Suffering and the idea of “sacrificial service”

So often in this world, when we use the word “service,” we’re referring to domestic service.  Many other times, we’re referring to sexual service.  And occasionally, we’re referring to things you might call support service, like functioning as a personal assistant or a driver.  But I’d like to introduce another form of service, one that I think many of us on the right side of the slash have provided but that isn’t really discussed or named:

Sacrificial service.

This form of service centers around suffering.  It’s about enduring things that are deeply unpleasant, even deeply painful, in the pursuit of making your partner/s happy.  The most obvious form of that is physical.  In my case, it means enduring physical pain in a scene far beyond any sense of enjoyment.  Why?  Because my screams make my partner laugh and my trembling body turns them on, that’s why.  It’s about giving him or her pleasure.  That is my service.

But sacrificial service often manifests itself in non-physical ways, too, although this really only occurs in my primary dynamic.  My sacrificial service comes into play when I don’t get something I really, desperately want.  In these scenarios, it’s generally less about giving him pleasure and more about meeting his needs and/or putting his own wants above my own.

This can often be intensely painful.  As much as I’d love to say I’m the perfect slave who has aligned my will entirely with my Sir’s, it’s not really that easy.  I’m a human.  He’s a human.  No two humans are exactly alike.  There are times when their needs, wants, and desires may differ from each other.  But I have chosen in my role to always put his needs, wants, and desires ahead of my own – no matter how strongly I may feel my need, want, or desire.

So why do I do it?  Why do I suffer like this?  What do I get out of it?

Absolute euphoria.

It’s really hard to express the deep fulfillment, peace, and happiness I feel when I reach the other side of my suffering.  When the whip stops cracking, when the knife stops cutting. or when I’ve said my quiet “Yes, Sir,” and acquiesced to his will.  For some time afterward – perhaps hours, perhaps days – I will feel as if I’m almost literally floating.  I’m so far above the mundanity of the world around me that nothing can touch me.

It is the deep satisfaction of knowing that I have served him in a way that challenged me that leads to this high. Because as I sometimes like to say, it doesn’t fully feel like service if I enjoy it.  If I get pleasure out of it, then some of it is about me, too.  Sacrificial service feels more purely like service to me than any other kind.  (Emphasis on “to me.”)  Although of course the irony is that I get the highest high out of it because of how much I hate it – so I guess in my own weird and twisted way, I enjoy that, too.

Just not while it’s happening!






Getting what I want – sort of

Monday night, my Sir and I had a relaxing evening out – beer, nachos, conversation.  It was much needed, as we both have had a whole lot of stress in our lives over the last couple of months.  Because of it, time together has been more limited than usual, and we both just really needed to unwind.  So our casual evening was perfect.

Finally, though, it was time to go.  We walked out to the parking lot and stood by my car.  As he was about to say good night, I found myself blurting out, “Please, Sir, may I ask a favor?”  He said yes, so I asked, “Please, may I have a spanking before we go?” and gave him my best puppy dog eyes.

The parking lot we were in is one that he and I have played in before.  And as I had told him earlier in the night, I had actually discovered recently that it has an even more discreet corner with some good privacy.

He grinned indulgently at me and said, “Alright.  Where is this other part of the parking lot you like?”  I pointed it out to him, and we each got in our cars and drove over to it.

It was fairly chilly Mon night, and we were both cold from almost the moment we stepped out of our cars, so I knew it wouldn’t last long.  I immediately assumed the position on the side of my car, and he told me to raise my dress.

From the very first spank, I was yelping a bit.  In my defense: 1) it’s been awhile since I’ve had a good beating, and 2) my Sir is not a proponent of warm ups.  Hmph.

In any case, I was apparently not yelping enough for his pleasure.  He told me to hold still, and he walked away to the back of his car.  At first, I thought he was just trying to make it look like we weren’t doing what we were doing, because there was a car in the distance.  But when I saw him pop his trunk, a sense of ominous foreboding descended upon me.  Did he have a cane or something hidden away in there?

