This scene called life

Last night I asked permission from Sir to go to the local club for a beating. I arranged for not just one, but two Sadists to be there. I needed the pain.

Sir agreed and had only two requirements. The first was that I provide photos (and I did, even though the quality is, as usual, quite poor). The second was to have fun. Since that was my intent as well, I agreed.

I am sorry to report Sir that I failed miserably.

I got exactly what I asked for. No one did anything wrong. Then it all went bad. 

Unexpected things can come up during any scene. Actual accidental physical harm, fires, and pissed off wives walking in are some examples. The emotional “bubbles” that rise to the surface during play, triggered by something or jiggled loose while the consciousness is elsewhere, are sometimes extremely traumatic. Any of these can suddenly change a beautiful pleasurable/painful moment into a complete play ending emergency deescalation of a situation.

No matter how careful you are, sometimes shit happens that you didn’t expect and can’t control.

We try to think of everything that we can prevent. We take safety measures against fires, use care to avoid traumatic injury, and double check schedules while locking doors. But what about those emotional bubbles?  Surely those are unavoidable. Well, often yes. I once had what I could only describe as a flashback to myself being murdered (read it here). There is no way ANYONE could have seen that one coming.

But I was aware of this one in advance. That is the exact reason I was there to get beaten on this particular night. I just did not share this very important information with the man beating me. I knew was fighting pain with pain. I had to be free. I had to fly. I had to get closer to… well, it was none of his concern. He was just going to beat me well as he has so many times before.

It was my fault, and my fault alone.

Oh, I flew. He is very talented. I do remember being/seeing (as if watching from outside) completely relaxed, unsupported and standing balanced, with my arms out straight. He had placed them there and they remained as if bound. My head and hands hung limply as two singletailed whips struck me over and over, cracking above and on my skin. It would have made a lovely picture.

“Beautiful,” I thought as I headed toward the warm, loving, light I needed to immerse myself in. I knew this would be a short visit, but the closer you get the less meaning time has. It would be enough.

Then he switched it up. Two blows from the hairbrush to my legs brought me crashing almost literally down from “heaven”. I did literally hit the floor.

There are simply no words to describe how I felt at that moment. I won’t even try.

I stood up, resumed position, took more beating, and tried SO FUCKING HARD to get back there. I could not. My not-pleasant-at-all emotions were turning on him. They were getting stronger. I recognized that and ended the scene. I did not say why.

He only meant well. He didn’t know.

I compartmentalized my emotions. These are my issues, and we’ve been long time roommates in my head. No reason to ruin everyone else’s evening, and by then the second Dom I invited had arrived. I was social, and then came home without a second beating.

The silliness from the endorphins as well as the energy one gets from almost turning and attacking a friend kept me awake for quite a while. I examined my photos and wondered what I would write.

Some marks fade very quickly. That doesn’t mean they don’t hurt. As my body has gotten used to being repeatedly injured, my healing processes have become quite efficient. The same can be said for my emotions.

Most of the time.

Some marks are much deeper and broader. These will be around for a while. They will remain painful reminders, fading much more slowly.
Funny, I usually like those.
Then I thought about another scene gone wrong. The difference then is that I had no safeword. While it started out consensually, it definitely did not end that way. Not only did those marks never heal, the scene never ended. It goes on all the time.

I had asked for a baby for my tenth wedding anniversary.
I got exactly what I asked for. No one did anything wrong. Then it all went bad.

Exactly on my tenth wedding anniversary my first daughter was born. A full term stillbirth.
No matter how careful you are, sometimes shit happens that you didn’t expect and can’t control.

Life moves on, right? I did not talk about it for years.

It was my fault, and my fault alone.

Even if that is absolutely positively not true at all, that feeling will always remain with the mother.
Pregnant women and those with infants as well as nosy strangers that feel the need to know how many children I have poke those deep bruises all the time. I am just used to it after all these years.
And every year family, friends, and even strangers with the best of intentions slice open the old scars. The word “anniversary” is a knife to me. 
They only meant well. They didn’t know.
Usually my emotional control is sufficient but every May 4, due to the extra cutting, I allow it to come down. I grieve. Seeing the faces of my two living daughters on this day hurts, even as I feel overwhelming love, because I can’t help but wonder what she would look like blowing out seventeen candles on a cake.

I was just hoping that this year a visit first might help. 



There I go trying to top from the bottom again during this scene called life.


Sinful Sunday
See who else is being sinful with me this week.

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