I bought these pegs from Flying Tiger four years ago. I paid a pound for a net bag containing probably thirty of them, red and black and intended for miscellaneous quirky household uses, and the one clipped to my nipple in the picture above is the last one left. They were ideally suited to be a birthday present for my partner at the time, a man who introduced me to the joys of the poundshop Pervertible and liked objects which combined the potential to cause pain with a certain kitschy sweetness.
When it came to the former they certainly packed a punch. There were several evenings where I walked around a club or house party with a heart- shaped peg on each tit for an hour or so at each time, eyes shining with the delicious agony caused by the serrated plastic teeth on the clips. I have many joyful memories of squealing ecstatically when he finally removed them, usually at least five minutes after I’d asked him to. Often those squeals would be silenced by his kisses and then renewed by him flicking my burning nipples with his fingertips.
Part of the fun was in the performance of it. I loved the pain for its own sake, but the pain also tied in with my exhibitionism. I liked it when people commented on how evil the clips looked, with a quiet admiration in their voice. I also loved the way that the pain was a thing that my partner and I did together: he caused it, I took it, and I loved it when other people saw that exchange in action.
And in lots of ways my masochism is something that rarely happens in isolation, kink- wise. When I look at the things I’ve written recently about masochistic kinks, I can see masochism at work alongside my humiliation kink in my love of being waxed . When I wrote about having nettles in my knickers I am reminded of how the endurance involved (because I’m not sure I really conveyed a key truth about having nettles pressed against your genitals, which is that it’s a very special kind of awful) really made me feel like I was submitting to him in a very deep and specific way. I would not go through that for just anyone. I would not do nettle play with a random play partner: it’s the kind of thing I would only do with someone to whom I was, I suppose, a little bit devoted.
If you should ever need a definition of sub frenzy, sit me down one day and ask me in more detail about the ridiculous, barrelling speed with which I inhabited my new identity as a painslut. I leaned IN, relishing my bruises and challenging myself to keep up with my hard- playing Sadist partner as much as I could, getting high and even higher on the electric connection between the two of us as we tested the bounds of my masochism.
In retrospect the endorphins that were stirred up by all of those yelping, thwacky, high- octane sessions left me ill- equipped to regulate the emotions that came with my new discovery of the joys inherent in the old black and blue, particularly in the context of a very whirlwind, very intense romantic partnership with a, shall we say, fairly idiosyncratic kind of man. If I were to give any advice to a sub in my position I would tell them to go much, much slower than I did. There’s no need to hurtle: a decent partner will go at your speed and, if necessary, hit the pause button on their own desires to ensure that you’re not overreaching yourself in your newbie exuberance. And I hope they’d be brighter than me, and actually listen.
But still. I’ve taken plenty of time off since, both voluntarily and not so much, and it’s been a while since anyone hurt me the way I love being hurt. I’m a submissive and an Exhibitionist, and to some degree or another both of those identities can be and have been fed in a Pandemic via the magic of modern technology. It’s not impossible that at some stage soon I might find someone who’s happy to direct me to hurt myself in ways that will press both our buttons, although God knows I’ve tried to redden my own ass and it’s never been much more than a kinky fool’s errand. I’m not a pure masochist, I don’t enjoy pain entirely in isolation: I enjoy pain when it’s part of a relationship, an interaction.
That relationship doesn’t need to be romantic, and it doesn’t need to involve D/s- I’ve bottomed for friends and acquaintances in pickup play situations and had some really lovely, comradely, giggly experiences. The exchange of energy can be entirely platonic, although there’s usually an erotic undertone to it somehow, if only because of where I like being hurt most: my ass, tits, inner thighs, labia. Pain noises and sex noises are fairly interchangeable- gasps, sighs, yelps and moans (although I’m more likely to laugh hysterically when I’m being flogged than when I’m getting fucked!)
Pain is definitely an erotic experience for me- being flogged or whipped will make me wet, and being flogged or whipped while I’m sucking cock, for instance, will make me first suck harder and then reduce me to abject, sloppy sluttishness, begging to be fucked and made use of.
And pain combined with romance is a very particularly lovely thing. To me very few things can compare to gritting your teeth and counting off a dozen hits from a thin, springy cane, feeling the burn and rush of every stroke, and then being congratulated for your receptivity with a long, loving kiss. That to me is the Holy Grail, except it feels like a Holy Grail it’s dangerous to search for, because it can be intoxicating to a degree that leaves me uniquely vulnerable.
What I really want, and really crave, is the back and forth, being set a challenge and rising to it. I crave the chemical effects of pain, alternating between dopy haziness and crystal clarity. I crave the feeling of knowing that I am stronger than I give myself credit for, that I can endure. I don’t crave it often, but when I do it’s a powerful, shaking, reshaping desire.