Odysseys and Observations
Playing Through
by Debra Hyde

Adverse Conditions Happen

Illness? Yes, illness, but let me explain. I'm not talking about significant illness here, like kidney stones, chicken pox, or pneumonia. I mean more quaint and ordinary inconveniences, like PMS, a headache, a mild cold.

Still, you might ask, why bother? Why not just wait until I feel better? Truthfully, I don't have the luxury of picking any old hour of any old day to play. Master and I live apart, leading logistically separate lives throughout the week, so during the chunk of weekly time we devote to each other, we're rather ravenous. We rarely option out of play and each other over minor inconveniences.

Beyond that, though, I discover new limitations and new capabilities in myself when I play under adverse conditions. In the course of experiencing these shifting parameters, I rekindle an appreciation of who I am, of what constitutes me. Yes, it's an odd path towards self-appreciation, but it's one, for all its wonders and worries, that I value.

Beyond the Pale

Except, as I said, I was premenstrual. Master noticed immediately when he cupped one of my breasts early in the day; I guess my flinching was a dead give-away. While tender breasts are certainly a common PMS symptom, I find that, as a masochist, my whole body becomes more sensitive and sometimes my capacity for processing pain is markedly reduced. Perhaps the largely unnoticeable undercurrent of cramping subtly diverts me from my regular capacity for pain. Perhaps the hormonally-induced fatigue from which I suffer compromises my usual endurance, exhausting me early in play. Perhaps, even, my skin simply becomes more sensitive -- after all, a brief, gentle swipe of a violet-wand-electrified wurtenburg wheel left a short trail of marks on my forearm during a demo's "test feel." I don't really know how much of my PMS plays into me; I only know that it does.

Passion Play, Act I

There I was, on the Saint Andrew's Cross, standing, stretched. I relaxed into my body, centering on it, on me. And much to my surprise, a wave of uterine cramps overtook me. Where did that come from, I wondered? Why hadn't I felt them earlier in the day? Obviously, my position on the cross provided the means for my cramps to surface and gain notice. Although observable, they weren't worth complaining about. Certainly, if they became problematic I would speak up, but their mere existence didn't constitute a problem. For me, the cramps warranted a, "Hmm, now that's interesting," and nothing more.

Besides, Master commenced play and instantly diverted me in the process. He skipped any appearance of gentle warm-up and went right to clover clamps on my tits and labia. In a high-octane move, he jump-started my endorphins, my surrender, my pleading. (Yes, I know: surrender that involves a lot of begging isn't a rich, romantic sight. But clover clamps pretty much ruin any chance for demure resignation.)

It was a short scene, followed later by a whipping while in standing bondage. Flogger and quirt assailed me; the flogger with warmth, the quirt with cruelty. Usually, when the quirt strikes, I sink, then spin towards delightful oblivion. Not tonight. It bit, stung, and I struggled, it seemed, forever. Somewhere along the way, Master whipped my pussy. With what -- the flogger? the quirt? -- I can't, even now, remember. I can only recall how it sped towards unbearable, how I twisted my body away, crossing my legs, shielding and hiding myself. I remember, most clearly, Master's emphatic "spread your legs." In abject submission, I did.

Passion Play, Act II

Clothespins culminated our evening. Slowly, deliberately, Master created a line of pins that meandered from my armpit, outside and around my left breast, down my belly, towards my labia. I couldn't tell how many he used, but they were plentiful. Then he created a similar swirl of clothespins on my right side, using about half as many as on the left.

Here, too, processing this usually-lush pain proved difficult. The clothespins moved me towards agony, and, to cope, I started to spew a hurried, play-by-play commentary on my bodily reactions. I babbled, really babbled... the right side throbs more than the left! The pain -- oh, it's throbbing! More pins? Ooohhh! Ouch, ouch, ouch, my labia, too strong, oh please help me!

Master foisted one last trial on me: he used the quirt to strip me of as many pins as possible. Some detached, falling to the floor; others didn't, biting into me anew. In the shock of it all, I could only think how I once loved to do this activity as a top.

Egad. A taste of my own medicine.

On The Other Hand...

Where some adversities reduce my ability to handle pain, others enhance it. Surprisingly, we ran into an keen example just one week after the play party, in the form of a persistent headache. Perhaps the headache was post-menstrually-related; perhaps it was a warning signal of an impending, mild headcold. It appeared, migraine-like, one-sided, near my right eye. Yes, I reached for a pain reliever. And then Master reached for me.

We entered into play, questioning what I might tolerate, understanding that I could call any activity at any time,

I don't know what it is about the hood, but I either relax completely in it or dive deeply. Like a horse in blinders, I'm calmed and kept from distraction.

deciding that we'd use extra vigilance for my safety. Simple, strength-giving ground rules.

