hurt me, heal me

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
the rambling documentation of how bdsm saved my life and helped shape the human being i am today.

Submitted: June 25, 2017

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Submitted: June 25, 2017

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Hurt me, Heal me

The capacity for healing through BDSM

 

As we all meander towards the abyss of 2018, where black and white opinions become more and more outdated, being seceded by nouveau shades of grey. It is easy feel as though conviction is a needle in the proverbial haystack of daily interaction. With that in mind and due to being a kinky bastard with a penchant for tattoos I am going to attempt to provide that needle by saying without hesitation or equivocation that BDSM saved my life.

 

The word ‘normal’ is one of my least favourite words out of the over one hundred and fifty thousand words in the English language. As an utter word whore that is saying something as there are very few words I don’t enjoy in the right context. ‘Normal’, however in the modern interpretation alludes to the idea that there is a right way and a wrong way to be a human being. This for me is a major sticking point as I hold the belief that the things that make people interesting are the things that are unique to them. Tell me you enjoy long walks on the beach and I will almost always give you a map to the nearest short pier and my personal indifference. That said, if you can’t beat them, join them. I was not a ‘normal’ boy.

 

My father was not a ‘normal’ man, after many years I am at a point where I do not blame him for this. Coming from an upbringing so traumatic that 4 out of his 5 siblings committed suicide during their twenties, he was never going to be the arm around your shoulder, Brady Bunch, father of the year type. Old less than jolly, less than saintly Nick definitely had his problems, these would boil up inside of him and he had to get them out. Only issue being that his catharsis didn’t come at the cost of one of those incredibly addictive stress balls, it came in the shape of a closed fist, a belt, a long bamboo stick, my three elder sisters, myself and on the worst days a lit cigarette. It is important to emphasize again at this point that life is good now, I am happier and healthier than I have ever been before.

 

Now as the youngest and the only boy I think even in his darkest moments his inclination was to go slightly easier on me. This trend ended in a timeframe I can only describe as being quicker than a hiccup, only not because of any choice Daddy B made. As I was rapidly growing up and developing my own mind I would genuinely fear him coming home from a hard day building conservatories. However when he did, in his bad moments I would never hide, now gather around class as this is where the aforementioned lack of normalcy begins. I’d see it, in his face, a glassy look of frustration it would never be rage at first, this kettle took it’s sweet time to boil. This is where it would start, my acting up, I remember vividly that I would start running around him in a circle screaming, push things off the shelves with a toy sword I had and generally drive at his rage. I would not say I was a smart boy but I knew what I was doing, I was making myself the target.

 

The heat seeking missile of retribution for my boisterous antics would often find me. That didn’t stop them, it slowed them but it did not stop them. Now I wish I could say this was some noble act to protect my mother and my sisters but that simply wasn’t the case, they would still receive the same. This was different, this was me showing him that I could take it, this was me proving myself, somewhere in the back of my mind this was me telling him that he could not break me. I felt pride in that, right up until my mother did the bravest thing a women can do in this situation as she walked me and my sisters to school one morning, she held two of our hands tight as she walked us straight past the school and we just kept walking. It was that night the pride seemed to leave me, as me and two of my sisters laid in one barely single bed that night in the house of an “aunt” I had never met. I weeped, silently then turned to Sarah and quietly asked “where is daddy?” she just held me. I did not speak another word to anyone for 3 months.

 

Whatever had been going on at home I was always the loudest boy in class, obnoxiously so. Looking back this was the point of transition, transition from a rambunctious little monster full of energy and life to a shy, withdrawn little mouse who would question every last syllable in his head 10 times before he dared utter a sound. Over the next five years this would be the story of my life, occasionally whisper a poor excuse for a sentence as I engrossed myself in books and the internet. It was on that gargantuan, enchanting cesspool that is the world wide web that I first laid my pervy little eyes on what would become one of my life’s passions, BDSM or bondage, discipline, dominance, submission and masochism for the layman. It felt like a bolt of electricity (no electrical play fetish here sadly) shot straight through my still forming body. All the cruel femme fatale’s I had obsessed about on television since I was a boy, all the times I would challenge the girls in my school to a contest I would through with the provision that the loser was the winner’s servant. It all began to makes sense, I was not alone.

