What it Feels Like to Hurt a Man Until it Makes You Have an Orgasm

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Yeah, and I was so pleased with that title. Except of course, you can’t really write about what something feels like. If you could soft porn/romance novels wouldn’t be so full of orgasms described like crashing waves. Which is of course nothing like what an orgasm feels like. All cold and wet and making your mucous membranes all owie. An orgasm feels like an orgasm. If crashing waves really did feel like orgasms we’d all be at the beach. 

Anyway, I started writing this post and it turned more into a sort of how-I-have-sex thing. And I thought that would still be a cool thing to post. You know, educational. I had to be careful writing I though, because lots of times I found myself not writing about what actually happens and just trying to make it sound hot. Not that I don’t think this is hot, obviously, if I didn’t it would be a pretty ridiculous way to spend my time. But I didn’t just want to write a wank post. There are plenty of posts on the internet about how kinky sex is all whee and shiny and woah, just look at me go!

I. Win. At! Perverted! SEX!

I didn’t want to write one of those. But I wanted to write something that was as real and close and true as I could get it. And I don’t see a lot of writing from the top’s perspective that feels true to my experience. But then, my experience could be very unusual – how would I know? ‘Cause although I like it and seek it out and do it and possibly set up a whin-o-lectual sex blog to get more of it (*shush* I never.) I find it kind of… I don’t know. Emotionally battering.

I’m delicate. Be gentle. One of us has to be.

Now, my style is much more, let’s have sex but with me hurting you during, than let’s strut around and use apparatus to hurt you and then have sex after. (I’m also really not about let’s strut around and use apparatus to hurt you and the *not* have sex after – ’cause I really don’t get that one.) But I sometimes I go away and do things (hitty things that I would think of as ‘having sex’) for whole bank holiday weekends (although staying in role for a long time like that hurts my heart). And then again, sometimes I do things that are almost indistinguishable from what normal vanilla people do apart from the odd supplemental in my head. (In fact, if you count the stuff going on in my head I have *never* had an orgasm that hasn’t involved some kind of d/s power play. *Never*. My whole life. And I’m assuming never will.)

Oh, and it’s different with different men. In case you think it’s not and I just fit the guy I’m with into my fantasy. That’s not it. That’s never it. It’s always about us. Where the two of us join. The space in between. Sex isn’t about a random hole to fuck, dick to ride or back to mark up. It’s about two people. (I am not qualified to talk about things involving more than two people unless you like horror stories.)

But, look, sex is a very simple transaction of fun for fun. Or it should be. Even the way I do it.

This is what I like to happen first in amongst the many riffs and variations:

Handcuffs.

I have five pairs of handcuffs. I like to use handcuffs. My intense love of every sensory aspect of handcuffs is probably edging close on a genuine fetish – certainly, I can tick the box marked obsession. But also, I can’t tie knots very inescapably-well and handcuffs solve that problem for me. They’re so quick. He doesn’t have to hold still while we both whistle and pretend nothing odd is going on and we hover half in role, half out as he lets me tie him up. Handcuffs are the job of moments. 

O-helpless in seconds.

Handcuffs also scare me. Just a little bit. Handcuffs can do damage. They can tighten if you don’t put the double lock on. Rope can come away with scissors. Handcuffs can’t. I don’t have any bolt cutters. I always put the key somewhere particular and then find myself staring at it a while like I’m trying to make extra double sure it doesn’t just pop out of existence (- whilst sporting that neurotic badge I like to wear.) Handcuffs are my hardcore.

And there’s a little cruelty about using handcuffs rather than well-executed rope bondage or those soft leather cuffs that buckle and lock. They say: I care about my convenience more than I care about you not getting very uncomfortable in a little while. They say: I’m not going to waste any time on making your bondage nice or easy. Handcuffs are the quick and dirty way to get to where I want to be – which is the point where you’re getting hurt and I’m getting wet.

Selfish cruelty turns me on. (Surprised?)

I rush the start. The shortest sharpest route to hurter and hurtee. Most often: hair pulling. I love hair pulling. It hurts, you can move the head around, it’s dehumanising. It has everything. It always seems to make the mouth go squooshy and limp. Open and aroused. That mouth thing again.

