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Hello E/everyone . . .

This is Megan, and I asked Jay to make this page for me so I can have a place to set down my my personal thoughts. Thoughts about what? Thoughts about my masochism and my passion for BDSM of course.

So, where do I begin? I guess the best place to begin is always at the beginning (profound, huh?).

Masochism isn't something I learned to like and being a masochist isn't something I was taught. It came naturally to me. It was an instinct. I was born with it. It has ALWAYS been an intimate part of my persona and my personality. I can trace its roots way back to my early childhood and back to a time when I was only about seven years old.

I was raised a Roman Catholic and I was always fascinated by the lifesize statue of Christ on the cross that stood to the right of the church altar. During mass I would stare at it from the beginning of the service until the end. It had a hypnotic effect on me and I always wondered why the statue was made with a cloth covering his hips. It seemed to me that it was terribly out of place and that it just shouldn't be there. I liked the sight of his body without clothes and I wanted to see it all. The statue was painted and had whipmarks across the chest and stomach. I liked to look at those most of all. The trickles of painted blood fascinated me and, for reasons I just couldn't explain to myself back then, I thought they looked exciting.

During mass I would often imagine myself hanging next to the statue on a real cross--nailed to it, criss-crossed with whip marks, a crown of thorns on my head, and held to the wood by nails through my wrists and feet. I didn't think about the pain at first. In the beginning, I just thought about what a spectacle I would make hanging there, without any of my clothes on, in front of all those people attending the service. I thought about the Easter-time stories of how Christ was mocked, cursed, and ridiculed by the crowd of onlookers, and I would pretend that the people in church were doing the same to me. I tried to imagine what it would be like to hang there naked with people laughing at me and insulting me. I found that to be VERY exciting, and I would try to also imagine what my playmates, neighbors, and teachers would be thinking as they looked at me on the cross.

In the privacy of my own room, I often took off all my clothes, stood in front of the full length mirror behind the door, assumed a crucified position with my arms outstretched, and just looked at my body. I wanted to see what I would look like to people if I were actually hanging from a cross. And, I'd pretend that I had been whipped beforehand. Sometimes I would drag my fingernail across my chest or belly to create red stripes, and I'd pretend that they were bleeding whipmarks just like on the church statue. Looking at myself in a crucified position, with those stripes across my body, gave me a sort of all over tingling feeling that I liked very much.

I did that for a couple of years and about the time I was eight years old I started to wonder about the pain that went along with being crucified. Before that it had always been the sense of degradation, and being ridiculed by people looking at my on the cross, that gave me that tingling feeling, but eventually I started to get a yearning to feel more of the realities of what crucifixion was really like. One day, when my parents were downstairs watching television, I went up to my room, took off all my clothes, stood in front of the mirror, and actually beat my own body across the chest and belly with a short piece of rope. Now, needless to say, I hit myself VERY lightly indeed, but I liked the sensation of even that mild sting. I liked it A LOT!

All the way through middle school and high school my dad's basement workshop became a sort of personal torture chamber for me. I took advantage of every possible opportunity I could find to be alone in the house so I could go down there, get naked, and torture myself. I experimented with a whole lot of things down in that pseudo-dungeon I created for myself. I tied myself to things. I used a vice to squeeze my nipples. I used pliers to squeeze and twist my labia. I crawled naked across the dirty cement floor. I beat myself with sticks and just about anything and everything I could find in the workshop. I tied ropes to the exposed beams overhead, stood on a chair, wrapped the other ends of the ropes around my wrists, kicked the chair out from under myself, and let my body hang by the wrists completely off the floor. And, by the time I reached my senior year of high school, I was using needles and candle drippings to torture myself along with lit cigarettes. I would sneak one of my dad's cigarettes, light them, and touch the tips of them ever so quickly to my flesh to create sharp and piercing stings.

I hit myself a few more times and each time it was just a wee bit harder. And, the red stripes across my body excited me all the more. Now, they were faint stripes, because I really didn't hit myself all that hard, and they lasted only about a half an hour, but seeing them on my nakedness gave me a really intense tingle. I stood close to the mirror and just looked at them for a good long time. I loved the sight of them and I loved the stinging sensation that went along with creating them. To me, that was the most exciting and most thrilling thing I had ever experienced to that point in my life.

