My mind’s eye – The Text Files

This was written over three years ago.  I wrote it to explain to my then top, and still friend, why I wasn’t online.  I was doubled over in pain, and curled up in my bed when this started.  I have irritable bowel syndrome on top of everything else.  Yes, I’ve tried everything to try to “cure” it.  There is no cure. I have to live with it.

I wake up after being passed out for almost three hours since I did what I had to do as part of the morning insanity in this house. I wince. I hurt. I find myself on my pile of pillows and blankets curled up on my side.

He texts me good morning.

I reply…
slips away from you
goes to my corner
curls up, lying on my bad leg facing away from you
buries nose under soft fuzzy blanket

He says back to me…

sneaks up behind me
“What’s wrong?”

It takes me a minute. My thought processes are slowing down to less than three words in a sentence answers. My brain is shutting down from pain. My belly hurts. My back hurts. My hip hurts. My leg hurts. I’ll be unconscious again if I’m not careful and waste another three hours.

In my mind’s eye, he’s making sure I’m okay. He’s squatting there beside me in “my spot.” I can almost feel as if he’s just laid a hand on me to make sure I’m not fevered or panting or my heart bounding out of my chest.

“Too much owies.”

“Oh? Woke up with owies?”

My husband has come in to check on me and he does, quite thoroughly.

“I’m in so much pain,” I text back, “that tweaking my nipples doesn’t work. Even touching the soles of my feet doesn’t make me squeak.”

Squeak – my word for the sounds I make, such as when I get tickled.

In my mind’s eye, I can see him frowning in concern. He asks what happened and I tell him that I really don’t know. He draws more information out of me, how I plan on handling the pain to make it go away.

“Hurts,” I say to him. “Wish I had someone here to make me slip into subspace.”

I’m treating myself by then. It hurts to do it. A whole lot. Deep in me, the water is cool and I feel pressure. I’m not reacting how I normally react too. That has me concerned. Normally, I moan and prance, and can’t stop the orgasms. It’s perfectly natural, I was told ages ago, to react that way.

Instead, I feel shame. Shame that I have to resort to this to get rid of the pain, even though, by then, it is working.

“I could pull on your O ring.”

Oh… yes… that would work… if he was here. If I was wearing my collar. But he’s not and I’m not and… damnit, this HURTS. But I have to do it to get rid of the double over pain.

I write back, telling him what I want and need so desperately right now “Not collared, ATM. Someone to fist my hair, hold me still while I pranced. Tell me that this was for my own good. That I was a good girl for obeying. Hurts.”

That was about as cohesive of a thought as what I could muster for a while yet. I’ve had this done medically, and instead of being kind about it, the two technicians doing it to me goaded and chided me. Told me to suck it up. And my body reacted to it then the way that your body reacts to being sexually assaulted – there’s no shame in that. It’s just what our bodies do. It isn’t a betrayal. That damn medical memory just tore through me while I was trying to get rid of the pain and I wanted to forget every second of it. An hour and a half of being pumped up and bloated for xrays that showed NOTHING with a clit swollen and wanting to cum, unable to touch it because that wouldn’t be “proper” even though it would have made that so much easier to bear. I was as ashamed then as I was in the privacy of my own bathroom doing what I knew would help me.

feels shame” I text him.

“Why shame?”

“Telling you.”

“If it causes you pain to tell me, then don’t.”

“Shame… that I had to resort to that to get the pain down to breathing levels. Hot shower worked on the rest.”

Ah… yes… my best friend… a hot shower. Mmmm yah… soak those painful muscles.

“Shame in telling you. rolls onto my back My mind’s eye is working again. I can rp with him again.

“Sunshine” OMG! Sunshine! I love that! Makes my heart melt…

“Yes, sir?”

“There is no shame in telling me.” He soothes my raw nerves explaining more to me.

“I had to clean myself out to get rid of the belly pain. Once that was gone, back hip and leg pain went down to almost nothing, sir. Eating food now. I feel better, but not playful. rolls back to my side

I could almost sense his smile.

“Pain relief is more important than playing. Being in pain stops play.”

“Being in bad pain…” I corrected him. “Cuddle, sir?”

My mind’s eye sees that he’s moved to his chair… his big chair… almost a couch… “Of course. Come here.”

It takes a few minutes, but eventually I snuggle in… I continue with the RP… in my mind’s eye, he’s being a cuddle bear for me cause I’m still hurting enough I need to gnaw and suck on something. Yes, even my thumb. But I can’t cause of a scar. So I gnaw on a different knuckle to satisfy the oral fixation I need.

Just the thought of being in the arms of someone who is non-judgmental, who would allow me to regress that much to deal with my physical pain without using drugs… that’s a caring top. Or dom. Or whatever he wants to call himself. He won’t even let me RP leaving his lap. Concerned, caring, oh yes. I probably just ate something bad yesterday and my body had rebelled over night. Doesn’t matter the why. I’m not playful and he wants to help me fix it.

I describe to him where I want to go… a “safe zone.” A “no play zone.” A place where I can sit and wait for him to tell me if he wants me or to recharge or do what I want to do. It’s what I’d want in a dungeon – a spot where, although cuddling could occur, if I’m in it, I’m not willing to play. Draw me out of there, and I will. My spot. My corner. I don’t have the heart to tell him it’s halfway down the stairs on a landing. No… it can be in the corner of the play room here cause it works.

But for right now… I’m going to go back to my corner where my soft furry blanket and stuffed animals are. No, I’m not a little,* I just know that pain makes me regress. No judging! Pain relief without drugs… that’s when you have to get creative…

 

*footnote: this was some of my earliest littleing I wrote about too.  Here I am in denial, but I was very little, very small, and in so much pain.

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