There is only one problem with hair pulling – aesthetically I love the shaved head look on a guy. It’s that stupid submissive+masculinity fetish I have. Imagine my dilemma. Oh, the quandary. Shaved-head vs pulling-hair. The trial of my life. Who’d be me?

Anyway, so if he has no hair or a super short crop (mmm, joy/frustration/joy), I’ll twist his nipples or find some other hair to pull. ‘Cause he’s naked, right, you knew that? I’m probably not naked, but probably not dressed. And certainly not *dressed* *up*.

Oh, and this stage is really *the* *best* if he is on a chair, in the cuffs and I am on his lap. *The* *best*. All interrogationy – and super hot to the power of motherfuck.

I like to kiss him while I hurt him. I love kissing. This type of kissing is compulsory. Some guys seem to like cold and calculated. Not actually visibly turned on. With me no kissing is a deal breaker. I mean that for real. I have stopped a thing before it started because he had a girlfriend who was fine with play but not kissing – or so he said – and that was probably a lucky escape.

Anyway that icy thing, that isn’t what you get with me. I get very turned on very fast. I am usually more turned on than the guy I am with from quite early on. And doing most of the panting and moaning.

Incidentally, you know, I have never seen any femdom porn stuff where the woman is all panting and moaning, except when she is getting more trad sexual stuff like she’s masturbating or getting licked. I have never seen a dom woman just start moaning and wobbling from a guy getting on his knees or crying out in pain. Have you? Is this something only *I* do?

- or do I need to watch more porn – I get scared off by the shoes a lot -

Am I *way* out of control of myself? I’ve had to walk out of the room before when the guy just got on his knees for me because I was so overcome and about to fall off the (metaphorical) pedestal.

But, anyway, off the point. I get a lot turned having d/s sex (that being mostly the reason why we are all here) on and when I am turned on I like to kiss. Mouth fetish. I like sticking things in men’s mouths. My tongue is my favourite of those things. These pain flavoured kisses while he’s *hurting* are the best kisses.

I like it when he screams into my mouth.

Like?

I *adore* it when he screams into my mouth

I often keep going with the hurting and kissing until he can’t hold it together to kiss me back anymore. Assuming he’s a submissive or a masochist he’s usually very hard at this point if he wasn’t already very hard, like, you know, when I met him at the railway station.

I often put clamps on him now and if he doesn’t scream really fucking loud, I take them off and put them on him again. And that’s really painful. And this is the first point where I might feel a bit droppy. Sometimes it’s like a lonely feeling. It’s lonely at the top. A dark homesickness. They’ll be a scream that thuds hard right into my cunt and something like remorse will break over me. Like waking up from a dream of doing something terrible. And sometimes I’ll pause for so long that I’ll find him frowning at me, like, why have you stopped?

So I pull myself together and carry on because I’m driving and we’ve both got somewhere to go. So I snuggle back into the cosy blanket of my arousal by finding a quick sharp way to hurt him. Face slapping is good – but there is no way I’m doing that if we haven’t talked about it because I am far too much of a primadonna to give up my position as the most emotionally traumatised person in the room. But we move on somehow. And on to something nice.

My favourite thing to hit a guy with is his own belt. I’m happy to hit with other things. More than happy. I own a number of my own hitty things. But his own belt is the best. Just for the moment of watching his face as he puts it back on afterwards – the thing that I used to make him cry.

He has to come off the chair and I really like to have a conversation about the pain to come with him on his knees – still clamped. Sometimes it isn’t right to stop – sometimes we got right into it – but I like it best if we don’t. If we play a bit before we start. Tease. Draw it out. Sometimes I take off the handcuffs, sometimes I don’t – depends how he is about submitting to pain or needing bondage. I like him to fetch the strap himself.

Go and get me your belt, baby.

(I don’t call him bitch or slut or whore or boy. I call him baby or darling or sweetie or something else I think is cute. This is what I like to do. I think it’s more fun to beat the crap out of someone while you call them honey and they call you babe. Okay I do have a little tiny thing for ma’am, sometimes. You really have to be the right man at the right time though.)

