Discomfort

I think this will actually be the last of the notes prompted by thinking about extended experiences involving isolation, neglect - very serious forms of psychological play.

A week or so ago I was back at the Nifty Archive looking for nasty ideas to make my own. A story opened with a guy being forced to stay naked on the back porch. Oh, yes, I thought how many times have I …

Oh damn, it is cold and it makes him slightly ill. I can’t go there. I have to be very careful about the cold. Under certain circumstances I become very ill for anywhere from two to five days from cold air and moisture. (Been true since I was eighteen. My doctor can’t see any cause.)

Discomfort I think was the final refinement of my dirty dreams of this kind of extended power exchange. Discomfort isn’t really the right term but noncomfort isn’t a word. Call it the absence of comfort.

In my fantasies the top doesn’t often have much to say, nor do I: lack of imagination. The exception is in explaining what they are about to do to me and why. She or he seemed delighted to offer a clinical exposition technique and process. Preambles that induce trepidation in advance of the experience.

Like a contented mad scientist anticipating his or her destruction of the world I am told:

That I will no longer sleep on a bed. My collar will be chained to the bathroom wall and I will rest on the cold, damp floor. Maybe the light will be left on to render whatever sleep I manage even less satisfying. The bathroom is chosen because it is cramped and access to the toilet will keep me from making a mess. (Alternate take: a pole in the backyard.)

No more use of furniture. Unless needed I will be kept in designated spaces in prescribed postures. Often muzzled, blindfolded and ear plugged: limited self-expression, my mind turned on itself.

My food will be at best boring, perhaps even distasteful. Cold instant mashed potatoes and boiled liver for example. Pissed on dog food should my behavior be found wanting. Should I hesitate to eat what is offered I will go without food.

And piss or other unpleasant things will be all I ever drink.

Orgasms? Rare: only often enough to remind me of what I’m missing.

In this the dominant’s goal isn’t pain. It is the absence of certain kind of stimuli. So that pleasing the top becomes my primary - only - pleasure.

As I’ve noted before these fantasies seemed to accompany an increasing desire to be submissive. For me deepest submission creates the illusion of a loss of self and consuming focus on, responsiveness to the person controlling me.

There’s nothing rare in any of this except perhaps my ability to coolly appraise it.

The negation of comfort - given an aware and compatible partner - is probably within the realm of possibility. That is rare among the weird and silly ideas guys like me have.

I actually wrote this all up once. But it is so over the top even I would be embarrassed to publish it.