My kinky BDSM accident story 7
Beginning in the early 1990s, I began to form romantic connections. It was in 1992 that I performed my first blow job, and it was in 1994 that I had my first sexual experience. In addition to working in environmental education, I am married and a mother of two young children.
As a submissive, I’m a little kinky. The realization that I need that in sex, as well as what my own concept of this is, has taken me a long time to get to.
As a result of an abusive relationship that began while I was in my early teens (in the 1990s), I ended up at BDSM. At the time, I had no idea what BDSM was, that it even existed, or the difference between permission and abuse. I was completely ignorant. It was only after I had discovered this that I realized there were things I genuinely appreciated among the terror and domineering behavior.
I was fourteen years old at the time of this writing. Besides groping and making out, this was my first real sexual connection. Prior to our initial encounter with each other, the control had already started.
My kinky BDSM accident story 7
The people I could talk with and the clothes I could wear had been restricted by him.
When I asked him about it, he proceeded to tell me about something he’d read about control online (back in those heady, pre-internet days). At sixteen, he had no idea what the terms “safe, sane, and consensual” meant, and he certainly didn’t understand what they meant. His only knowledge was that what he observed regarding control and humiliation piqued his interest, and he intended to test his theory on me by doing so.
Little things began to happen, such as forcing me to unbutton my shirt during the whole car ride. My looks would be slammed, and he would point out my fat places and tell me what I should and shouldn’t eat. Eventually, I felt so discouraged that I would do everything he said and even went so far as to become anorexic.
For the record, our first encounter with a man was not consenting, and it was also not very interesting. That spurred him on to more innovation. During our car rides (since we were teenagers, we did a lot of driving), he’d make me lie down on him, my face pressed against his so I couldn’t breath. Finding as public a location as possible might include things like airport access roads, beaches beneath a blanket, and back halls of shopping malls.
When I was younger, I recall him squeezing and flashing my breast for an older gentleman who drove by us and then turned around to see more. While participating in the exhibitionism, I started to experience a mixture of embarrassment and ecstasy. Still, it’s fun to be the center of attention!
After being threatened with death, I was forbidden from speaking to any other males. In fact, he would often choke me during sex, telling me that I belonged to him and that he would shut my whoremouth if I didn’t obey him.
He used to manage my orgasms, and he got a kick out of teaching me how to cum on demand. “cum now,” he’d murmur in my ear over dinner with his parents, and I recall the embarrassment and rush of heat that came over my cheeks at the thought of it. Those around me must have thought I was completely insane!!
As the death threats and physical assaults became more frequent, I mustered the courage to leave him. In the course of my explorations, I came across some dreary, vanilla marriages and concluded…. Being in command was a great experience for me!
Suddenly, I was sixteen years old and on the lookout for another controlling relationship (I was still unfamiliar with the term BDSM), and I ended myself in yet another violent relationship.
Beyond the verbal abuse and rape, this one went so far as to beat its victims unconscious. However, my instinct of self-preservation eventually prevailed, and I departed for pastures more green than the ones I’d known.
While discussing my contradictory emotions with a buddy, I was exposed to a series of erotica books that I fell in love with at the age of eighteen. Blew. In the back of my head, I’m thinking about something. Yes, this is exactly what I was looking for. The ‘proper’ way to do things started to dawn on me, as did the need of playing responsibly. I tried a few things out for size. With my two closest buddies, I had a gropefest. In the past, I’ve had sexual relations with females. Men who could hold their own against me and yet respect me were eventually my favorites.
Let us fast forward several years to the present, when I have really come into my own. I have a clear understanding of what I want and how to get it without risking my life. By relinquishing authority in the bedroom…while maintaining control over myself, I developed into a feminist who discovered sexual emancipation. BDSM is seen as abuse by some women who are new with the lifestyle, but having lived it both ways, I can assure you that it is not the same thing at all.
My kinky BDSM accident story 7
There should be some kind of public disclosure of this information. The act of consenting to something does not constitute abuse, nor does the fact that you trust your spouse or that you have put safety measures into place.
To appreciate the difference, it took me more than a decade. With a decent spanking, some control and a little shame, I can relax knowing that it will all come to an end if I say so, and it will.
There has been some speculation as to whether or not I would change my decisions if I could go back in time, and the answer is no. Those events shaped who I am now, and some of the views I have about them are still intriguing to me.
In safe BDSM, there is healing.
I am thirty-seven years old and have been divorced twice. I am now single. My day job is in information technology project management, but I also work as a fiction editor on the side. Although I like writing, my professional objectives are in the field of editing. In addition, I’m a kook as heck and have no intention of ever settling down.
I had twelve different panties packed for a Leather conference that lasted three days.