I remember the very next Sunday after I did that to myself I fantasized all through the service about everyone in church deciding that I should be punished properly for my sins. I imagined them taking me up to the altar, stripping me naked, hanging me from the overhead lights, and whipping me bloody just like Jesus. Then I'd imagine them nailing me to a cross and setting me up beside the statue so they could all just sit back at look at me. I tried to imagine what the pain from a bloody whipping would be like and, of course, I imagined everyone laughing at me and giggling and chuckling as people called me dirty names and said out loud how bad I was and how I deserved to be punished in a terrible way for my sins.

As time went by I soon discovered that pain was something the body learned to accept and tollerate. Those very very mild whippings I gave myself the first few times soon became just too mild to create that tingling sensation that I liked so much. Gradually, I needed to hit myself harder and harder to create the same effects inside of me. By the time I was in middle school I was giving myself some fairly hard whippings. I remember one summer day when my mom and dad wanted to take the family to the beach. I couldn't go. I had whipped myself that night in the woods at the end of our street and still had traces of the marks. If I had put on my bathing suit the remaining marks might have shown, and how on earth would I explain them. I had to throw a temper tantrum to avoid going to the beach. I'm sure that to this very day my family remembers that, although none of them mention it anymore, and none of them ever knew the real reason behind it. I wasn't being a brat, I was just trying to hide something about my inner most self that I knew none of them could ever possibly understand or accept.

Long before I ever reached puberty I was subjecting my own body to deliberately cruel forms of self abuse. When I did finally come of age things changed very dramatically for me. I was not longer subjecting myself to pain just for the sake of a tingle, I was doing it for sexual gratification. What was once mere tingles transformed into gushing orgasms. To put it bluntly, pain made me horney and pain gave me sexual gratification. I discovered masturbation, but I quite literally needed some kind of pain in order to bring myself to climax. It wasn't enough for me to just play with my private parts and suddenly I would give myself a shuddering release. It didn't work that way for me. My genitals had to be at least a little bit sore before they would respond the way they should. I had to squeeze my sex flesh between my fingernails or whip it with shoelaces before I could turn that tingle into an orgasmic rush. Do you know how I lost my virginity? I lost it to the neck of a wine bottle I took out of the kitchen trash bin. I used it on myself while I was sitting in front of the mirror behind the door of my room, and after I had whipped my crotch with one of my own belts. And, I'm not ashamed to admit that I did that, and that it was good too. I was fifteen years old.

Most of the times that I indulged in sexually masochistic self abuse I wasn't alone. That's right. I was NOT alone. Almost every single time that I tortured myself and masturbated I was ALWAYS with someone. No. Not real people. They were ALL imaginary. But, it was always easier for me to bring on a climax, and I always got more pleasure out of it, if I pretended that someone was with me and that it wasy that person and not myself who was actually inflicting the pain on me. I've been tortured by everyone from Brad Pitt to Father Oplashko (our church pastor), and from my best girlfriend, Sara, to my own mom and dad. All of those people were with me at one time or another over the years. True. It was all just pretend. I only fantasized that they were there and that THEY were the ones torturing me and violating my body. But, for some reason it seemed to me that SOMEBODY had to be there. SOMEBODY had to be watching me as I suffered or it just didn't seem right to me. When I was in pain I wanted to be seen and heard. I wanted people there with me to enjoy what I was going through and what was happening to my body. For some reason it just didn't seem normal or natural to me to be alone at a time like that. It only seemed like a proper thing to do if it was shared with others and if other people got pleasure out of my pain. And, since I didn't have anyone to share myself with I pretended that I did.

There were times growing up when I felt that I was sick, dementend, and down right insane to get so much personal pleasure and gratification out of doing utterly nasty and terribly perverted things to myself. But, I didn't have anyone in whom I could confide. I wanted and needed a confidant desperately during those years, but there just wasn't anyone to turn to for support. I couldn't tell my family that I was secretly indulging in indecent and immoral things behind their backs. And, I couldn't even tell my best girlfriend that I inflicted pain on myself and subjected my own body to heinous forms of sexual defilement without everyone in school finding out just as soon as she could get to a phone. Even the secrets shared with a lifelong friend aren't sacred when you've got a piece of gossip that juicey, and I would have become the laughing stock of my school and neighborhood. So, I kept it all bottled up inside and never told a soul about this aspect of myself. I held it inside and it sent me into fits of deep depression every now and then.

