Writing Exercise: Pain

[StillStunned]

Heartache, spanking, uncomfortable sex. The cat's claws suddenly digging into your arse during sex. The stubbed toe that makes you cry and out miss your friend's declaration of their love. Pepper spray in your eyes or a knee in the groin when you misinterpret the signals. Memories of love lost, shame for way you treated someone a dozen years ago, sadness for the opportunities you missed because you were afraid to take a chance.

Powerful motivator or insurmountable inhibitor, it's a big part of human life and, by extension, literature. It comes in an almost infinite variety of flavours, and I'm sure we've all experienced at least several of them. So let's hear your take on the subject of "pain".

Usual rules apply: keep it short (350 words as your guideline), and don't write anything that wouldn't make it past the screening process for published stories. So no underage characters, no bestiality, no hard NC, no snuff, etc.

 

[StillStunned]

Here's mine (because I know at least half a dozen of you witty people already want to do this):

Pain au chocolat

Paul Brouzet made the best pains au chocolat in town. Everyone acknowledged that. They melted on the tongue to dissolve into a blend of flavours and aromas. They were buttery, flaky, sweet and yet satisfying enough to keep a person going from breakfast to lunch. They were, simply put, the best.

Paul was proud of them, but he never told anyone why he’d put so much effort into perfecting them. When asked, he’d laugh and shrug. “Luck,” he’d say, “and the blessings of the baking gods.”

The truth was actually quite simple. Above the shop across from his boulangerie was an apartment, and in that apartment lived Marie. Marie was small and lithe, with dark curls and dark eyes, and every morning she opened her door, crossed the street and came up to Paul’s counter.

“Un pain,” she’d say, pointing at the stack of pains de chocolat.

And Paul would smile and select one for her – the best one of the day – and then pass it to her wrapped in a paper napkin. She’d take it in one hand and walk off with a wave to him, taking the first bite on her way to work.

But Paul yearned for more. He wanted to be part of her life – a bigger part than simply the man who baked her breakfast. He wanted to bring her breakfast as she woke, and sit on her bed while she ate it and they discussed the day ahead, and then kissed and went their separate ways until the day ended and they were together again, and kissed and told each other how their days had been.

And this day would be the first step. Today, he would ask her to have drinks with him after work. Today he would become part of her life.

So when Marie’s door opened and he saw her crossing the street, he took a deep breath and smiled. “Un pain?”

But she shook her head, turning to look as her door opened again and a man appeared, juggling a coat and a covered coffee mug. Then she turned back to Paul. “Deux.”

 

[TheExperimentalist]

Here's an excerpt from one of my WIPs (which is actually not very representative of the story as a whole, but whatever):

When the pressure increased to the point of pain, I winced, and she lightened it for a moment. Suddenly, something felt lacking to me, and I shook my head, my desire expressing itself as a desperate whimper.

She pulled back even more. "Too much for you?"

I shook my head and whimpered louder.

"Does that mean you want more?"

I nodded vigorously, now positively whining.

"Tell me. Tell me what you want."

"I wa- I wa- I want you to..." I felt weird saying it out loud.

"Want me to what?" She had continued the smooth, comparatively gentle coupling of our lower parts all through this exchange, but I barely felt it over the desperation in my nipples.

"I want you to..."

"Yes?"

"... hurt... my nipples. Please, Karrah, please hurt my nipples."

"Good boy."

She bit down and pinched again, raising her eyebrows questioningly at the same time, as if to ask 'is this what you need?' The sight of her sultry, smiling eyes looking up at me with my own flesh clamped between her teeth was, and still is, one of the sexiest things I have ever seen. I nodded and sighed gratefully.

She increased the pressure and, though it hurt, I moaned instead of yelping this time. It felt as though something had short-circuited in my brain, crossing the wires between pain and pleasure.

I'd thought of her earlier as heaven, an angel, a goddess, but as she overwhelmed my body with burning sensation again and again, I realized that she had become a ravenous demon instead, her unbound hair spread wildly across my chest in an inferno of hellfire from which I never wanted salvation.

I don't know if using a snippet I've already written (especially one that doesn't tell a complete story in and of itself) is cheating, and I'm also pretty sure that your intent was unpleasant pain, rather than enjoyable pain, but what can I say? I have a streak of both sado and maso in me... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

 

[StillStunned]

I don't know if using a snippet I've already written (especially one that doesn't tell a complete story in and of itself) is cheating,

I'll allow it.

and I'm also pretty sure that your intent was unpleasant pain, rather than enjoyable pain, but what can I say? I have a streak of both sado and maso in me... ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

No, you're good.

