Lifestyle Masochism Example (The Rice)

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 here.

Morning inspection happens at 10:30 as always; Mistress checks my morning service tasks, looks me and my uniform over in Inspection Position, approves; I apply sunscreen for her. 

When we’re done today, she says, “When you’re ready, come to my office.” 

“Yes, Mistress.” 

I have a few chores to see to, packing up and planning to do, before I’ll be ready to head out for a few outside things. I clean the litter box, move the laundry to the dryer, so on. 

I know, somehow, by her tone, that she has some unpleasant thing in store for me before we leave. I turn over guesses in the back of my mind as I do the chores. 

On her daily planning template, there’s a section labeled “How to Harass Hannah Today”. This amuses her. The whole joke of it’s not like I wake up in the morning and plan how to screw up your life today. Except, she does. In her morning planning, something gets penciled in. Last night, I noted that her page for the day said, Make knell (sic) on rice, though that hadn’t happened. My best guess is that it got pushed to today, and that’s what’s coming, though it occurs to me that her carpeted office is an odd place for this. 

When I get to her office, I wait in the doorway silently as required. She beckons me in, and I note a large, sturdy but relatively thin wooden cutting board on the carpet, bearing the anticipated rice, before she says it. Ah.

She has me take my leggings and underwear down to below my knees, but generously not off entirely, since I already have shoes on; at her order, I set my pager that was clipped to my clothes to the side. I’m right here; she doesn’t need to page me. She tries a few things with my shirt and bra for more aesthetic exposure, but they’re not staying in place; they come off entirely. 

I kneel up on the cutting board. We’ve mentioned the rice a lot, but oddly I don’t think we’ve ever done it. It’s uncomfortable, but not the utter agony I’ve heard about in FetLife writings, though few things are for me, which is a fun challenge. 

Just the rice isn’t exciting for her, either. She yanks on my hair, pinches my nipples hard, hits me wherever’s accessible, tries to get me to go down on her, but the angles don’t really work, and it’s brief. I squirm, but stay on the rice. 

Today’s lecture is, “You know, if I did this to someone else, I’d be like, in jail. But you, you love it.” But me, I beg for it. But me, I can handle whatever she throws at me. But me, I’ll do anything for her. But me, I’m incomplete without the suffering. 

She picks up a metal ruler from her desk. It’s there for drawing and such, but it’s handy. She traces the front of my left thigh and selects a spot, tapping it. I tense and wriggle in anticipation. “Stay still,” she reminds me. “Keep your hands out of the way. This is metal; if you move your hand, I’ll break your wrist.” 

I’m wringing my hands behind my back. I keep them there. She hits that spot on my thigh with the ruler, hard, enough to leave an almost immediate, distinct welt. I hiss and writhe; it does have an unexpected bite. She picks another spot right below it. Same thing. Paces around to my other side, right thigh. Two more to, “Even it out.” One, two. Oof. 

Shortly after that, she lets me go. I stand, dress, and, unasked, clean up the rice. Some has ended up on the carpet, brushed out of my skin, where it left indents, and it’s quite a job to find all of the tiny white rice in the thick white carpet, though I quickly discover that if I brush my palm over the carpet, the remaining rice jumps up.

And soon enough, we’re ready to go. 

Lifestyle Masochism Example (Top Three for the Week)

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 here.

Sunday. As always, morning inspection at 10:30. 

Morning service tasks already done, I shut my 10:29 alarm and get in Inspection Position in the bedroom. I stand, legs spread, hands clasped behind my head. 

Mistress comes in. I’m silent, waiting for her to speak first. Speak when spoken to. She tells me my morning tasks were done well and on time, looks me and my uniform over, approves. 

“Thank you, Mistress,” I say, the required response to the praise. 

“You’re welcome, slavegirl.” She releases me from the position to fetch the nearby sunscreen and apply it for her: “You may get me lotion.” 

I do. And normally, that’s it. 

