Counting Clothespins

Tuesday night Mrs. Lion resumed my clothespin lessons. This time she put only one, purple – she likes that color – on the head of my penis. The pain was excruciating at first. It was clear that Mrs. Lion was not inclined to remove it any time soon. After a bit, the pain receded into the background. She stimulated me and there I was standing tall with that painful object firmly affixed to my most tender skin. She left it there for quite a while as she played with me. Then she removed it. Ouch! A little while later it was back on a new spot that was even tenderer than the first one. I managed to endure and after a long time, the pain slipped into the background again.

In an email yesterday, Mrs. Lion said,

We’ll continue with the tiny clothes pins and work our way up to more. There’s no rush.”

I’ll ask her to photograph her progress and share it with you.

The clothespins, more than other things we do, has caused me to consider whether I am a masochist. Here’s how the Oxford English Dictionary defines it:

1. The deriving of sexual gratification, or the tendency to derive sexual gratification, from being physically or emotionally abused.
2. The deriving of pleasure, or the tendency to derive pleasure, from being humiliated or mistreated, either by another or by oneself.
3. A willingness or tendency to subject oneself to unpleasant or trying experiences.

Based on this definition, I guess I am. I never really considered myself one. I think I fit the third definition best. Well, maybe the second too. Given that I have asked Mrs. Lion to do painful and humiliating things to me, I have to wear the masochism badge. Of course, labels aren’t all that important. I am what I am regardless of attempts to define me.

I do think that acknowledging my masochistic desires makes it easier for Mrs. Lion and I to understand my requests, especially the most recent one. It also speaks to what I really want in terms of things like maintenance spankings, even punishment. The definition doesn’t claim that I enjoy the pain, just that I want it.

I’ve avoided thinking of myself as a masochist because I genuinely don’t like experiencing pain or humiliation. But I want it anyway. Why would I want to wear diapers? That’s humiliating and uncomfortable. Yet I’m the one who suggested them to Mrs. Lion. For the record, I never suggested putting nail polish on my toenails. Oh no! I’m not sure that I thought of the clothespins on the head of my penis either, but I want it. I did suggest occasional panty wearing as well. I have a couple of pairs in the drawer, but Mrs. Lion feels no affinity to that activity. I don’t like it at all, but I bought them anyway. Yup, I’m a masochist.

Is my enforced chastity kink yet another expression of masochism? I don’t think so. It’s different. It’s about power exchange; submission if you will. I think the desire to surrender power is often accompanied by requests for humiliation and pain. The reason for this, I think, is that submitting to pain and humiliation is graphic proof of the power exchange and surrender. In fact, that’s why I never thought of myself as a masochist. I considered masochism as getting sexual satisfaction from pain. I didn’t realize that it can also be wanting those things, not necessarily getting turned on by them. Ultimately it doesn’t matter what label we put on all this. What is important is that I openly acknowledge that I want and need these painful and humiliating things even if I complain about them and resist it when Mrs. Lion imposes them. I suppose that the more I resist, the more valuable the experience. I think Mrs. Lion understands this and is starting to turn up the volume.