Continued from yesterday’s post. We pick up with me being tortured and beaten on an autopsy table down at the local sex club.
So there was probably some more beating with her fists and whatnot. She also busted out her homemade stun gun for a little while. It all kind of blends together for me. However, the end of the scene was the best part when she put away her other toys and said to me, “Okay, now I’m gonna make your face bloody.”
I was pretty out of it at this point. I asked if she was gonna put needles through my face and she said no, but I think I interpreted that as yes, and she told me she was only using a lancet, but for some reason I thought she was referring to the gauge of the needle. A lancet is actually one of those little things that diabetics use to prick their fingers.
So then a moment later she was standing over me with a wicked grin, her two little fingers moving rapidly, stabbing over and over and over again. At first it was no big deal and I felt all proud of myself for being able to take it, but she just kept on stabbing, probably two or three times a second, running around all over my face, taking a little extra time on my ear, and each one seemed slightly more painful than the last. This was a little harder for me as I really had to hold still through the pain to ensure she didn’t slip one in my eye.
Then she paused for a moment because the lancet was getting dull and I asked, “Am I really sweating, or is that actually blood that’s making my face feel so wet right now?”
“About fifty-fifty,” she said.
“Holy shit… how many times did you just stab me?”
“Weren’t you keeping count?”
“Oh, yeah, like I can really count right now,” I said.
Now, I should note that we didn’t have any DS protocols going on or anything. There wasn’t really a safeword but if I needed her to stop I could just say so. She set the scene up so we were normal people, one just happened to be torturing the other, as opposed to the domination/submission dynamic that most people recognize from BDSM, so it wasn’t disrespectful for me to joke around like that. And speaking of respect, I feel bad calling this person “she”, because she prefers “they”, as she doesn’t entirely identify as female, but I felt that would be confusing to my more vanilla readers, so I’m sorry about that. The english language seriously needs some singular gender-neutral pronouns. (This is gonna become a serious problem when robots start acting like people.)
Anyway… she went back to stabbing me in the face with a new lancet and I started counting, but made it only to about six or seven before giving up. She of course, continued on until I was screaming and the new lancet was too dull to reasonably continue.
And that was it. She let me sit up, but didn’t want me to get down right away, not trusting me to stand safely. Then I noticed a spot on my nose and focused, crossing my eyes, and there was a big, blurry drop of blood right on the tip of my nose. For some reason up until this point I thought she’d been joking about making my face bloody. I’m not sure why. I’ve always been squeamish about my own blood, so perhaps it was some weird psychological response, spurred on by the endorphins, to hide from the reality of what I was doing.
She let me sit for a few minutes to make sure I wasn’t going to puke or faint or anything, then helped me down from the table so I could look at my face in the mirror… and found the image rather shocking. Blood-play had always kind of been on my no-list, but here I was loving the image of my bloody face.
So she had me get back up on the autopsy table and ran off to get the special permission necessary to snap photos. Thankfully we were in an adjacent room rather than in the main space so we could close the door (some people are crazy-paranoid that someone will find out they go to a sex club… like crazy over-the-top paranoid so the club must be very strict about cameras and cell phones.)
She cleaned me up and then sat with me for an hour or two on one of the couches in the main space before I got up and limped home.
That night I noticed I wasn’t in nearly as much pain as I expected, though it was definitely notable. However, when I tried to climb up into my bed, my left leg just kinda stopped working for a bit and I really had to struggle.
The next day I rode the bus to work. I normally walk, but my leg was not in a condition for an hour walk today. As I was waiting for the bus I was browsing Twitter and someone had tweeted about donating blood. So I felt squeamish and guilty as I always do when thinking of donating blood, as it’s something I’ve always felt bad for not doing… just the thought of someone sticking a needle in me then making me sit there as they suck my blood just makes me sick. They take more blood from you than the most hard-core blood players in BDSM then they offer little to no aftercare, certainly not sitting with you for an hour to make sure you’re okay. They give you a cookie then kick you to the curb. I’m not even sure if they make sure you’re not driving. (What little research we have about BDSM suggests that the most dangerous aspect of what we do is the drive home afterward because cars are dangerous to begin with, plus when you’re in an altered psychological state, driving probably isn’t the best thing.)
But the thought wasn’t quite so sickening, and for the first time in my life I felt like I could actually work up the nerve to donate blood. I still want to do a few more needle scenes first, as donating blood is way more hard-core than anything I did that night, but I think I can actually use these kind of experiences to make it easier for me. So within a mere 12 hours of playing I already started to see positive psychological effects.
It always seems like I find myself more appreciative of the things I have in my life after these kinds of sessions. I feel sometimes like there’s a drawback to proper life-management. Life in America is so easy, but for some reason everyone is tricked into thinking it’s hard, because we forget about how people in the past or people in other parts of the world might be suffering, and instead our own stupid little problems seem so meaningful. But those of us who see through that and have an easy time gaining success in life… we’re missing something, like a sense of hardship. It’s not healthy to live a pampered, stress-free, luxurious life 24/7, so we need to supplement our lives with pain and hardship because we don’t get it naturally. Talk about first-world problems, huh?