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Remembering the Pain
This afternoon I texted my best friend to update her on the progress of my Lupus bruises. I described the lurid mass of purple covering my buttocks and the top of my thighs. And I added: “It didn’t hurt enough to cause that kind of damage!”
I sent the message, but then I remembered a single thought that had tolled in my head as first the cane, then the whip cut into my bottom: “I’m not made to stand this kind of pain; how can I take any more?”
Both feelings were genuine: at the time, I wondered if I could stand the agony; today, I remember mostly the joy at having pushed through. Human beings forget the pain; bodies and souls gloss over the hurt, until it’s only a breath of memory, of emotion. I know the pain was dreadful, but only because I remember thinking so. Three days later, my body is already forgetting.
What I remember is joy.
The joy first presented itself the night before the shoot, as periodic shallow cuts of fear. I packed up my stuff: a dress (I wouldn’t feel like wearing jeans), cheap disposable knickers (to soak up blood), tubes of arnica cream, moisturiser and disinfectant. These are not usually the things I bring along to shoots, other than moisturiser. Their presence signalled to me that, like an explorer packing up her compass and maps, I was officially off on an adventure.
There was the joy of acting, such as it was. The role wasn’t difficult: I was an ingenue in a white pinny, with just enough lines to pretend I spoke some Czech. I slid into character painlessly, and preserved enough of a grip on reality that following direction, hitting marks and staying aware of camera lines wasn’t as much of a wrench as it can be on more emotionally difficult films.
The fear returned in a numbing wave when I first saw the whip I would be asked to take. It was a tightly braided leather snake, all knots over its entire length. Producer Thomas told me later that it had been a gift from a fan, and was one of the most severe implements in the Lupus arsenal – a fact I’m glad I hadn’t been aware of before my scene. In the hands of Lars, who is an imposing man even when you’re aware of his sweet nature, it looked terrifying. But this fear, too, was joy.
And then, there was the Challenge
At some point before the shoot Mr Haze had asked me how many strokes I’d be getting this time, and I suddenly realised that neither was the number set in the script, nor had we discussed it in advance, like for “Red Reformatory”. I knew there’d be a caning first, followed by a whipping, and I suspected the number 50 would be involved, but other than that I wasn’t sure.
I waited to be told; there was a thrill in this.
The cameras were being set up in the barn, where the mistress would catch me naively helping the master rub in a special ointment. (Har-de-har.) Director Zbysek and Producer Thomas called me to one side.
They’d had an Awesome Idea. First I would get 25 with the cane – that was settled. 25 with the whip would follow. And then – well, then it was up to me when to call a stop to it. After the 50, I could collapse to the floor, signalling I’d had enough. Or I could keep going for as long as I wanted.
“What do you think?” asked Thomas enthusiastically.
I thought it was the craziest, most wonderful idea I’d ever heard. The question now wasn’t, “Can I take 50?” It was, “How long can I keep going?” Like a package tied with a gold ribbon, I was being handed control: instead of just enduring the pain, I could own it, fight it, wrestle it to the ground. Although I had every intention of stopping at the minimal 50 if I needed to, I loved that the end would come at my own word, not somebody else’s.
I had no illusions: my pain tolerance being moderate at best, I didn’t think I could keep going forever, nor did I feel like proving to the wide world that I could take more than the next girl. But oh, I loved the power. Fear and power mingled together, becoming joy.
The pain, though, was just pain. From the moment that pain stepped in, my memory is fractured.
I remember the first two cane strokes fall, in quick succession, and the sting taking a little while to build up. For a second I thought it might not be that bad, and then it was as though a hot knife was pressed to my skin. And it really was that bad.
I remember trying to count, and losing count about halfway through, and picking it up again just because it’s something to focus on. And pain flaired up, and I failed.
I don’t remember the caning finish, but I do remember trying to recall where the hell the cameras are, where I’m supposed to be, where I’m going next. There’s no command to cut, so I must be in the right place to be forcefully stripped; I try to help subtly enough that it doesn’t actually look like I’m helping.
Of the whipping, I remember the deep despair as my uncertain count reached twelve; I didn’t think I could hurt more than this, and yet there was just as many to go. That thought: I can’t possibly withstand this. Then, just as clearly, I remember being reluctant to finish when I thought the minimum 25 were done: the pain was appalling, and yet there was comfort in still standing, still holding on. I will stop now, I thought. No, now. Now?
I seem to remember – I’m pretty sure – that the entire scene was shot in one take, like a long gasp without breathing out: from the minute I kneel at the master’s feet, to being discovered by the mistress, to having my skirts yanked up and my pantalettes shoved down – to the caning, to having my clothes torn off, to the whipping, to throwing myself at Lars’s feet, begging, begging. “I think this is enough,” he says gruffly – they leave me alone, crouched on the floor. And it’s a cut. Everybody applauds. One long take.