As it turns out, he did not.  But a lack of purposely-designed tools of torture has never stopped a creative sadist.  My stomach dropped as he emerged from behind his car with…

A snow brush.

“Oh my fucking god.  Are you kidding me?” I asked, as my eyes bugged out of my head.

He may have answered, I can’t recall – but I know for sure that he laughed.  And then told me to raise my dress again.

The next few minutes are a blur of pain.  I’m certain there was more yelping and a LOT more swearing.  I’m also certain that I completely forgot to be cold.  And more than anything, I’m certain that I was incredibly floaty by the time it was done.

When he finally sent me on my way, I couldn’t erase the grin from my face.  I spent the rest of the night smiling and wiggling in my seat to find the ouchy spots.  I couldn’t possibly have been happier.

But as I have reflected further on our scene the next day, I realized that it wasn’t just the fun of the play and the endorphin high that made me happy.  In the immediate aftermath, I had joked about “be careful what you wish for,” but I’m coming to realize that the fact that I didn’t get exactly what I wished for is actually a big part of what made it not just fun for me, but actually fulfilling.

See, here’s the thing: I know he’s in charge.  Always.  I never for a moment forget that.  And I try hard to surrender and to wait for direction from him rather than asking for things.  But sometimes, like Mon night, I just can’t help myself.  And when I do, there are one of two ways it can go.

One: He can say no.  And as I’ve written about before, I kind of love when he tells me no.  Denial itself, not just orgasm denial, is a big fetish for me.

Two: He can say yes, like he did on Mon.

Only, it really wasn’t that simple, was it?  I asked.  He said yes.  Those are the basic facts.  But did I get exactly what I asked for?  Nope.  It never even occurred to me that there would be anything more than a hand involved when I asked for that spanking.

And…I kind of love that, too.  I love the fact that even when I get what I ask for, I virtually never get exactly what I ask for.

Why do I love that?  I’ve thought a lot about that since then, and I’ve come to a conclusion.  I love that because it’s a reminder from him of something fundamentally important to our relationship.  What it says to me is:

Your needs and wants matter.  But it is always my choice if and when and how they will be met.  Because I am always the one in control. 

A control I gratefully, eagerly, and joyously cede to him.

Even when it means being beaten by a snow brush.

“No” is the hottest word

As I may have mentioned once or twice in my writings, I don’t get to orgasm very often. And when I am allowed to, it’s pretty much never a straightforward orgasm for fun. I can’t remember the last time my Sir allowed me to come that didn’t involve some pain or some mind fuckery. For example, once last year, I first had to edge for 2 hours while we watched porn together and was NOT allowed to touch him, before he finally allowed me release. When I confessed shortly thereafter that I was still horny, he told me I could have as many orgasms with my Hitachi as I wanted in the next 15 minutes – but only after smearing the head with Tiger Balm first.

I didn’t hesitate at all – when you get to come as infrequently as I do, you’ll take any orgasm you can get. 😉 And holy shit, was that intense. The burning sensation was POWERFUL – but so were the orgasms. In fact, I had to quit about 3 minutes in because I got hit with a crushing headache, something that happens to me occasionally when I have multiple very hard orgasms.

But I loved it nonetheless. The sensation of the Tiger Balm was incredible. However, my Sir did mention that you have to be careful with it, as it can be dangerous if you overuse it. So while I’m generally allowed to edge whenever I want, adding Tiger Balm is something I have to ask permission for.

So once, several weeks after that afternoon, I figured it had been long enough, so I texted him to ask permission. But as I’d feared, he did not answer. He was buried with work at the time, and he most likely had his phone off to minimize distractions. So I proceeded with my regular edging, but asked if I could use it the next night, for my next required edging session.

