Inside the mind of a submissive man

I just came across a slew of new (to me) submissive male/dominant woman blogs, and some of the writing there just blows me away. It’s so raw and real and intense, and having just had a pretty intensely kinky week myself (more on that later), I am grateful when I see others talking about their kinks and what it means to them. This may be my bias or misperception, but sometimes I feel like kink is often so showy; it’s about impressing someone, whether it’s your top or the people in your local scene, or the internet, with how much you can take, or what you look like doing it. And in my opinion, yes, sometimes showing off or being somehow public with your kinkiness can be part of the fetish, but I’m much more interested in the inner transformations people go through, in what they think they’re capable of and what they actually are. I think this blogger, Under the Boot, expresses that push/pull so well – the desire for pain, and the acknowledgement that yes, it’s actually painful. That in the moment, we may long for it to stop, but we really don’t want it to.

Me, I’ve been on both sides of that, and of late have discovered my capacity for cruelty. Well, within a BDSM context. I’m discovering that when I’m with a submissive partner, as I was recently, I want to inflict pain on him, but not just for his sake. There is something so carnal and powerful and exciting, not to mention arousing, about taking someone to that place, about getting off on their pain and squeals, about making them, literally, submit to your will. And I actually believe that both players, or sides, in BDSM, have much in common in terms of the transformative aspects of kink. I went to a wonderful exhibit while I was in London called Seduced at the Barbican and came across this quote from Paul Schmidt about Mapplethorpe’s work:

“We drag ourselves through darkness and hope to come out into light, no longer the same, but OTHER.”

I thought it was quite, quite apt.

From the blog Under the Boot:

I want to be hurt. More than that, I want to be taken to my limits. Hell, I want to find those limits and watch — no, feel — her dance past them a bit. Show me I’m stronger than I think. I want her to hit me and hit me and get me to the point where I want to use the safeword.

I’m simultaneously aroused and ashamed to say I want her to bring tears to my eyes.

I want to be clamped and struck and slapped and have my hair pulled and I want her to hit my cock with a riding crop and bite me. I want her to scratch her name into my back. Over and over again. I want marks and stripes and I’m okay with blood.

She…the last time I was up there, she took these big clips and clamped them on my nipples. And then she started trying to whip them off with the crop and then the flogger. The problem is, I suspect that trick works better with clothespins. So she sat there for five minutes, hitting and hitting and hitting and those fucking clamps never budged, and it hurt, so fucking much, worse than anything she’s ever done to me. I didn’t tell her how bad it hurt because I loved it. I didn’t want her to hold back in the future. My nipples were so sore the rest of the weekend, and so every time she twisted them or bit them or hit them, it fucking hurt so much worse than normal, because of this one session.

But I loved it. I loved it so much, I can’t even express how it felt to have her standing over me with that flogger and just swinging and for my chest to feel like one big glowing sun of pain. I could see her face, normally when she strikes me, when I’m on my hands and knees or on my belly, I can’t see her, and I could watch her as she did it, and she looked so peaceful and angry and thoughtful at the same time.