At this point people started saying nice things to me. I’m far from the thought that a girl’s ego should be built on the compliments she hears after being beaten red and purple, but it certainly does no harm to hear them. The English-speaking folk said them, the Czech-speakers smiled them, my husband passed them on body to body in a long, warm hug.
We shot a quick repeat of the final few minutes for another camera angle – the begging, the last stroke, the disconsolate sobbing – and snapped some stills, and then it was really all finished.
The memory of pain was beginning to slide away. My mind, buzzing on the endophin high, was already spinning around the fantastic films I could go on to make next time.
This is the second of a series of posts about my Lupus Pictures shoot of 2009.
Part 1: “The annotated Lupus tweets”.
Part 3: “Lupus marks in development”.
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19 Responses to “Remembering the Pain”
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This is a very interesting post – I also tend to forget the very real pain and remember the joy in submitting, the heat and throb rather than the flash of fire.
Brilliant post, Sweetie – I am truly in awe of you :).
xxx
I wish I’d been there to both watch it and compliment and hug you afterwards!
It sounds like it really was an amazing adventure!
It was fantastic to read, fantastic as you are
Thanks for a fascinating blog. How did you feel when all those clothes were torn off? I’ld love to know the details please.
My Gods, that must be your best post ever! So alive to your every feeling. You not only bared your bottom you bared your soul
Thanks, folks. Glad I could share some of what was going on – it’s no fun to watch fireworks on my own :)
Peter – for the most part I was relieved I wasn’t being caned or whipped just then. “Oh good, a stripping scene! A break in caning!” :) It’s a bit surreal to be stripped in a barn with about 20 people there, though.
What a beautiful post. Thanks so much for sharing this. :)
You are really a good writer, love it
What you have written is wonderfuly clear, highly rational, and a million miles from porn. You may hve got there via erotic spanking, spanking for fun , bottom exhibitonsm, all sorts of teasing play. But this was in a different universe. All of which brings me to some questions I’ve been ponderig since starting to read your, and Niki’s and some of the other intelligent spanking blogs that are blossoming on the net. What are the different satisfactions that different people get from different aspects of spanking? The spanker clearly isn’t getting the same joys from it as the spankee. Different styles and human contexts apparently generate not only different intensities but different kinds of response, whether you are active, passive or just watching. Knowedgetha what you ar seeing is abslutely real mk it diffeen rom what you realize is play, whe eh pain may be real enough but where eh situaton is make-believe. AS a German philospher Ludwig shoud be invited to discuss the phenomenology of spanking.
Apologies for the typing in the last 5 lines; I’d got to the point where every correction led to two new typos.
Goodness, Krampus, I’m sure there’s a thesis in human sexuality in there somewhere. (Or philosophy? AND philosophy?)
Let’s postulate that pleasure can be physical or mental/emotional.
I would also argue that each of those types of pleasure can come from physical or mental stimuli. I.e., you purr when touched, and smile when complimented – but also you can feel physically turned on upon hearing certain words or watching certain things, or get emotional pleasure out of physically unpleasant experiences (the pain of a strenuous work-out, or of a severe thrashing).
From here it becomes an exercise at working out what pleasures you in exactly the way you want, and venturing forth to get it. (I am an unashamed epicurean!)
The mix of real and make-believe that you need to push your buttons is so personal, I don’t think we can draw a universal picture at all, but I’m sure you’re right, in that the presence of different components can easily heighten and kill pleasure.
h All rigt, there were too many questions, on too high a level of generality. Can I ask you a pair of more precisely focussed questions; In what way, if any, is the experience of topping LIKE, AND IN WHAT WAYS IS IT UNLIKE, the experience of being beaten?
I appreciate that your answer will be personal, and will need to be qualified by “It depends on the all sorts of variables. But is there one essential similarity and one (equally essential) difference? If you are unable to answer these questions then I shall accept that they can’t be answered. (That’s not a compliment, that’s my honest assessment, based on my constant readership of your writings bloggy and twittery.
Ah, that’s an interesting one. I’m actually half-way into writing a post about topping, so there should be something up on the blog on this topic in the next few days.
Short answer: it’s nothing like bottoming :)
I enjoyed reading your blog on “The Garden Party”. I have often wondered about what went on a Lupus filming and what the ladies in the film thought.
Thank you,
Curt
I forgot to tell you that I love your blog.
Yours, Adele, really is a wonderfully descriptive blog and, coupled with Ludwig’s details as a top, and the film itself, makes the scenario even more enjoyable – and certainly much more informative – than being present at the shoot.
I only asked about the stripping scene because both Niki and Pandora had suggested that a similar experience was particularly “HOT”. But obviously not in your case. Just a relief !
Peter
Can you sit on some ice for a while afterwards, or is it not recommended?
Ice won’t do any harm, but I don’t bother with it. I like the pain to last for a while :)