Today, though, it’s not. “Remove all of your clothing.” 

I do. Meanwhile, she seeks out a few items. Removing my leggings and underwear is painful today. On Friday night, we did an impact scene—paddles, full force, thirty minute timer—that had me dripping blood on the floor before finishing with the barbed wire “flogger” I made (barbed wire duct taped together). It looked like a horror movie scene—blood drops on the carpet, blood soaked implements, blood rushing down the shower drain. A barb flew loose from the flogger after catching in my skin, landing on the floor. 

It was supposed to be a catharsis scene, but it got more silence and giggles than anything. It was fun. 

After all the blood, I spent Saturday draining so much plasma, it immediately soaked through my clothes no matter what I did, leaving clear wet spots wherever I sat. 

Now, my clothes stick to the wounds, and I have to peel them out. But Mistress has a solution. 

I step into the Pull-Up unprotesting. Diapers aren’t my thing—and that increases the fun for her—but I’ve yet to figure out a better solution. She lays on the humiliation verbally, but the reality is practical. 

With that in place, she has something else for me. The mostly used soap from the shower, wet. I let her run it over my tongue and place it in my mouth without protest, too. 

She places me in the corner—well, nose pressed to a wall, arms boxed behind my back, Corner Position—emphasizing how much this amuses her. 

I wait there. She takes a picture. I’m sure it’s quite an image. I wonder nonchalantly if she’ll post it. 

She leaves me there for a few minutes. I’m pondering the soap. The shape and size are okay right now, but the bar wouldn’t fit in my mouth brand new. It’s plain to look at, and the taste is unpleasant, but it doesn’t burn or tingle like some of the scented ones do. I should do something about this. 

(By Thursday, I’ve played with making my own cute, well shaped bars in various flavors for her to torment me with—and use around the house—including ones shaped for anal insertion, and an improvement on my ginger infused lube creation. I have plans to sell them.) 

Mistress comes back in and releases me from the corner, lets me rinse my mouth out, leaves me to redress in my uniform and go about my chores or, “Whatever it is slavegirls do.” 

… 

Tuesday, which means I give Mistress a pedicure at four o’clock. 

I’m done now, still cleaning up supplies, and soon off to start dinner. 

But Mistress has other ideas. She finds me again, putting a few things away in the master bath. “You may remove all of your clothing.” 

This order always leads to interesting things. Given the setting, I’m pretty sure I know what, and as I strip out of my uniform, I warn her that means dinner will likely be late (not served at six as always). 

“That’s fine. I can make dinner be late if I want. If I’d rather harass you.” 

“Thank you, Mistress.” The permission is kind of buried, but there, evoking the required response. 

She opens the shower door. “Kneel.” 

I do. The shower floor is cold and hard, and just big enough to manage my usual Kneeling Position—knees open, big toes crossed right over left, hands clasped behind my back, right over left, right thumb over left thumb—without touching any walls. 

She leaves me there for a minute, seeing to something in another room. Then returns.

She pees on me, and has me lick her clean, then turns the shower on full blast cold. I fly out of the sudden stream of water before I can realize what I’m doing, kneeling up and clinging to the doorway of the shower as she orders and shoves me back into the freezing water. She wants me there for a few solid seconds, soaking me with the removable shower head, before she leaves me to clean up with warm water. 

Or, “You may rinse off,” as she puts it, waiving the requirement to shave and present for inspection after. I’ll be free to finally start dinner.

“Thank you, Mistress.” 

… 

Friday. 

I’m making dinner, to be served at six as always. Steak is in the sous vide, soon to be seared; potatoes are boiling on the stove, soon to be mashed; asparagus is getting tossed and put back in the oven. Some mutual favorites. 

Mistress comes in, asks about the food. I answer. 

“Take off your shirt,” she orders in response. 

I glance at the various uncovered windows around, but comply. A neighbor could see in, but it’s not in plain sight. 

“And your bra.” 