The most adorable and laciest pair of shoes I took was shredded by something involving chains while it was in my bag, so they were out of the question for the Friday night play party, and I didn’t care for the rest of them as much, so I went completely without. I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I dressed in a shiny black miniskirt with a split down the side, garters and fishnets, and an unusually comfy PVC corset that I had lubricated until it was glassy.
I didn’t look too bad with my patent leather knee-high boots, which were a nice touch. My shoulders were squared, and my posture was straight as I walked in. I’m sure I could pull off a little strut: you know, put a little pep in my step and all that. Something in the middle of “walking footwear for walking” and “for a good time, dial…”
I was absolutely giddy with anticipation for this gathering, complete with swagger. We had met a few months before this convention, and since then, she and I had been exchanging flirtatious texts laced with innuendo, which had led to our current situation. We were able to communicate effectively because we were in sync. Those friends who urged and supported me did not hinder the process in any way.
A mutual buddy offered me a cup of coffee and dubbed herself “The Sadist’s Sadist,” which I found amusing. This categorization caused my stomach to plummet into my cunt, filled with hope, desire, and even a little anxiety. I was fully aware that my algolagnia reputation had preceded me, and I took pride in it. I was the only competitor in the competition for the title of “pain slut,” particularly one who was capable of orgasming in the presence of severe agony.
It’s pure hedonism at its most messed up and magnificent. However, the drawback to this kink was the number of times I restrained myself from responding to a mediocre top, “Yeah, thanks for playing with me! ” “No, I didn’t come because you couldn’t harm me badly enough,” I said.
She, on the other hand, worked hard. I put forth a lot of effort. And we seemed like a good fit for one other on opposite ends of the whip, or flogger, or whatever she chose to use.
I caught a glimpse of her as she interacted with the other guests from a balcony in the hotel’s atrium. Her beautiful curve, which was accentuated by a black leather cincher, made her seem absolutely exquisite. I had no clue how much food would be consumed in the following days.
I told her about what I’d heard about her: her skill, the fact that she’s a natural, and the respect that people in the business had for the way she fucks up females. The term ‘beaming’ comes close to describing her attitude to the situation.
The next time we met up was about an hour later, she had taken off her pointed blue suede shoes and her bare feet were well manicured and beautiful. She was at the top of a set of steps, looking down at me with a smile on her face, when I arrived. As I approached, she said that she was hungry. She walked me over to the women’s play area, which was unfamiliar territory for me. I have a strong attraction to women and have only ever played with them in trans settings. I could tell there was a change.
She told me that the atmosphere in the room wasn’t quite right yet since it was still early, but she assured me that we will remedy the situation. I walked behind her as she pulled a chair around the room: creating the correct atmosphere was critical. When she finally discovered the spot she liked most, she pointed to it and instructed someone to move a seat out of the way. The young lady agreed without hesitation.
We were standing face to face, and she drew me into her arms. We were all on the same page. We had a quick discussion on safety and then went through what had been agreed upon. She inquired as to what it felt like to orgasm while in agony.
What is the purpose of this?” “Is it, for example, to release suffering and go beyond or through it?”
That was my direct response: “No, not like that.” “It is pain that motivates me to come.”
She didn’t say anything and didn’t seem to notice that I had earned a point. I didn’t understand she had a desired response until much later, when we were conversing in whispers after the violence had ended and we were enjoying in the afterglow.
She grabs my hands in hers and flexes my biceps. In a split second, she turns my face away and pulls my arm up behind me, before bending my wrist in an unexpected direction that causes me to gasp.
It’s time to get started. We’re going to do it.
My corset is unlaced a little, and she takes a moment to bite my shoulder blade so hard that her fangs were still on my back the next night. In order to ensure that my tattooed wings would not be damaged, she squeezed the inside of my left arm, where I had tattooed wings. Using the bites and pinches, I inch closer to the climax, and fuck fuck fuck, this is painful.
Pinching is something I have a difficult time dealing with. It’s something I’m not accustomed to. I try to convince myself that it isn’t because it is out of my league, but rather because it is just beyond my comprehension. No, they aren’t walking canes or power tools. This is a pair of hands. Her palms were up.
She makes a gesture with her hands. She kneels in front of me, and I take the chair.
The irony of the situation is not lost on me.
Her initial hits to my inner thighs are no cuddling warm-up, no BDSM 101 warm-up. They are a direct hit to my inner thighs. I yank her hands away from me in a state of near panic. “Wait a minute…!” “Please hold on to the chair.” I’m capable of completing a job or a task. Yes, I can. She slams into my thighs once again.
And suddenly she comes to a complete halt.
“You’re not wearing underpants,” says the narrator.
