Last night I shouted Red for the first time.
Motherfucking evil pair of nipple clamps from hell.
Applied once and then removed; when they were brought out the second time, apparently I recoiled in fear. I think I pleaded, No!
Not that it would do me any good. He gave me a choice, of which the better option must have been the clamps as they were reapplied quite soon.
The weirdness is not remembering things. I couldn’t recall exactly what triggered me to use the Safe Word. I asked him today. He said it was when he tugged the chain on the clamps. All I remember is the flash of pain. Head swimming. Breathing speeding up. Not wanting to be touched. And my concern for his concern, which I could feel around me. His gentle questions checking I’m OK that I could not respond to there and then.
I wanted to find the edge of my fear. Last night it was there. I know it won’t always be there, in the motherfucking evil pair of nipple clamps from hell. I change and evolve, so I’m sure my fear does too. There were slivers of fear in between the stripes from the belt, the blows from the paddle, but mostly it dissovled into the dissociative state that my mind has learned to adopt to protect me from danger. I’m sure this isn’t subspace though I haven’t been there yet.
I wonder what it is about fear that makes me want to stick my hand into the fire and smell the hairs on my arm burn, the flesh turn red. More than one Dom has said to me that fear should be a Hard Limit. Anyone whose bottom is bared and prepared for a lashing or twelve should experience some fear, though.