 

Reading these articles and forums online I became engrossed, it never branched out to pornography in the initial stages, even as I began to explore my body. I just adored reading and learning, I was like a vacuum for anything involving kink and power exchange. The lack of pornography was a source of great relief the day my mother decided to take a look through the browsing history on the family PC. An hour long conversation followed with me providing such thoughtful insights as “Mum! Shut up.” and “I wish I was dead.” Being the incredibly kind and loving woman she is it was resolved with not a drop of judgement and a great deal of reassurance, until she told my three teenage sisters with the view of getting some advice that is.

 

Undeterred I continued at the same pace until the fateful day I got my hands on my sister’s hand me down laptop and baby it was time to party like 1999! Pornography followed, girls being tied up and hit with sticks was a personal favourite viewing choice. Then after I had my fill of that I came the realisation that I needed to share something, I craved interaction. Trouble being all these sites needed you to verify the validity of your claim that you are over 18, those spoilsports. I turned to omegle, for anyone not in the know Omegle is a chat site that randomly connects you with a complete stranger, what intrigued me was the ability to filter the strangers and speak to people with common interests. I typed in ‘BDSM’ totally sure there would be no one on here with the same broken mindset as me. How wrong I was.

 

One connection after the other acted as little beacons of reassurance that I am not alone. Only trouble being that I began to wish I was alone, “asl?” Would typically start the conversation as they enquired as to my age, my gender and where I was located. An appalling grasp of the English language and being told I was a “bad bad boi” often followed and drove me to the point that I was ready to end my quest before it had started. I soldiered on because as a drunken 25 year old English chap (me) once said “quitting at things is for quitters and I am no quitter”. My persistence paid off in the form of a “Hello, how are you?”. When I say it paid off, I mean it paid off, greatly.

 

Claire’s sorry Mistress Claire’s ‘asl’ was 35, female, Malta. For the purposes of not losing Mistress Claire, Peter’s ‘asl’ was 18, male, London, a deception she would soon uncover. Unlike everyone who had preceded her that night this mysterious Mrs Jones did not have any interest in enacting any kind of fetish. She asked me questions, we spoke, she put me at ease but I definitely felt this was an audition as she probed away, the chosen subjects being what my kinks are, what experience do I have and how I spend my days. I lost myself in her calm confidence as 3 hours passed by before she performed a magic trick. She broke my heart then mended it in the space of two sentences. “I have to leave now. But I would like to stay in contact.”

 

I am panicking, I rearrange the collar on my shirt (soon I would be concerned with a whole different brand of collars), I sit up straight and re-adjust the camera placement three times. The video chat rings and rings until finally I have the courage to answer. My mum is downstairs and my sisters are not home. I see her, my collar and posture instantly feel inadequate. If only I had known that this was in fact the audition. We begin to talk and my voice is weak but holding in there, she asks me a lot of the same questions again and magically I answer. I decide to be open about my vulnerability and I tell her I feel shy, she licks her lips. Things are going a long nicely until she tells me I am cute. I am worried that I am blushing, it does not last long as this was a segue. “Kneel” this slightly plump yet very cute women demands in a soft yet confident tone. Within moments I was humbly kneeling on my mattress, even if I had intended on hiding my vulnerability there was little chance of that now.

 

“Strip” soon followed, hesitation did not. For the next 40 minutes I was an autonomous object as she watched me punch my genitalia, pinch my nipples, spank myself and write degrading things on my body under her instruction. A strange sense of uncomfortably comfortable deja vu struck me and stuck with me until the moment I saw her eyes close and her breathing hasten. She finally fell over that edge and I stayed knelt unsure of how to feel, only knowing an innocent glee that I assisted in her pleasure. I didn’t look away, scared that more might come but it was then when the two words that began my healing fell from her lips like a gift from the heavens, “Good boy”.

 

She saw my body shake, she said it again, I looked away, she demanded I look back, I obeyed, she said it again and again, tears started to form, she leaned closer to the camera, she said it again, I am crying now, she told me I was “a special boy”, I can’t look, I do anyway, she asks me how old I really am, I tell her. It was at this point I expected her to hang up the call but she didn’t, instead she asks me why I am crying. I tried to explain as best I could but was sure I did a terrible job, in the latest in her long line of magic tricks, she understands. She spent the next hour comforting me, so softly I had to fight to hold the tears back once they had stopped. Assuming this is a one time pity I take what I can get, almost reveling in it but not wanting the call to end. Eventually, like all things it does but not without her telling me I was not to climax for a week as punishment for being dishonest about my age. All I hear is I will get to talk to her in a week!