I’d want to explain why this is the case. She doesn’t give me a chance to say anything.
“Girls put on their undergarments. Little and filthy. Sluts. Don’t.” The way she punctuates each syllable is by slapping my thighs, right, left, right, right. “Do you think you’re a nasty little slut?” She purrs, as if she wants to hear my confession.
“Maybe?” I make a squeaking sound.
My kinky BDSM accident story 7
“Perhaps?” says the thudstingslap. ” Is it possible?” Again.
“Yes?” I try again, this time chuckling.
“Yes, absolutely. “You certainly are.” The barrage of strikes causes me to gasp.
Shivering, I arrive with no prior notice.
To be honest, there came a moment in the progression of this action that she instructed me to only orgasm if she gave me permission to do so. I’ll admit that I have no recollection of where I was during the storm. I’ll admit that I didn’t inquire every time. When I remember to ask her again, she doesn’t respond positively.
“Not at this time.” Her rhythm is unaffected, and she doesn’t even bother to raise her head to refuse me.
Having to deal with this is quite frustrating. As I tighten my jaw, I’m attempting to deflect the approaching tsunami.
She carries a little paddle that fits well in her hand. It’s made of plastic or plexiglass or anything like that.
Whatever it is, it’s a pain in the neck. It’s magnificent to see her work my thighs with it for a long period of time. I’m not sure how I’m going to get through this. When she gives me the option of continuing with the little paddle or using her hands (which are open and clenched), I choose her hands every time.
I’m not doing this because it’s any simpler to absorb; in fact, it’s probably not, but I want to make the link. It doesn’t matter how wicked the delivery is, I want her touch. In the moments when I have my eyes open, I am staring at the pit of her neck as well as her lips and eyes. I don’t look at her hands, but I’m aware that they are moving quickly.
She claims, as she slaps and punches my chest, that she was going to harm my thighs much more, but I tell her that I’m only playing a joke on her.
“It’s almost as though your chest is reaching out to me.” She repeats this while striking me in the thigh and then the chest. One-two. Left-right.
I’m completely overwhelmed. The escalating wave of orgasm was quickly turning into a tsunami of pleasure. Some of this is undoubtedly cathartic, but the most of it is a wall of sentiments stemming not just from my grief, but also from her constant derision of me.
This is to her satisfaction, and she is taking pleasure in me.
I’m in such a wonderful and attractive mood.
It’s a significant size. I take a deep breath.
“I’m going to take a break.” I express myself verbally.
I’d want to gather the tsunami and tuck it behind my ear, then deal with it when the time is right. She checks in with me, she holds my face, she makes sure I see her, she makes sure I see her again. “We’re here, and everything is OK,” she adds. It’s a nice thing. “It’s very excellent.”
“But. Just. “Can you give me a minute?” I’ll say it again: I’m a little dizzy.
“That’s exactly why we’re talking, you understand.
You’ll have a minute to think about it.” She cracks a grin. She makes logic, but my own sense-making is ebbing away like the tide just before a particularly large wave hits the shoreline.
She resumes her onslaught after giving me a few moment to collect my breath. Each of my legs has been tattooed with different colors of ink: red, purple, and black. The bite on my back bites back every time I lean into the chair.
Normally, I don’t mark anything. It needs a particular something, and I’m not sure what that something is.
I know I’m making sounds, and some of them are from an unyielding orgasm, and others are from how loud my anguish is. After a few minutes, I’m doubtful of my ability to hold back the wave that’s forming behind my ear, and my breathing becomes labored. Her arms wrap around me as the stream of tears breaks free, and I sob into her hair and neck, hoping that my mascara doesn’t go all over her white shirt. She says soothing things in soothing tones, and she talks in soothing tones.
“You’re giving me your tears,” she replies, as we both have our heads down. What a wonderful present. “Look, here are some of mine.”
She gets transported, and this is also for her benefit. I am exhausted and wish I could remain in her grasp of anguish for a longer period of time, for a longer period of time. I’ve reached the edge of a precipice and am on the verge of losing my ability to speak.
She helps me to regain my composure by sending someone to get me water. I’m sitting here, breathing and blinking. Smiling and sniffling at the same time.
We’re both fatigued and happy at the same time. She feeds me chocolate after I cover myself in a blanket and drink.
It is true that she has given me a wonderful gift in that I no longer grieve for anybody else and have never cried for anyone else in agony. She has a unique presence, she does, in that I am unable to spontaneously express myself; rather, this was masterfully coaxed, coerced, and pulled from me by her presence.
Her might in destroying my levees, dams, and locks, the will she exercised in giving my euphoric anguish, pushing me to a completely exquisite, blinding misery were all examples of her power.
The sort that makes everything that follows much clearer to understand.