I set both uniform items on the island. 

She produces two clothespins. No points for guessing where those are going. I’m not shocked by their appearance, either—I noted them sitting on her desk earlier. They were out of place—not in the dungeon—but, as I cleared a few dishes, trash, other out of place items, I left them, suspecting exactly this. 

She puts them on me. I bite my lip as she does. Then, the pain is low intensity, but achingly constant.

She presses the ice dispenser button on the freezer behind her, and traces my breasts and stomach with an ice cube, cold and wet, dripping down my skin. 

Then she reaches past me and pulls a fork out of a drawer. She dips it in the water boiling on the stove, holds it there for a few seconds. Presses it to my abdomen hard a few times, though it loses heat quickly, and she sticks it back in the water. 

The contrast is interesting—there’s a second where the now mild cold from the ice rapidly gives way to mild warmth from the fork before I’m struck by the burning heat of the metal, squirming a little. 

She cycles the ice and the hot fork for a minute, and finally her nails down my skin, a strange collection of pink marks. 

She talks about how she likes coming in and harassing me, having me as, “A toy to play with as I please.” She removes the clothespins. I bite my lip again, hold my breath. “You may get dressed.” 

“Thank you, Mistress.” 

I check on dinner. Evidently, she’s had her fill of entertainment for now.

Lifestyle Masochism Example (Pressure Pointed)

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 here.

I’m standing in the bedroom, kind of between activities, having just finished cleaning and shutting down the downstairs for the night, now settling in upstairs, without it being time for my final evening service tasks yet. I’m thinking that maybe I’ll type up some notebook pages when Mistress comes in, making sweet talk, which somehow ends with me tackled to the bed, on my back, pinned with my hands over my head in a way my shoulders really don’t want to stretch, with her on top of my legs. 

She’s still talking—something, we’re in a Lifetime movie, random violence, you love it, that’s pathetic, something—but I’m a bit distracted by her fingers digging into pressure points around my hips and thighs, sharp bursts of pain with aftershocks. She’s narrating: “See, you’re just in here minding your business, and then you get tackled and held down and pressure pointed. That’s a verb now. That’s how this works.” 

I’m still distracted by the pressure pointing, not entirely sure what comes out of my mouth in response, squirming. I’m still feeling aftershocks when she slaps me hard in the face instead, her hand settling around my throat, squeezing; the other presses into that spot at my hip again that takes away the rest of my oxygen, then hits me in the chest.

She tires of this, though, and I find myself flipped over—it’s always strangely disorienting, flips like that at moments like these; the world was already kind of small, her hair a curtain around my head, and now my face is mostly pressed into the comforter, and the person pinning me down is now also behind me, and everything spins. She yanks my uniform leggings and panties down, and I half see her throw my pager to the side, so the clip doesn’t get broken under me (again). 

She spanks me, hard, some slaps, but mostly punches, the kind I feel in my hips more than anywhere else, force and pain. I sink against the bed. “And you like getting punched in the ass.” The theme tonight seems to be, “You love it, you pathetic little pain slut. I bet it makes you wet.” She slips two fingers in me, abruptly—I make a choked sound—not that wet. Or that open, especially at this weird angle, with my legs kind of trapped closed. It just hurts. Not for long, though; after a few seconds, her fingers press at my lips, and I suck off what did drip onto them instinctively. 

Then the punching continues. “I wonder if you can come from this,” she says, which isn’t much of a question. I’ve done it countless times before—come from pain alone. The real question is if I can do it right now. Hmm. Probably, I think. “Just from being a punching bag.” And the punches keeps coming—force, pain, a lot more than cute, erotic slaps—fast, hard; sensation builds. “It goes with your whipping girl complex.” 

“Please,” I get out, mostly into the comforter, my way of saying, Yes, I can, and yes, I want to, though I can’t get down enough air to finish the question properly, the golden may, please, Mistress combo.