 

We did not wait a week, we spoke every single night. This trend continued, my Mistress, my Owner would watch and instruct as I would abuse my poor body to the point of emotional breakdown and then she would sooth me again and again. Like a personal project she became obsessed. One day she set me a task to lead an entire conversation with her for 10 minutes and she would only give yes or no answers, this took about 15 attempts before I made it the whole way through. Once I achieved this impossible goal she told me I was her favourite possession and a very good conversationalist, that made me as happy as I had ever been up until that point in my life. Over the next 3 months this women who I saw as the first mercy in my 15 years alive, this Goddess who I believed must be the Hallelujah Jeff Buckley was singing about, she did not only crack the whip I believe she began to crack away my shell and never hid her pride as she watched me escape it. Then she performed the last trick in her bag of magic. She vanished.

 

Teen angst and heartbreak predictably followed, accompanied by a cacophony of Brighteyes, Modest Mouse and Oasis. Sticking to my credo regarding quitters I was ready to try again, now truly understanding what I needed. Months and months of searching everywhere that would have me lead me to Goddess Hensha, Chloe for short.

 

Allow me to be poetic for a moment. Ahem, oh Chloe how I miss thee I never forget your memory. I met Chloe on a chat site for teens, asl 18 F Ohio. She was a submissive who wanted to try her hand at dominance due to what she described as a nurturing nature, as you can imagine this drew me to her immediately. She considered herself a radical feminist and I enjoyed attributing grandiose attributes to her, imagining her to be a fierce activist breaking down one misconception at a time. As we talked I told her of my interest in literature and she told me my first task would be to write 2 pages regarding the correlation between feminism and male submissives if there was one (I concluded that there was not). As an asexual she enjoyed setting tasks more than play, she enjoyed my writing and said she would keep me. Her first rule was that I was to consume no meat, almost leading to my first bratty moment (whip me but please, for the love of God don’t take my turkey twizzlers). Choe took a keen interest in people and psychology and became an erstwhile therapist for the 4 months we spoke. She would challenge me on my ideas and make me explain them with some form of conviction, a new and daunting prospect for me. She never let me nod in agreement scared to contradict.

 

Chloe eventually decided that boys were not for her but resolved that I could be her friend. I was not as crushed as I had been with Claire, finding Chloe had began to give me my first taste of confidence and I began to feel my thought process changing. I noticed myself talking more openly in classes, began meeting friends at the park, we would play football, we would listen to music and smoke cigarettes. All this teenage rebellion did not stop my search for obedience, it was though, around a year spent reading and consuming copious amounts of BDSM related pornography before a 4ft11, red haired fireball named Mistress Raven scorched her way into my life.

 

“What the fuck do you think you are doing addressing me without my proper title, SLAVE?” was the response I got to my third ever message on the BDSM dating site known as collarme (later renamed collarspace). Eventually after growing tired of my grovelling apology Mistress Raven, 22 F Edinburgh told me she was a bisexual dominant who enjoyed humiliation, cock and ball torture, breath play, foot worship, financial domination and orgasm control. Without a penny to rub together I hesitantly informed her that it all sounded wonderful but financial domination is not for me. She asked me what I could do for her, “I will hurt myself for your amusement, I will obey you entirely, I will LIVE FOR YOU.” was met with  the indifference of “So will lots of boys, what else”. Panicking and stumbling over my sentences she saved me with three beautiful words, “can you write?”.

 

After sending a couple of examples she informed me that she was taking an online English course and that I could be her “homework slave”. Not usually for me but I was willing to take whatever I could get. With barely any contact or dominance of any kind I completed 3 essays and sent them over. The first real contact we shared came the day she told me she had gotten full marks on all three and that she was very impressed, so impressed in fact that she gave me her skype and told me she would talk to me for 10 minutes. “Hello Mistress Raven, thank you for taking the time” was my opener, she told me that it was fine and asked me why I was so eager to serve. I told her that I was new in BDSM and that her intelligence left me in awe. Nodding with approval she began taking over the conversation entirely, she told me she had just broken up with her boyfriend whom she had a switch relationship with, that she never loved him anyway because his “dick wasn’t worth shit”, she said she was working in a book shop but hated the kids that would come and ask “stupid questions” finally she told me that she is living in the YMCA at the moment because her father is an abusive drunk.

