--
It is
very, very easy to write about hypnosis. With hypnosis, I know how to
get the desired response out of my reader. It is the response I got
out of myself. I know how to put into words the mindset and the
sensations and the state of being. It is familiar; it is enjoyable.
It is
very, very hard to write about pain.
The
descriptors I use become meaningless words on a page, pixels on a
screen. “Pain” does no justice to the way I'm made to scream when
I'm hit, the way the impact burns and the way that sensation
overwhelms me. I am left unsatisfied when I read over the snippets of
my masochistic scenes. There is simply no written comparison to how
the
fear grips at me and holds me shaking in desperation.
I
fixate, in my mind, on those tiny moments when everything is too
real, when those countless blows that have come before have left me
an absolute mess, twisting away in terror, aching and sore.
There
is no way I can express how utterly
sincerely I beg for it to stop; there is no way I can express how it
feels when my pleas are ignored.
I do
not yet know how to write about the tears, how to explain what it
feels like when I am so helpless and abused out of my control that
there is nothing left for me to do but cry. Nothing can compare to
that moment of realization; panicked, desperate, defeated.
Broken.
It is
hard to accept that I can't make my words on pain as accessible as my
words on pleasure. I'm left to close my eyes and dig my nails into my
palm and replay the scene in my mind. Intensity
is lost when I put those thoughts down. The ability to relate is lost
when I put those thoughts down.
It is
very, very hard to show why I like to be hurt.
But I
will keep trying.
--
Snippet follows.
