Erotic Pain Stimulation
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This story was inspired by a conversation with a friend. He was working in his office at home one evening when his laser printer suddenly spit out three or four sheets of paper that he hadn't printed. Since it was accessible through his home network, he assumed that his wife had printed out something from her laptop. However, it was his daughter who came running down the steps from her bedroom and into his office to retrieve what she had evidently mistakenly sent to his printer rather than to the one in her bedroom. Had she not been in such a frantic hurry to get to the document and had she not looked so afraid that he might have seen what it was, he would not have taken notice. But because his daughter was trying so hard to hide whatever it was from him, after she left, he went over to the printer and selected "Re-print Last Document" from the menu. The printer again started up and printed out a rather graphic story from a website that appealed to people who were into erotic pain.
He didn't have to read the story to know what it was about because he, too, was a regular on that website, as was his wife. His quandary, as he expressed it to me, was how to engage his young, teenaged daughter in a conversation about erotic pain and the safe and not-so-safe ways to pursue that highly misunderstood pleasure.
I told him that I would write a story based on what I knew about how he and his wife met and then he could print it off on her printer and leave it for her to read. This is that story.
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It wasn't even a real party. It was just our regular Friday night get-together for pizza and a movie. We were in college and weren't part of the Frat and Sorority crowd. Some of us were commuters. Some lived in the dorms. Most lived in off-campus housing. There was one off-campus rooming house that had a huge shared living room with what was, for that day, a big-screen TV. That was where we met.
Everyone was expected to chip in $5.00 toward pizza and pop. If you wanted beer or stronger, you had to bring it yourself, and you had to be walking or taking the campus shuttle service when you left. Somebody rented or brought a movie or two and we ate pizza, drank beer, and talked until about one or two in the morning and then everyone went home.
Once in a while someone would bring a date. Occasionally a couple who met there would go home together, but for the most part it was just a bunch of college students on very tight budgets killing an evening with pizza, beer and bullshit... except that one night.
Doctor Thomas, one of the profs in the psychology department, had just gotten a book published and had given an open lecture earlier in the week entitled, "Sexual Masochism - Normal or Aberrant Behavior?" It being a college campus, that was one open lecture that was actually pretty well attended.
Dave had gone to the lecture and was spouting off about it all being crap. "These nuts don't really get pleasure out of pain. They are just passive pussies that let other people push them around and then try to justify themselves by saying that they enjoy it."
Dave was a psychology major and considered himself to be the assertive alpha male of our group. We all knew that because hardly a Friday night went by that somewhere in the conversation Dave did not say in his most pompous voice, "I am, after all, the assertive alpha male of this pack."
The group thought of him more in terms of a different set of words beginning with "A" and when he was not present referred to him as "our aggressive asshole male."
I don't know if it was that Dave had consumed a little too much beer or that he wanted to show his superiority above the "sick fucks that Dr. T had been talking about," but he became more and more obnoxious and more and more insistent that all "so-called masochists" were just "passive pussies who won't assert themselves against others."
A couple of other psychology majors tried to argue with him and cited this or that book or professor, but being the aggressive asshole male that he was, he just shouted them all down. After a while, it got to the point where he just sat there with his arms folded against his chest daring people to speak.
I should have just left early and gone back home, but maybe I also had consumed a little too much beer. Or, maybe there is only so much aggressive asshole bullshit that I can put up with in a single evening. For whatever reason, after a long period of silence, I said calmly, "Dave you are so full of shit that a case of Exlax wouldn't even make a dent in it."
"What do you know," he harrumphed.
"I know for certain that there are people who - in the right circumstances - get sexual pleasure out of pain and they are not just passive pussies. Erotic pain and sexual submission are not the same thing. You don't have to let someone else control you to receive pleasure from what others call pain."
"And how do YOU know that masochists are for real?" sneered Dave.
"Because I am one!" I shouted back.
The room was suddenly very, very quiet. Everyone was looking back and forth from Dave to me waiting for the next words.
"I suppose that means that every time you get hit hard out there on the football field, you pop a woody," laughed Dave.
"No," I answered. "I said 'under the right circumstances'."
I turned to speak to the group more than Dave and continued, "If a situation is already kind of sexual... if I am already slightly turned on, then the wiring changes in my body. What should be a signal of pain somehow becomes a signal of pleasure. Sometimes that could be physical pain, or it even could be emotional pain like embarrassment or humiliation. And yes, it works better if someone else is inflicting that pain or humiliation, but that doesn't mean that the person doing that is overpowering me. It means I am allowing them, or even encouraging them to give me pleasure through pain."
"Big words nerd boy, but you've got no proof. I'll give you the fact that you can hold your own against almost anyone in a fight or an argument, but there is no way I'll believe that you get pleasure out of pain."
Charlene, who owned the house where we met and was a post-graduate student working on her Doctor of Psychology, chimed in with her sweet-as-honey counselor voice, "I think there is a way to prove or disprove this."
Now all eyes were on her. "When we do sexual response experiments the 'peter meter' tells us exactly whether or not a specific image or circumstance turns somebody on." She looked over at me, "If you want to prove Dave wrong, all you have to do is let someone give you a little pain and we see what happens. We don't have all those fancy sensors and readouts available, but the old fashioned 'angle of the dangle' meter will tell us whether or not you are turned on by what is done."
I looked over at Dave. Apparently the apprehension was visible on my face because Charlene continued, "Don't worry. Dave is not going to touch you. I don't think Dave swatting your ass would give you anything but pain anyway." Everyone laughed.
She paused for a long moment and then added, "I'll be the one inflicting the pain in this experiment."
Charlene was a fine looking woman, and I think at that point several of the guys in the room would have suddenly volunteered to be a part of the test, but she was all business and ignored everyone but me. She pointed to the wide doorway that led to what used to be the front parlor. It was one of those of the really old-fashioned doors with the opening for the transom window above it. "We will tie your wrists to the top of that doorway and then strip you down to naked. I will then use a ping pong paddle on your ass until it is good and red. If the peter meter rises, we have clinical evidence that you actually get off on pain. If not, then I guess Dave is right."
She was good - manipulative as hell, but good. She had me backed into a corner. I could have just said "No," but instead I agreed - more or less. "OK," I replied, "but you are not stripping me. I will take my off own clothes." Looking directly at Dave I added, "And my safeword is 'aggressive asshole.' If I say that, everything stops."
"Assertive answer," replied Charlene also looking over at Dave. Then she turned to me and said simply, "Deal," and shook my hand. I got up and walked over into the doorway and held my hands above my head to see how I would fit. If my hands were tied to the top of the door, I would be stretched, but not overly uncomfortable.
"Anybody got some big rope that won't cut into my wrists?" I asked, and almost immediately a soft, black rope about an inch in diameter came flying across the room. There were tassels on the end of it and one of the big curtains on the front window was no longer tied back, so I knew exactly what it was and where it came from. "That'll do," I said. Then, turning to Charlene I added, "Let's start this experiment."