 

“If I may Mistress Raven, I have some idea of what that feels like.” Lead to a conversation that intensely sprinted past the allotted 10 minutes and traipsed into the territory of hours. Somewhere along the way she stopped insulting me and began telling me I was cute, always cute, never handsome or sexy. As the conversation came to a close we wished each other goodnight and I slept with a gigantic grin on my face. I spent the next day of that summer listening to Muse and imagining performing heroic acts as Mistress Raven wandered by and caught a glimpse. Until my skype dinged like a postman delivering a package you have spent weeks waiting for. “I have homework for you slave, check your email.” Did not need a second invitation, “Got it now Divine Mistress Raven, I will begin immediately.” Was a pretty standard response only this time she told me to wait, told me she wanted to talk to me as I completed the assignment. Who am I to refuse? I lived to obey her remember! She rang and we talked as I typed away with a childlike smile on my face. Hours. Hours. Hours.

 

This would continue for the next 4 months, we talked non stop, she would tell me about the men who would message her asking to buy her urine or her toe nail clipping, information that most people would not want to hear but that made me feel as though I was in her inside circle, a privileged position. We began to play on camera and followed my usual pattern of pain and humiliation followed by soft kindness. This kindness is known as aftercare in BDSM dynamics. Mistress Raven or Cleo (Cleopatra if you wanted to get her angry) showed me something in those moments, sometimes with words and sometimes with long knowing looks that felt a lot like love. A lot like love until it happened, I had just gotten done choking myself and punching my testicles and was laying in a heap of sweat and bruises gasping for air when the only three words she could have said that would have ever beaten “do you write?” exploded in my ears and made their way through my oxygen deprived body. “I love you”. I steadied myself and sit up to look at the camera. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it”, “I love you”, “Cleo”, “I love you”, “I love you too”, “I want to meet you”.

 

Two months later I am sat on a train, and it is rapidly approaching my stop as I realise the T-Shirt I am wearing is the worst thing that has ever existed and I must change it. I run to the bathroom and do not even wait until the electric door is closed before I have fished a new shirt from my bag and begin a personal fashion show of all five shirts I had packed for my two night stay. I finally decide on a tight grey little number with a picture taken from a Nirvana album cover and my confidence is back. It lasts for about 10 minutes before my train stops and my foot touches the platform, at which point I am a mess.

 

She grabs me tightly, hugs me as if I am returning from war. I hug her back, grabbing the back of her head and revelling in the fact that someone who barely comes up to my chest can have such an effect on me. The level of affection she shows surprises me as she shows off her favourite spots and we stop to eat. I clutch at every inside joke we have spent months developing as a substitute for charm. Finally she asks if I want to go and check into my hotel, I tell her definitely not with a sad face fit for emojis and let her know I want to spend more time with her, she asks why we can’t do so at the hotel? Gulp.

 

She is a good kisser, I want to keep kissing her but she places her hand on my chest and moves her lips just out of reach as I desperately lean up and she bobs and weaves. She has ropes in her bag. She ties my wrists, she is on top of me, I am inside her, I can’t control it, she slaps me, kisses my chest, bites my chest, I beg to climax, she says no. We play this game over and over, each time introducing a new component, I am dripping with sweat. She does what she always does and she catches me off guard. “You are bigger than me, stronger too. Your arms are not tied anymore, if you want it, take it.”. In that split second I question everything I have known about the role I fulfill in this lifestyle, through wanting, through chemistry who knows. She looks mischievous as she watches me weigh it up before I move my hand to her throat. She gives a terrified look, then a smile and a nod. I force her back onto the bed, hold her there as I deeply kiss her, exploring her mouth with my tongue, invading it. She closes her eyes and whimpers in satisfaction against my lips, I am biting her lip when I reach down and press my fingertips to her other lips. I force one in, it is soaked and I begin to move it back and forth showing inexperience but she does not care in this moment. Breaking the kiss I resolve to give her a taste of her own medicine and tie her arms to the bed sloppily.

 

I start to play with her nipples and watch her body respond with ecstasy as I twist them, she lifts herself off the mattress as high as she can offering her body to me. I force her back down and tell her I am going to fuck her now and there is nothing she can do about it. I do so. Untying her wrists she lays against my chest and I pull her in tighter, she begins to explain before I tell her she does not have to and that I loved it. She nuzzles her head deeper into my chest and says “Thank you Sir”, I say she is welcome and she goes a step further with “I love you Da..I mean Sir” I tell her to say what she was going to say. After brief hesitation she says “I love you Daddy” and I respond “I love you too Princess”.

