Dacryphilia

For the uninitiated, Dacryphilia is pleasure and/or arousal derived from tears, or sobbing. Some extend this definition to include intense emotional release.

It was Hedone's post on turn ons that inspired a little trip down Memory Lane for me on this subject. Actually, I didn't go there voluntarily. More accurately, her mention of Dacryphilia smacked me over the back of the head and dragged me unconscious to Memory Lane, where I awoke, bleeding and dazed, on the cold tarmac. But as a girl who has indulged in her share of non-erotic crying of late, it was nice to wake up there.

I was still at that enthusiastic new sub stage, where I hadn't yet been pushed to the limits and everything inside me was screaming harder!harder!more!more! I was a greedy little victim, gratefully sucking up every bit of pain and attention he could care to lavish on me, scrabbling to please him with my every action. I felt impatient and frustrated with caution and sense and getting to know each other. I felt insatiable. I felt desperate to cut loose. But being so new I couldn't understand or identify those feelings. I didn't know what was causing this nameless restlessness.

During a discussion about our needs and fantasies and kinks, exploring areas for our future play together, I suddenly blurted: 

"I want you to make me cry." 

As soon as it came out of my mouth, I realised how badly I wanted it. He paused a little, considering.

"...Okay..." 

He was waiting for more clarification, coaxing the details out of me with his non-response. He was listening.

I let it hang there for a second, struggling to form my thoughts.

"I mean really cry. With violence. I want to feel like you have broken me. And I don't want my tears to make you stop."

As soon as I had said it, I was obssessed with the idea. I had cried before once or twice in scenes with my old Dom (MFD), but on those occasions I had cried from frustration or humiliation, and it had been accidental. It was a couple of quiet tears shed rather than uncontrollable sobs. I had never cried from fear, from violence, from pain, or from the trauma of a scene before. I had never offered up my tears to fuel my partner's arousal before. I knew the sadist in Mr L (never very far from the surface) would glory in my tears. He would love them and bathe in them. They would be my bitter gift to him at a time when I would probably be hating him.

We'd shared fantasies of non-consent already. We already had a safe word. We were all set to act on my request in the not-so-distant future. 

When it happened it was nothing like I imagined. I'm not sure what I imagined. But I think I at least always assumed that there would still be a part of me that could observe the action, see what was happening to me and kink on it from a distance. Or at the very least, I assumed I would retain some sense of self, some awareness that there was a way out of this situation if I needed it. Silly little sub girl. I was so new I didn't realise how deep I could go.

After a very intense session he gave me the thing I had so naively asked for. There I was, freshly whipped and waxed: pinned underneath him and crying, begging him to stop, sobbing with terror while he hit me again and again around the face, each blow causing the panic and confusion to rise in me further. And worse: he was not just enjoying my terror, he was getting off on it. 

I can't

Please

Please don't make me

Please stop

I'm sorry

Please

Please don't

Please stop

(etc, sob)

But brutally he fucked me through my desperate, teary pleas, my patheticness spurring him on into me faster and harder. I was wretched; blind with fear; so desperate for it to stop.

I don't remember the end. I think I blacked it out. Apparently I did what he wanted finally... but I don't remember. I was completely broken. 

At last, there was not a bit of restlessness left inside me. I was still and calm, and broken wide open. It is hard for me to describe how grateful I felt, and how cared for, when it was over. I felt as if a lifetime of relief washed over me, not just relief from a scene.

When Mr L and I talked about this experience a little while after it happened, we both admitted it had freaked us out a little. It felt so raw and so dark that we became afraid, holding mirrors up to unfamiliar parts of ourselves. He had been wondering whether he had gone too far. So had I.

This process taught me so much about myself, and I'm still learning. For me, crying is the ultimate humiliation. It is a sign of weakness and vulnerability that I cannot bear to show. I will do practically anything to avoid crying in public, or even in front of friends or family. I will lie, evade and shut myself away if I think there is even a risk I will start to cry. 

Or perhaps I should say I used to. I'm getting better at being honest about my feelings and not bottling them up to protect the world from having to witness them. I think that there was so much fear and anxiety surrounding crying for me that I could never have released the floodgates in another way. I needed to be pinned down and forced. Until then I don't think I realised how deeply BDSM can reach inside of you and release things that you have hidden, even from yourself.

Did the crying experience turn me on? At the time I'm not sure. Apparently I was very wet. But then my body has always been a slutty masochist. The mind is harder to fathom. At the time I was desperate for it to stop. But afterwards, looking back on it I found it so hot. I still think about it sometimes when I touch myself.

Is it strange that a sexual experience has allowed me to (start to) fix a part of myself that was broken? Perhaps. But I'll always be grateful to Mr L for coming on that journey with me, however things turned out between us in the end.