I didn’t hear back from him immediately, which I hadn’t expected. Again, I knew he probably had his phone off altogether. When he has something like that going on, I just continue my stream of texts to him anyway, for him to read whenever he has a break – so that he will know that he was on my mind. 🙂

But as that stream of texts piled up over the next day, I feared he might miss my question if he just did a quick skim. So that afternoon, I texted my question one more time, with the intention of not texting anything else after it. That way, whenever he had a chance to read, it would be the first thing to come up. And my strategy worked: a couple of hours later, I heard his text tone.

I grinned, expecting to read something along the lines of, “Yes, you may have permission.” Imagine my surprise, then, when I picked up my phone and saw a single word:


I’m a bit ashamed to admit that my lower lip immediately protruded into a pout. What??? But I’d asked so nicely! I’d been anticipating a yes since the night before, and looking forward to that extra bit of fun for the night’s edging session.

I expected him to follow with another text, telling me why, or telling me that he wanted me to do something else instead. None was forthcoming. My lower lip protruded further. I debated how to respond. A little cutesy begging? Politely asking why? Finally, I settled simply on:

Yes, Sir.

Because I knew that if he wanted me to know why, he would have told me. Really, all I could do was accept it, even if I was genuinely disappointed. And the more I thought about it, the more I started to grin. Because I really and truly DID want it. And he told me no. And I’m pretty damn certain that he told me no for no other reason than BECAUSE I wanted it. He was torturing me by denying me what I wanted.

And fuck me, if that didn’t turn me on.

I sat on my couch, as the warring emotions played out inside me – the genuine disappointment and the increasing arousal. I laughed at myself for the ridiculousness of it all. I did NOT get what I wanted, for no other reason than I wanted it, and this was turning me on? I really can’t even wrap my mind around this sometimes.

A few minutes later, my timer went off to get up and move some laundry around. As I stood to walk, I discovered that I was so wet that I could feel the slipperiness as I walked. That was just too much. Alone in my apartment, I exclaimed out loud, “Oh my god! What the fuck is wrong with me?”

And then I laughed hysterically at myself. For the whole thing. The nonsensical arousal. The talking to myself. The fact that I was disappointed that I’d been told no, I was not allowed to basically set my pussy on fire. All of it. It really highlighted something for me that I’ve realized before, but that was just so starkly apparent in this experience:

It’s not 100% true that orgasm denial is my primary kink; it’s simply denial itself that is my primary kink.

Oh yes, orgasm denial is the most powerful and intense manifestation of that for me. It is fulfilling on so many levels. But damnit if being told no for nearly anything I want doesn’t turn me on! OK, maybe not the big stuff. We have had some points of disagreement on bigger issues that tore my heart out when I didn’t get what I wanted. But those are in a different category. And while they don’t turn me on, I embrace them in their own way, because they do ultimately deepen my surrender in some way.

The little things, though? I swear to you, if I asked him if I could salt my food and he told me no, it would make me wet.

I am fucked in the head. I admit this. But it turns me the fuck on, so I’m rolling with it. 😉

Reflections on one full year without an orgasm – and a possible future with none at all

This is it.  Day 365.  At 11:30 tonight (give or take a few minutes – I was a little too preoccupied to be looking at the clock), it will have been exactly one year since my last orgasm.  When I first took the step of giving my Sir control of my orgasms almost 4 years ago, did I ever think I would go a whole year without orgasming?  Nope.  (At the time, it was supposed to be about giving me better orgasms!)  Do I have any regrets at all?

Not a single one. Read More

Why my Slavery is not poly

I’ve been in an M/s dynamic with my Sir for most of the last 4 years.  During that time, I have also played with others – a lot.  And that play has ranged everywhere from “I wouldn’t recognize you if I bumped into you on the street because I never actually saw your face” to “I’ve spent the night with you and met vanilla friends of yours.”  There is no doubt that I am thoroughly non-monogamous, and yet the label “poly” has never felt quite right for me. Read More