The Best Motivator
Earlier in the year, I wrote about how I need a punishment dynamic. The reason is simple. I’m not perfect, and Master and I are of the mind that breaking rules should have consequences, if only to teach the rule breaker a lesson. But if I’m to be honest, punishment is not what motivates me to perform to the best of my ability.
Punishment serves its purpose, of course. It gets the point across that the behavior I exhibited is wrong (as “wrong” behaviors go in our relationship), and should be corrected. It provides real consequences for actions that might not actually have consequences outside of the confines of our relationship. And it shows me that Master is paying attention, and will uphold the rules he’s given me, which, for me, is kind of a big deal.
I question authority in the best of times. When that authority seems not to care about their position, or allows me to steamroll them and just do whatever I want to, I will absolutely take advantage of them. Why not? They obviously don’t care about the rules. Why should I?
Not that I need Master to point out when I screw up. I know the second I do something wrong that I’ve stepped outside of the boundaries of my station in his life. Hell, I know as I’m doing it. But I’m an impulsive pain in the ass, and occasionally, no matter how hard I yank on the breaks, it’s already done, and the only thing there is to do about it is take the punishment. That’s life. I mean, how many times have you weighed your options, and made a life-affecting decision, only to realize how big of a mistake it was in the follow through?
What motivates me, though, is the reward.
When I say “reward,” I don’t mean Master goes out and buys me something, or gives me something I’m not usually allowed to have, or anything like that. Sometimes he does, but more often than not, the reward is much more profound than that.
More often than not, the reward comes in his inflection; his hard cock; the desire in his eyes; the way he says, “Good girl!” when he’s impressed.
We celebrated our 11th wedding anniversary this past Sunday. Master took Friday and Monday off to make it an extra long celebration, which made me deliriously happy. He’s had very little time off, this year, and what he has had has been interrupted by work emergencies. This time, though, he was very clear with his job and their customers. We would be celebrating our anniversary. This time was his. And he wasn’t coming in for any of the stupid reasons (that could have been handled by someone else) that he’s been called in for over the past year.
Sunday night, we brought out the toys. It started with Master teasing me, and then he sent me searching for a dildo to fuck myself with. He watched for a long time, alternating between playing with my clit and taking the dildo from me so he could fuck me with it. I love when he fucks me with my sex toys. He does a better job of it than I do!
Then he told me to go get a paddle. I brought him two because I couldn’t decide which I wanted. When I handed them to him, he pulled me over his lap, positioned so that he could fuck my tits while he beat my ass. And at first, I couldn’t sit still.
Master doesn’t believe in warm up. He hits me as hard as he wants to hit me straight out the gate. No warning, no gentle blows to get my ass used to being pummeled, nothing. And this time, he wanted to go hard. It was mere seconds before I was begging him to stop. Considering the facts that when I had a safe word, I only used it once, and the only other time I’ve begged out of a beating is when I didn’t think I deserved it (back when he still used corporal punishment and before we realized it was really just rewarding me), that should give you an indication of what “hard” means in this instance.
He stopped for a beat or two, and played with my clit. I’m much more able to take the pain he gives me if I’m aroused. The more aroused I am, the more pain I can take.
There are two kinds of painsluts in this world; those who actually enjoy the pain (either their wires are crossed, and their brains register pain as pleasure, or they just plain like to hurt), and those who enjoy the act of taking the pain and humiliation to please the person topping them. I’m the latter. Pain fucking hurts, man. But I love it because pleasing Master is incredibly satisfying. Allowing him to control every sensation I experience is ridiculously hot. And watching his cock get hard (and sometimes damn near orgasm) just from the pain and humiliation he exacts makes me feel sexy and desirable. So arousal = pain tolerance in Rayne’s World.
Thing is, no amount of arousal was going to get me through the amount of pain he wanted to give. It was just too far beyond what I could handle. And when he started paddling my ass again, I was wiggling all over the place and begging him to stop much faster than the first round.
He stopped to allow me time to compose myself. Then he made me kiss him and beg him to beat me again. And every time he stopped after that, he made me kiss him and thank him for beating me.
That’s a mindfuck, let me tell you. Here I am begging him to stop beating me while he’s forcing me to beg him to beat me more and thank him for the beating I’m asking him to stop administering.
Somewhere in all this, though, I stopped moving when he hit me. I stopped asking him to stop. I realized all those things were doing was spurring him on more. He is, after all, a sadist. At least part of the draw of hurting someone, for him, is knowing they’re taking more than they can handle for his pleasure1. If we lived somewhere we could be sure no one could hear me, I’m certain he would have beaten me until I was hoarse from screaming2.
Plus, he’d told me twice, “Don’t move your ass.” Once more, and the beating would have become about showing me how much he could hurt me if I didn’t behave. I wasn’t sure I was ready to find that out. So I fought with everything in me to become a stationary target.
His reaction caught me off guard, which makes me think I didn’t always pay attention to his reaction in the past. He told me I was a good girl, but there was an inflection of pride that I’ve never noticed before. And it continued throughout the night, as he watched me come up with new ways we could hurt me together.
That night, I was allowed multiple orgasms, but even they weren’t enough of a reward for what we put me through. They didn’t even register on the reward-o-meter as rewards. An orgasm will never motivate me to do something I wouldn’t normally do to please Master.
What motivates me is his reaction. Seeing his approval on his face and in his body language. Hearing his voice full of pride. Watching his eyes darken and his cock harden. Noticing the complete lack of hesitation when he asks for more; the knowledge in his eyes that I will give him more just to see that pride again.
1. which makes me the perfect kind of painslut for him, because pain doesn’t translate into pleasure for me.
2. This is, of course, consensual. We operate under a consent-to-nonconsent dynamic in which he has permission to do whatever he wants to me, even if I say no. Luckily, he’s not a psycho, and I am completely safe…excluding, of course, any potential accidents.