Well, that was all a long time ago and I no longer feel that I'm a sick and twisted little puppy. I know what I am. I'm a masochist. I'm a painslut. And, I no longer feel even a twinge of shame in making that confession. I'm not proud of what I am but I'm not ashamed either. That's just who and what I am and it isn't even something I came to by choice. I was born a masochist and there is absolutely no doubt about that either. I am exactly what Mother Nature intended me to be from birth. My passion for pain and physical abuse comes to me quite literally by instinct. If I try to deny my own masochism, if I try to keep it bottled up, if I try to deny myself an outlet for my pain needs, and if I try to deprive myself of self-sadistic orgasms all I succeed in doing is making myself physically ill and putting myself into a state of psychological turmoil. Yes. If I don't have pain on a regular basis the denial of it makes me sick and gives me headaches, cramps, and a case of "the shakes". Without pain orgasms I can't focus or concentrate on anything, I loose my appetite, and it's hard for me to get a decent nights sleep. If I don't express my masochistic instincts my whole being seems blurred and out of focus, and my whole world seems lopsided and distorted. I quite literally couldn't stop being masochistic anymore then I could stop breathing.

To me, my masochism is very much at the center of my being and the center of my self image. If you ask me, "Megan, who are you?", my very first thought would be, "Why, I'm a painslut of course." I guess most women would answer that question by saying, "I'm a wife.", or "I'm a mother.", or "I'm my parent's daughter.", or something along those lines. But, those aren't the things I really identify with. I honestly don't think I've ever really thought of myself as any of those things. I've never really thought of myself as "a student", or "a working woman", or "someone's significant other". When I think of who I am it's ALWAYS words like, "masochist", "painslut", "slave", that pop into my mind first. All of those other identities have always seemed to me to be temporary states I occupy for a while, but none of them really summarize and define the real core of my earthly existence. In the final analysis, the real and true essence of my being, and the only word that fully defines who and what I am is "masochist".

In another section of this website Jay and I wrote that we both view ourselves as creatures conceived primarily for the sake and benefit of sadists. A lot of people have probably read that section and just assumed that we were making it all up. They probably said to themselves, "How can two intelligent and successful people really believe that their purpose in life is to sacrifice themselves on the altar of sadism, and really feel that they were created to endure pain and suffering for other people's pleasure and enjoyment." I'm sure that's exactly what people have thought to themselves after reading what we wrote in that section. But, that is EXACTLY how we feel and that is EXACTLY how we see our place in life.

As we said in that section, Mother Nature believes in balance and for every predator she creates she creates prey for them to feast upon. Sadism is also an instinct. There are people in this world who simply can't help taking pleasure from, and becoming sexually aroused, by other people's suffering and degradation. And, sadists don't choose to be sadist or learn to like sadism. It's something they come by naturally. It's something Mother Nature instills in them and they have no control over the process. Developing sadistic inclinations happens automatically and isn't really a product of free will. Jay and I have met many people who openly admit to being sadists and say that they have had those urges for as long as they can remember. Sure they have, because sadism, like masochism, is an instinct pre-programmed into a creature's mind by Mother Nature and a compelling force that simply cannot be ignored or denied. So, when some creatures are programmed to be sadist other creatures are programmed to be masochists--their exact opposites and the creatures who keep the other side of the scale in balance. It would be evil for sadists to prey on innocent and unwilling victims, and Mother Nature is not evil, so she creates creatures who no only accept the abuses that sadists feel compelled to inflict but who actually welcome those abuses and derive personal pleasure from them as well.

I think I have recognized this fact of life right from the very beginning. I think that the underyling reason why I always fantasized about being with other people when I tortured myself was because I subconciously realized that my masochism was meant to be shared, and that my body wasn't something intended to be hidden away in my room or in my dad's workshop when it was being abused. My body was meant to be seen and heard by sadists with the natural instinct to take pleasure from my pain the way Mother Nature intended my flesh to be enjoyed. In a way, I guess even back then I recognized that self infliction wasn't normal and that giving myself to others was really how it should be. Like I said before, it was ALWAYS when I pretended that other people were with me that I got my greatest sense of personal gratification as well. In the end, no matter how loudly a masochist may scream in an empty dungeon no sound is really made unless there are sadistic ears to hear her cries.

I never experienced what it was like to express my masochism in front of anyone until I met Jay. I won't bore you with the details of how we met this time, but if you would all like to know I'd be happy to share that with you. Just send me an email and let me know that you'd like me to make that the subject of my next "Inside Megan".

So, I guess I will stop for now. I enjoy sharing my thoughts with the compatable and like-minded people who visit our website. And, I hope it makes all of you feel just a wee bit closer to me after having read through this page.

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