She pauses for a second, but only for a second, maybe to be able to hear me better, or give me enough oxygen to finish. But she fills it in for me: “Please, what? You want to come from this?” 

“Yes, Mistress—” 

She resumes. “Come, then.” 

So I do. People ask me about this part a lot, when I talk about orgasming from pain. It’s like any other orgasm, really. Sensation builds up and intensifies. A need for relief. A feeling of being overwhelmed. The endorphin rush. It’s a little more mental, a little less distinct, but it’s everywhere, and it’s an orgasm nonetheless, and I pant, “Thank you, Mistress,” when it’s over. 

“You’re welcome, slavegirl.” The unofficial end line of any protocol that dictates, Thank you, Mistress. 

And so I catch my breath.

Lifestyle Masochism: When You Start Acting Abused

When you start acting abused…

This has been a thing for a long time, really. I’ve had a lot of conversations kind of loop near this topic recently. 

I have almost always been a suspected victim of abuse. As a kid, I was neurotic, skittish, a little too eager to please, sometimes underweight, sometimes wore ill fitting clothes, sometimes poorly groomed, and seemingly always suspiciously injured, sick, or absent. Now, my parents were/are wonderful people. I just happened to a) have undiagnosed autism/sensory/motor issues and anxiety, b) grow very fast very early, c) have undiagnosed chronic physical health issues, and d) going with several of those things, be extremely clumsy. This admittedly added up to, well, a certain picture. 

Now, I outgrew or fixed some of those things, but not others. 

When I entered the BDSM scene, I was an apparently suspiciously heavy masochist. Never mind that I was looking for what some might call the extreme end of slavery; I didn’t even have all the words for that yet, and it wasn’t what I was first known for. Some people were surprised when I went the high protocol, service slave route, even though I thought I was holding up a neon seeking sign for that when I showed up as best I knew how. No, I was a masochism meme. That was what people focused on about me, perhaps fairly, because it was in plain sight. Pick up play at parties. All that. Literal memes were made. A lot of it was good natured and I laughed with it, encouraged it. Now, I bury it a little at times, because it seems to easily overshadow my other passions, something I have mixed feelings about, because I do love talking masochism—logistics and philosophy—too. 

But other rumors started to spread, to the effect that I had probably been a victim of physical abuse and that was why I could and perhaps why I wanted to take so much. Let me say it again: my parents were/are lovely people and neither of them ever raised a hand against me. Disclosure, I had a tumultuous relationship with my dad at times, including a few years out of contact, but physical abuse was never, ever an issue, and we were on perfectly good terms when he passed. (Okay, I love my parents, but I’ve yakked about them enough.) I do have some theories on why I am an apparently unique masochist, but nothing specific and solid, and a post for another day. 

But, moving forward: then it was Mistress’ turn to be the other variable in the people think Hannah is abused equation. The deep end of M/s—no safewords, no limits, no way out. The controlling high protocol. The housewife, service slave dynamic—little outside life. She picks my uniform, controls the finances, forbids me from having a job, tracks my location, has access to and limits my social media, and all kinds of things that sound bad out of the context of trust, love, respect, and consent. 

And there’s the hardcore physical sadism, and the way in which we enact it: which, yes, purposefully mimics random incidents of violence, physical domestic abuse, frequently not looking like consensual kink, sex, play. I might like it at the time, or I might hate it with every fiber of my being at that moment and long for relief. There’s a place for both, but especially the latter. 

It’s also kind of a lot to talk about when people ask me, So, what’re you into? at, say, a TNG munch.The service and protocol dynamic stuff I’m super passionate about might be a little boring to some people compared to talking about typical scenes, but I’m not too worried about them trying to leap in to “save” me, or triggering anyone with it, or dealing with surprise or accusations. There’s also frequently less explaining and justifying, worrying that they will copy my style without thinking it through for themselves and ending up hurt. Because it does require trust, communication, and self work that not everyone is up to, and that’s okay. It is always refreshing when it is met well, though, and it does happen. 