And so the hood went on, laced into place, collar secured. Master attached its blindfold and placed its mildest gag over my lips.

I don't know what it is about the hood, but I either relax completely in it or dive deeply. Like a horse in blinders, I'm calmed and kept from distraction. This time was no exception; I relaxed. Still, we had used the hood at the play party and I had remained overly sensitive to pain. Why was this time different? I suspect the headache, in and of itself, induced some level of endorphin flow.

To my surprise, my endurance far exceeded our expectations. Every time Master worked me, my awareness of the headache vanished completely, and it didn't matter what he did -- whether it was a prolonged oral service for his pleasure or testing the electrified butt plug's settings -- I accepted it and went with the flow.

Granted, I struggled and pleaded, but I was just as often calm, welcoming all sensations. Indeed, I worked Master orally with unquestioning, tireless dedication; I relaxed frequently into the anal play, squirming only when he toyed with the volume buttons; later, I squealed and thrashed about when he ran the sharp wheels of a small, hand-held set of spurs over my body. But I processed it all with a noticeable acceptance and a complete lack of the intense uncertainty which characterized the previous week's play.

What's more, Master also employed another tactic that positively impacted our play: he removed the blindfold and told me to keep my eyes open, no matter what. The command was at once a trial and a comfort. Yes, being able to see his every move created some trepidation, but, to obey, I found myself centering my sites on the ceiling, using it as a focal point.

The focal point was an incredible boon, a vehicle for pain reduction. As I centered on it, I drew into myself, I calmed, and pain flowed over me. In the past, I had used focal point concentration so well during childbirth that, each time, the nurses declared me an excellent case study in natural birthing. Now, I rediscovered its power.

And I remained so confident during the spurs' agony that Master mentioned the dreaded word, needles, something that routinely puts me close to panic. He sensed I might be amenable to needleplay and when I peacefully accepted the notion, he made his move. He placed a more severe gag in my mouth, one with a mouth piece. "Keep those eyes open," he reiterated, sternly.

The first needle entered my nipple, deep and horizontally.

Yes, I screamed through the gag, biting down on it, struggling. It still hurt, no matter how thoroughly I had submitted to Master's whim. "Close your eyes and I'll use another needle," he warned half-way through the piercing. I focused on the ceiling, forcing my eyes to remain open, screaming when necessary. But I coped and coped well.

I wasn't punished with a second needle but I was rewarded with it. Though I've taken multiple needles in the breasts before, this was the first time I'd taken two in the nipple. I was ecstatic to stretch this scariest-for-me form of play.

Either Way...

Whichever way pain play plays out under adversity, it always provides some level of reward.

When I can't cope well, Master enjoys the opportunity to comfort and soothe me... and I find abiding security within his loving sanctuary. When I do cope well it is, without a doubt, a time that exceeds all expectations, and we bask in it.

When I can't cope well, Master knows when to pull back. Plus, later, when I experience my typical post-scene dissonance -- usually along the lines of Was I a wimp? -- Master kindly reminds me of my strengths and how he loves my honest expression. A treat for him, Master enjoys the opportunity to comfort and soothe me... and I find abiding security within his loving sanctuary. For my part, I go easy on myself and give myself time to settle. In the end, usually a mere couple of hours later, I'm viewing the scene fondly, smiling. The effort is always rewarding in retrospect.

When I do cope well, Master stretches my limits, bringing us to new heights, satiating the sadist in him, enticing this masochist to marvel at herself. We share a fuller sense of engagement, of completion. It is, without a doubt, a time that exceeds all expectations, and we bask in it.

I'm glad the pat, "Not tonight, dear; I have a headache" isn't allowable lexicon. I'd miss much if I could beg off in adversity; rewards, it seems, come in many forms. And I'm fortunate to still be discovering them as I wind my way through my leather experiences, with Master's guidance and oversight. Still, I think I'll get a flu shot, just in case.

Copyright 1998, Debra Hyde. All Rights Reserved.

About the Author

Debra Hyde is a mostly submissive switch who lives in New England with her husband, two children, three cats, and a dog. She says she is "well-owned and well-loved" by a very special Master, and shares a unique triangle with him and her somewhat submissive husband.

"When England Calls," one of Debra's short stories, graces the pages of the recently published Mammoth Book of Historical Erotica. She is currently working on a number of others, as well as the Great American Leather Novel. Her BDSM work has been previously published on the Internet by Leather Online and Section 12, but Leather and Hyde was her first regular column, originally hosted by About.com's BDSM site and relocated here with her kind permission.

Debra also maintains a personal Weblog called Pursed Lips and can be reached at 75222.2150@compuserve.com... but no junk mail or "Wannas," please.