I like it if he fetches the belt with his mouth. I like it if he crawls. I like it if he’s big and naked and hard and scared.

I like to tell him what I want to do. I like him to ask for it. Beg for it. (Fuck.) I even like the super hokeyness of him kissing the thing I’m going to hurt him with. His mouth, again. Forget strap-on’s, for serious, too much for fun to shove the *strap* in his mouth. Wrap it round your damn fingers and have him fellate *that*. (Your fingers have nerve endings, the strap is getting wet and the psycho-drama is off the wall. Good, good, very fucking good.)

But no more preamble – the hitting. The hitting, I think, is kind of the equivalent of your earth foreplay. It’s not instead of kissing or fingering or oral – ’cause I might do any or all of those things too. But it’s kind of like that. Another layer. Sometimes more than one body part is required – but most men have more than one body part.

This – I want to be clear – is where it is. This is the point where I know who I am and what I am with absolute abiding clarity. Whatever else I say. All my other fancies and frills. You could take them all if you left me this. I hurt a man and I feel the most intensely pleasurable sensations I think my body is capable of. There is no intrigued here. No one else could have made this of me. I live here. This is home. This I know.

I am a sadist. I get turned on hurting people.

I like pain. I like it quite simple. I don’t want to be distracted or have my concentration focused outside of my body. I don’t do anything flash. I’m generally uncoordinated and clumsy. I know there is little point in me trying to be all fancy with whips or anything too clever or hard to handle. I’m not dexterous. I can’t put on a show. I don’t insert things in his urethra or breathe fire. I don’t tap dance. I miss sometimes. The first ten are always practice. I lose my grip. My skill set is tiny. What I do is often unaesthetic and messy and awkward. But I’ve been doing this a while and what I do works. It hurts and it doesn’t rupture internal organs. It turns me on and I am now at point where I know that that is fine. That hurting men can be something that is decidedly not performance art and that is fucking damn okay. It’s sex, not cabaret.

But this is the most dangerous part. The hitty-hurty part. Drop likes this part too. Sometimes I fight all the way through. Sometimes, when it’s bad it feel like every stroke is ripped the wrong way though every bit of social conditioning I’ve ever had. All my life I have been taught to give, to nurture, to soothe, that I shouldn’t damn well hurt people to get myself off.

You know that whole line about, This hurts me far more than it hurts you.

Subs are laughing at me now. Yeah, it’s kind of trite I know but all I mean is I  *get* where that is coming from.

I can’t actually come from hitting someone, but I can get pretty close to the edge, so much so that when I stop and get the vibe out or get his mouth on me, I’ll need to watch out I don’t tip over too quick. And hopefully he’s smart enough or knows me well enough to realise that while I’m getting off a little movement that rattles the cuffs or a dirty little moan is just what I need.

I come and then I’ll sometimes cry a bit and then my whole world will contract in a big rushing implosion of the fuck! and – wow – I am the tiniest loneliest person in the world. And I hate myself. And I hate what I just did. And I hate that it got me off so hard. And this happens every time. Every. Single. Time.

And then I pull myself up enough to jerk him off or move on somehow because every responsible top knows that even if you drop into a pit of post-orgasmic utter despair with yourself you still have responsibilities. That’s the nature of the gig.

So – you know – perhaps I am that giving nurturing soothing creature I was taught to be after all.

But then, just when you thought this was going to have a downbeat ending, I get my everyday miracle. It doesn’t come with the orgasm. And after the orgasm is the pit of despair. But after the pit. Now there, there’s where we were trying to get.

About twenty minutes after the orgasm that results from hitting a man with stuff sex, there is an overwhelming feeling of righteous wonder that I have only ever felt equaled in pleasurability by falling in love.

I am so fucking grateful to the guy who let me do this. Who came on this journey with me. Who took me to this place. *This* is why d/s is *always* better with an emotional bond.

I don’t want to really call it love, it is though, it’s love. This is where love lives for me. Play games with pain and you’re playing games with emotions. And this is why my heart is always getting broken.

It soars too high.

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