 

Mine and Little Cleopatra’s dynamic changed drastically after that but the love remained unhampered. For the first time throughout my journey I took on the role of Dom or Master, using everything I learned up to that point I was comfortable in discovering I was a strict and sometimes cruel dominant yet also an incredibly nurturing one. We met 4 more times spending a few days together at a time. It was a young and intense love but like all things so intense they have a tendency to burn out, three months in a young offenders institute did not help either.

 

He looked smaller than I remembered, more frail, it had been a miracle that I had not seen him sooner. We lived in the same town after all and had done all this time. I had been sneaking into betting shops for over a year at this point and I was just about to hand my football coupon over to one of the few members of staff who would never ask me for ID when I heard his voice. “Move the fucking thing” he shouted at the television screen and more specifically at the Jockey who was clearly not giving enough effort for his liking. My dear old dad was never one to hide his anger as we summarized earlier. I had been in a few fights in my life but I would not describe myself as a violent or angry person so I still don’t know what took over me as I placed my coupon in the bin walked outside unlocked the heavy padlock from my bike and carried it back into that bookies. Apparently I hit him with it 14 times after I had dropped him with a shot to the back of the head.

 

Every night that I spent in that dump I pictured his face in court. My 17 year old brain could only deal with that on an emotional level, thinking of all the times I had seen it standing above me in the past. I decided I had not gone far enough and on the day I got out I told Cleo in a text that I was going to kill him. “CALL ME. NOW” as I had done so many times in the past I obeyed, at that time in my life with what she meant to me, I am not sure there is another person on the planet who could have talked me off the ledge. That is exactly what she did though, she told me I was better than him, she told me the tenderness I show her after our play proves it, she told me that she believed in me and not to prove her wrong. My father died of liver failure in 2016, that courtroom was the last time I saw him.

 

It was too much in the end, Cleo and me were two people with an incredible amount to work through who had found each other at the wrong time. She gave me more than I could ever describe but for the contents of this piece, one of the things she gave me was to introduce me to my other side, my dominant side, she flicked a switch as it were. I still do submit from time to time and find true catharsis in that but since my Edinburgh Angel I have taken a primarily dominant role.

 

There was Layla, Cassie, Becky and Bunny. Whether they have been into pain (god willing) or humiliation they have often taken the role of ‘little’. Little is a term used to describe someone who enjoys playing under the illusion that they are younger than their actual age and often enjoy acting very innocent or cutesy for their ‘Daddy’ I adore this. Play aside one thing that this has tapped into for me is the previously mentioned nurturing side, being able to be the shield and not the shielded, the healer and not the victim.

 

This realisation came to me one night of play with Layla, I had just finished paddling her bottom as she counted aloud and thanked me for each then watching her play with herself to the point of climax. She was sat on my lap in an armchair with her body curled up to a ball so tiny that it displayed a flexibility which always impressed me, whilst coming in handy at other times wink wink, nudge nudge. She began to sob very sweetly, she did not respond when I asked her why until I instructed her to tell me in a kind but authoritative tone. “I was going to kill myself before I met you and I am scared you are going to leave me Daddy.” In that moment I realised that I had fully transitioned, my wing was healed and now I was paying it forward in the most beautifully selfish manner possible. I was no longer the scared little mouse, I was who I was meant to be I was the loudest and most obnoxious boy in class and I was so, so happy. I kissed her and whispered in her ear “It will be alright, you are a good girl.” Thanks for that one Mistress Claire.

 

I decided to write this as it is the day before my birthday and I am sat looking through a number of well willing messages from all the beautiful kinky bastards I have met over the last 10 years and I am filled with an immense happiness and more importantly contentment. BDSM is not the answer for everyone, but I am living proof that any road which brings you towards people who will show you as much acceptance, understanding, patience and ultimately love as I have found through kink can not be a strictly harmful one.

 

Moscow born singer Regina Spektor once sang “I’m the hero of this story, I don’t need to be saved.” Well Regina I am much more the villain than the hero but we can agree on one thing, I don’t need to be saved. I already have been.

 


© Copyright 2017 Peter Valentine. All rights reserved.

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