And it does. It’s wonderful. Everything else goes away. I scream wordlessly; I don’t cry. A stark contrast to the usual quiet and stillness, of, say, weekly maintenance discipline, the breathy counting. And if she does this long enough, I adjust and go quiet relatively quickly.

I still want more, when it once again stops and I’m once again gasping like I’m drowning. We do this enough, I bet there won’t be a mark on me later; my body’s used to it. Still.  

She strokes me again, talking about the sort of sex scheduled for tonight. Using me like a sex toy and discarding me, not seeing to my needs, kicking me out of the bed to my slave furs (my usual blanket on the floor at the foot of the bed) to be leashed for the night when it’s done. Object. Toy. Mine. 

I repeat back whatever she prompts me to, even though words feel like something that happens to other people. “Yours.” 

The belt comes one more time. Something tells me it will be the last, and I find peace with that while it’s still coming. I think I’m quieter, stiller, this time. 


I do, on slightly shaky legs. She sits up on the bed, against the headboard, legs extended and parted in front of her. “Come here.” She gestures. I sit between her legs in front of her, leaning back against her a little, while she pins my legs open with hers. She holds the vibrator on me. It’s intense and pleasant. I could come if she told me to, but I’m not begging yet, which she reminds me I will. Her hand is around my throat; she whispers horrible things against my ear and makes me say them back. “I like it. I’m pathetic. I’m worthless. Yours.” 

At one point, she turns the vibrator up again—to setting three of four. I’m at the edge; I’m over the edge, not coming, but where it’s too intense for me to come, where my body is yelling make it stop not I want to come. When I masturbate—like I’d originally asked to—I frequently turn it up to setting four well before I’m done, but I also progress slower than we are right now. I squirm, trying to get it onto a more bearable spot, but, fearing the intensity might translate to orgasming, beg as ordered. “Please, Mistress, please, may I—” It’s a little panicked and incoherent. But she grants it.

“You may.” 

I fall into a strange wave of successfully adjusting, bringing the sensation back down into makes me come range instead of make it stop, then letting it do so, pleasure hitting intensely for a long time. I finally squirm away from the vibrator again, oversensitized, as it fades. “Th-thank you, Mistress.” 

“You’re welcome, slavegirl.” The vibrator shuts off. 

I stay settled against her and catch my breath for a minute.

“If you still want to masturbate…” she begins. 

I shake my head frantically. She laughs.

I quickly hop up to get dressed, since she told me I was allowed. I slip things back on; she leaves. It’s almost time to start dinner. 

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