Now, many adults active in the BDSM scene used to certain things, and understand others, like chronic conditions. Some bruises covered by clothes and flashed on FetLife, and being a little quirky, won’t scare them. I’m not too noteworthy out in the vanilla world at this point, either. 

But one thing still comes up as a red flag: the flinching. From an out of place twitch to what I call the full Hallmark movie recoil, I am, relatively clearly, constantly expecting to be hurt. Almost every time Mistress reaches for me, I flinch. I edge myself away from dead ends and corners, watching how she’s subtly moving me there. I keep a distance, or get closer—what she fondly calls the snuggle defense, which is strangely effective on her—to make being struck in certain ways harder. I set things down out of the way, especially valuables or fragile items, when I remotely see pain coming, and keep my hands somewhere they can be quick to defend my face from being slapped or throat from being choked or collar from being grabbed or hair from being grabbed yanked or leggings from having a hand shoved down them, or wherever the target is. If her hands are out of my sight, I assume she has some impact implement or maybe a knife. I even verbally try to wiggle my way out of the degradation and humiliation, just like instinctively tugging at a rope tie to make sure it really holds. I can usually tell pain is coming from a mile away—it’s a sometimes pleasant, sometimes not, surprise not to expect it—but since I’m not truly going to defend myself, knowing mostly just builds anticipation. 

If any of those behaviors sound familiar: yes, I act like a victim of physical abuse. And it’s interesting this time, because my behaviors really are a reaction to being hit or choked or kicked or pinned or shoved or scratched or dragged or bit or hurt or fucked against my (momentary) will. I can’t deny that. And irrevocable consent is messy at times. Did I consent? Yes. Once. Years ago. Did I want to be beaten with no warning or warmup today until I screamed? Casually dragged across the floor by the hair yesterday? How about the sex when I was so sick I cried last week? In the moment? Probably not. That’s where the defense reactions come from. But I really want those things to keep happening overall, and I want to not want it in the moment, to gain that sense of ultimate submission from it, because in the end I submit anyway. I frequently don’t cry or scream, I almost never beg for mercy, I never actually fight her, just flinch and squirm, and frequently the only words out of my mouth in all of it are, “Yes, Mistress; thank you, Mistress.”  It’s complicated. 

But those incidents largely happen behind closed doors—obviously, I give insight into them in my public writings—but that is still not as visceral. But I can see a few people mentally flinch when they watch me physically flinch, watch that reflex kick in, because it is helpless and fearful, yet clearly expecting. 

Frequently, Mistress makes fun of me for this. “You act like I randomly hit you or something,” she’ll say when I flinch because she reached for an object near me, then slap me. 

Because the expectation isn’t wrong. She probably is going to hit me, and I’m not going to like it. And so I flinch. And others flinch to watch my constant expectation of pain. 

And yet.

We both continuously look inside ourselves. Can I do this? Should I do this? How do I do it properly? What do I need? What do I want? Why?  We continuously communicate with each other. How do those needs get met? How does this get dynamic get run to represent the underlying why and reality both? We communicate on how to communicate with each other. We check in. I am learning to be more resilient, to provide my own aftercare, to take care of myself, when needed. When pain comes hard and fast with no warning, no negotiation, no warmup, no mercy, no cooldown, no aftercare, I learn to quickly get up, dust myself off, and go back to writing or whatever it was I was doing. I have to trust that future me can take what current me is asking for. She has to trust me to not permanently go to pieces. I have to trust her to not give me what I truly can’t take and to give me what I truly need, while still acknowledging that I agreed to anything and everything and I will honor that vow regardless.  

And that’s what makes the difference, in my opinion, between helplessly acting abused and truly being abused. 

Lifestyle Masochism Example (Your Presence Is Requested)

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 here.

I’m making some natural cleaners in the kitchen when my pager buzzes. I lift my shirt a little and tilt it towards me from where it’s clipped to my uniform leggings as always. Your presence is requested in the loft.

