Talk Talk

Talk talk.  That’s what I call what goes on in my head all the time.  That swirl of overlapping, continual chatter in the back of my mind as I go through my day.
In a conversation with my boss I discovered that she is also someone that always has some kind of talk talk going on her head all the time.  Apparently her husband asked her one night about “how much” she thinks.  She said she was confused for a minute.  “All the time,” she said.  “Doesn’t everyone?”   He asserted that he didn’t, and I have heard the same thing from others.
Of course we all do, but what she really meant is that for people like her (and me), we have thoughts going around in our heads all the time–a swirling mass of ten different things all going on at once, and from which we choose what to think about in the “front” of our thoughts.  Mine are mostly writings…emails I am composing or responding to in my head, responses or reactions to things I have heard or talked about, blog entries, story starters or snippets, new characters or stories I am developing, poetry, reactions to news stories I am listening to as I drive to and from work.  It’s all there, all the time, even, I believe, when I am sleeping, although that is a different kind of talk talk: rather than me directing my thoughts consciously, my subconscious is doing the narrating, the steering, of those thoughts.  When I come awake with a clear recollection of night-talk in my head, I listen closely.  Something important almost always comes of it.  This is, in fact, why I abhor taking sleeping meds when I can’t sleep, until the talk talk gets so loud that I am threatened with exhaustion or worse (because that is one of the bad side effects of having a head that is always on–sometimes I am not able to shut it off.)  But the sleeping meds turn it off so completely that I wake with a feeling of blankness, a feeling of utter loss of all those hours, a void where that night was.  It’s an awful feeling, truly.  Almost worse than the not sleeping, which is why I resist doing it.
In any case, when my boss was saying this, my first thought was, “She needs the release of a good scene.”  That is one of the things that sceneing does for me-it turns off my head.  The release is not only the endorphins and the emotions, but a release from our own heads, if only for a brief period.  And I am not the only bottom/submissive/masochist that says that, many many of the women I talk to say the same thing.  That’s why they do it, to turn off their minds for just a bit.  Many of them are overthinkers, just like me.  They need that cessation every once in a while to bring them back into balance.
Yesterday, very spur-of-the-moment, I went over to W’s.  I hadn’t realized when planning my day that would have two hours to myself before I had to pick up my kids after work.  So I called him and asked if he’d like company (something I am getting better at), and he said “come on over,” and I did.
The night before I had stayed over with him, and he used and abused my pussy with its new steel ring.  Later that night, as we laid in bed, he told me he’d been planning, originally, to “beat the hell out of me.” It was only when he started enjoying the new jewelry that beating me took a back burner.  So yesterday, when I got over to his house, he asked if my schedule would allow a beating.  Damn, don’t need to ask this painslut twice!
So upstairs we went, and he secured me to these hooks he has in his wall.  It took a bit of doing, because he hadn’t used them with me before, so he had to figure out configurations and such. I suppose that’s what he was doing anyway–I don’t really know exactly what he’s doing, when he’s hooking and unhooking me up here and there, with chains and clippy things and leather cuffs.  And the reason I don’t know is because he has already succeeded in starting to turn my head off.    I am already starting that drifty process that is such a release and a relief.
He apologized later for “taking so much time” fooling with the chains and such and I was like, “Huh?  Too much time?” That is all part of the process for me, that is part of the experience, and it puts my head where it needs to be.  I love this time, when he is putting rope on me, or moving me about like a plaything, a pose-able doll, something to be manipulated.  I love the look on his face as he is considering what he’s doing, or figuring it out, or tying me just so.  So serious, so intent.  So focused.  I feel especially close to him during this time, as odd as that may seem, since he’s really focusing on my body as an object and his rope and what he’s doing, as opposed to me, but I do feel that.  I find myself sniffing at him, loving his smell, touching him with whatever body part I am able, a nose or a knee, the outside of my thigh, my fingers if he gets close enough.  I want to eat him up, to inhale him, to bring him into my head with me, into this space I am falling into.
Sometimes we talk a bit while he’s doing this.  I follow along, I communicate, but I get quieter as the time draws closer to when he’ll be done with the prep part.  As he gets closer to hurting me.  I am finding that silence in myself, going down into that quiet space.  Reaching for it like an addict reaching for the needle that will deliver oblivion, because in a weird chicken-and-egg thing, I need that space to deal with the pain, and the pain delivers me to that space.
I do weird things while he is messing about with the rope or the chains or with getting me in just the right position.  I rattle the chains.  I wiggle my arms.  I grab the rope. I pull and twist a bit to feel the limits of my freedom, and then revel in the lack of that freedom.  Feeling the restrictions on my body, the tangible evidence of having no way out is oddly comforting. And again, allows me to slip deeper into that quiet space.  All the time I am focusing on these small things, on bits and pieces of my body or on what he is doing, my mind is not talk talking.
And then, when he begins to use whatever implement he is using, suddenly my focus is that much sharper, that much more narrowed down.  To the pain, to my body, to his movements and his body, his hands or his mouth, to the cane or the harrowing singing of the singletail.  Every strike of the cane drives any other thought in my head, out.  There is only that moment, that sensation.    And before that moment, there was the anticipation, there was the anxiety, there was the fear.  After it there is only the bright heat, the red of pain in my head, and then, following close on, the pleasure that floods me.  A release, and a relief.
He used the singletail on me as well.  The singletail is an altogether different experience.  Much of what goes on in my head with the singletail is just that: in my head.  I used the word harrowing to describe the sound it makes, and that is an accurate descriptor.  I cringe, I pant, I am in terror as I listen to the singletail’s lament.  To its cries as it sings through the air, to its cracks and whistles.  Because at some point, one of those sounds is going to be followed by the searing pain of the whip across my back or shoulders, my hip or my ass or my thighs.  Because seriously?  It hurts like FUCK.  And then doesn’t really put me into that pleasure place that caning does. But it’s so infrequent, the actual landing of the whip, that it really is the anticipation of it landing that is half the game.
The singletail isn’t always like that.  Sometimes the whip’s kisses are more frequent, and they are kisses, with only occasional bites.  Hisses of air across my bared shoulders and back, almost soothing, with the occasional sharp zing that snaps me back into the moment–not the searing pain that W’s whip inflicted yesterday.  But although I hate the searing pain, and though I almost enjoy the other, there is something primal and brutal in that pain, in the finality of it, that I crave, even while I am dreading it.  Both put me into that no-thought headspace though.  In one, I drift, almost like sleeping; in the other I am so hyper-focused on the next crack of pain that I can’t think of anything else.
And after…after there is only quiet inside me.  Quiet that he holds in his hands while he holds me and gradually brings me back to awareness.  For awhile I am blessed with only an awareness of him and I am finally truly quiet, the noise of the talk talk muted.