I’m curious. There are currently three active buttons on the pager transmitter that sits on Mistress’ desk, marked with little sticker icons. One, if she presses it, pages me with, Refresh coffee and water. I’ll go to her and collect one or the other or both and refill them and bring them back. One tells me to check my messages, indicating she wants a response to something she can’t communicate with a transmitter button urgently, or at least wants me to see it, which allows me to keep all digital notifications off. The third makes my pager buzz with simply, Your presence is requested in the loft. Her office. The equivalent of ringing a more old fashioned slave bell. The simple, Come here, without the yelling, “Slave!” that created the rule that I need permission to make a phone call (or to notify her when I answer one) before things get awkward. Even with the pagers, the rule is still in place, actually. 

She uses this summons the least, since she could use check messages to communicate most things. But that’s the one my pager displays now. 

I have the feeling she just wants to harass me. On her daily spreadsheet printout, there’s a section that says simply, How to Harass Hannah Today.  Sometimes I notice the note she makes under it before she does it. Either way, I know it’s there and that generally something is in store each day.

So I go upstairs to the loft. As they say, when the slave bell rings, you answer it without question. Okay, I don’t meet many people that so literally applies to, but.

She asks what I’m up to. I tell her about the cleaners. She confirms I have no dangerous chemicals sitting open on the counter or anything. Approaches me casually, then slaps me across the face, hard, so fast I have no chance to see it coming. While I’m still reeling, she does something that ends with me landing on the floor, though I’m too disoriented to tell what. 

From there, it’s the usual flurry of abuse, the kicking, punching, choking, pulling me by the hair. I remember sliding clear across the kitchen floor when she pulled me by the hair the other day, the throbbing for hours after. Fond memories. Right now, the pain is everywhere. It’s wonderful. She tells me how pathetic I am. I agree. 

She yanks my clothes out of the way, fingers me, roughly enough I squirm, much more pain than pleasure. She presses one finger into my ass with negligible natural lube, though that might be my favorite kind of anal and, while it’s uncomfortable, I squirm less. I don’t remember all of the taunts she throws at me during this. The usual, slut, whore, slave, property, bitch, owned, masochist, pathetic, mine. Her other hand tight in my hair, wrapped around my throat, wrapped around my collar, smacking my ass. 

She stops abruptly, stands, gives me one more hard kick, and leaves. I hear water running in the nearby bathroom, probably washing her hands. I don’t manage to move right away. I don’t try very hard, to be fair, since it doesn’t seem urgent. 

Still, she makes fun of me for this when she returns. I don’t have the sense to run. I end up on the floor somewhere else—dragged, maybe, or shoved after a go at standing—and she fingers me again. Taunts me for getting off on all this. “What are you?”

“Your slave.” A familiar ritual. 

“That’s right. I own you. Show me. Show me your body does what I tell it to. You’ll come exactly when I tell you to. Ten. Nine.” 

The countdown is familiar. I can picture the little upwards line graph of pleasure amount versus spoken number in reverse order. 

“Eight. Seven.” 

Increasing. I’m wetter this time. 

“Six. Five. Four.” 

I’m pretty much there. Not struggling to hold it back, but I know I’ll do exactly as she said.

“Three. Two.” 

Maybe struggling to hold it back. I whine.

“One. Come.” 

I do. It’s lovely. After, I’m panting, coming down. “Thank you, Mistress.” 

She dismisses me shortly after; I fix my clothes, stand, curtsy as always, and leave.

 

Lifestyle Masochism Example (Stay Still)

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 here.

I’m in my office, sitting at my desk, though I’m turned to the side and my laptop is in my lap, doing research for a writing project. 

Mistress comes in and I don’t think we make much if any small talk—I can see the Look, and set my laptop safely out of the way—before she tries to slap me hard across the face. Not quite quick enough—my hand flies up defensively, reflex, and she ends up hitting me solidly in the wrist, which still kind of hurts. 

And so comes the taunting. “Do you think that’s the appropriate response?” and others. 

Well, no. My answers are scattered; I’m getting shoved around in the general direction of the bed—my office is in the aptly named master retreat, a room with no door to the hallway, but double doors into the master bedroom. We call it the Hannah Habitat. I land on the bed on my back with my feet still almost on the floor, my hands pinned, but she can’t seem to keep me pinned enough one handed to hit me again without that flinch reflex in the way.  She pulls me to sitting up. It goes roughly like this: 

“What are you?” 

“Your slave.” She asks me this several times a day. There is only one correct answer. 

“And what does that mean?” 

“That you can hit me when you want.” 

And so on. “So stay still. You like being owned. You like me hitting you. You should be thanking me for it. Not all this wriggling. Now keep your hands down.” She keeps trying to nudge me into position, hands out of the way, shoulders down, head up and straight, but every time she so much as twitches, reflex kicks in. Still, with more force, she manages to hit me again, hard, several times—I’m starting to wonder if it’ll leave suspicious bruises—as I’m shoved back onto the bed, pinned, choked, degraded, and of course hit again. 

She pushes me onto my front, pulls my clothes down, notes the marks remaining from the toy I made mostly of barbed wire, some tape. “Did you like that?” she asks. “Did you like getting beat with barbed wire? Did you like telling people about it, and how the barbs with your blood on them fly off?” 

Yes, I did.

She spanks me. “See, all this wriggling when I try to hit you in the face, but on your ass, you practically beg for it.” 

I’m completely still. I have begged for it. For both, probably. 

“Can you imagine all the wriggling you’d be doing if I tried to hit you in the face like this?” 

She probably shouldn’t hit me in the face like she’s hitting my ass now.

With a few more shoves, she demonstrates this point by hitting me in the face again despite my wriggling. “What can I do to make you stop with that?” 

Actually, I’ve done a decent amount of research into that, mostly for applying it to fiction because I doubt she has the patience for it, but my answers are kind of scattered from slaps and the struggle and not enough oxygen with her fingers around my throat. 

At some point she tells me to stand, that I can fix my clothes. She finds my pager, slave bell, where it came off of my leggings, but it’s intact in its clip case thing, unlike the old clip that she broke by shoving me around like this.

“Kneel.” 

I do. My body finds the position easily, the right placements of overlaps of toes and fingers and details, just like it does several times a day, with that and other positions. 

“Thank me for hitting and abusing you.” 

“Thank you for abusing me.” It’s amazing how easy those words are to say. I think they are more awkward to hear myself say than to feel, than to want to say, because I know how many people would think it’s sick. Others, hot. 

She moves her own clothes and orders me to worship her; I do. It’s not for long, though; she grabs me tight by the hair like a leash and pulls me towards the master bathroom. Rather than sliding straight along the floor like I sometimes do helplessly when she drags me by the hair, I largely manage to cooperatively crawl, though unsure if that was what she intended.  

She orders me to undress again. 

I know what’s coming. I make a helpless, small sound of—despair? dread?—but undress. 

“Kneel in the shower.” 

I do. The bathroom light isn’t even on.

She pees on me. The stupid thing is that wasn’t even really what the distressed sound was over. I just don’t want the hassle of showering after right now, of emerging cold and wet. We all have our pet peeves. 

“Clean me up.” 

I do. I don’t really object to that part, either, swallowing droplets without complaint. 

She fixes her clothes. “Thank me again.” 

“Thank you, Mistress.” 

She makes a vague gesture. “You may do whatever you want in the shower.” Which means I don’t have to shave, present for inspection afterwards. 

One more time, required, but genuine, “Thank you, Mistress.” 

“You’re welcome, slavegirl.” She leaves. I shower. 

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 here.

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). 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 chose 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. 

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. 

“Stand.” 

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.