 

[TheExperimentalist]

I'll allow it.

No, you're good.

Thanks. Also, just to add context for the last line, she's a redhead.

 

[mrs_mackenzie]

The Cup Final

The house was decked out in blue from top to bottom. My husband wouldn't have even noticed if I didn't decorate for Christmas, but now he'd woven one of his old team scarves around the banister. "These chances don't come along very often," he'd told me. Silently I thanked my lucky stars for that.

All week he'd worn a succession of replica shirts, some of which hadn't been out of his wardrobe in years. I'd heard podcasts and radio shows and TV pundits talking endlessly of the possibilities for the match, the players, the tactics, the team sheets...

And to be honest, I really didn't like football one bit.

But I endured it, because he loved it. Lived and breathed it. Loved it more than me, for this week at least. But his joy was my joy. Seeing him like a small child on Christmas morning was worth every minute of the discussions, predictions, expectations. And it would all be over on Sunday.

For the big day I went to the shops. Half the city was indoors, or in the pub, watching. Cheering. Groaning. I had the streets to myself, but I could still feel the excited, charged atmosphere.

When I got home, the clock said five. It would be over. I dropped my bags by the door and put my head around the living room door.

Luckily for the uninitiated like me, they'd put a little bar of colour on the scoreboard in the top right to tell you which team was which. I looked for the blue. I saw the 'nil'.

"Well, that's life," he said, sitting in his favourite armchair, struggling to keep the pain off his face.

I leant down to give him a kiss. "Maybe next year?" I suggested.

"I doubt it," he sighed.

Dragging my spare hair tie off my wrist, I pulled my hair back into a tight ponytail and dropped to my knees between his legs, running my tongue over my lips. His eyes went wide, and in an instant that frown of disappointment became a big, happy grin.

 

[onehitwanda]

I stared out at the spot where the silver-grey water met the hazy sky. It was what we called a "somewhat" day, when the breeze carried the iodine tang of the Irish sea up the slope, creating ripples in the long grass that mirrored the slower water surface below.

Her breath was warm on my neck, her head rested against my shoulder as we loved it to. The woolen hat sat tight on her skull; her eyes were closed and I knew she was simply listening to everything - the gulls, the gentle hiss of the waves on the sand below our spot, the rustle of the grass.

I adjusted the blanket on her wasted legs and then found her hand in its knitted mitten once more. It wasn’t cold, but she had no weight left to her. I took a breath, tried not to shudder.

“Stop,” she whispered. “Don’t. Tell me where we’re going on holiday this year instead.”

“We’re...”

I swallowed, somehow found the strength.

“... going to Barcelona,” I continued. “We’re going to spend some time on the beaches - Barceloneta is great. We’ll go to the Sagrada Familia - I know you’ve always wanted to. Park Güell and Las Ramblas. We’ll take a bus to the monastery at Montserrat. Our hotel will have a private pool; we’ll swim in the sea and then go back to our rooms and night swim there. We’ll go on a sunset yacht cruise...”

Her fingers caressed my cheek.

“Claire...”

“Yes, honey,” I answered.

“Promise me.”

“Promise... what?”

“Promise me that when I’m gone, you’ll go do all those things. Oh... oh, my love, don’t cry. I know I’m leaving soon. I’ve... made peace with it.”

I felt her move, pull back.

I stared down into those bright blue eyes that had stolen my heart away all those years ago.

“I’d go through all this again so long as I got to have you,” she whispered.

 

[Erozetta]

I pushed her hair behind her ear, and my fingers lingered in her long dark locks. "Annabelle, we are toxic. I love being around you, but I'm fucking addicted to you. I can't go to work. I can't go to school. I just want to be near you all the time and it's not healthy for either of us.”

“Yeah,” she said with a sigh as she pulled her hair free. “So, you're breaking up with me then?”

I paused. “I… guess so.”

And then she smiled. Eyes full of tears and her chin quivered, but she smiled at me. “Friends still?”

I shook my head. I didn't understand. I was telling her I couldn't be her friend anymore. Being her friend was all consuming. I was losing myself to try and be more like her, to get her to want to be around me as much as I wanted to be around her.

She lowered her head, causing her hair to fall in front of her face. Her shoulders slumped and my heart tore right in two. I hated when she cried. I buckled every fucking time. It was part of the problem.

I tried to gather every bit of strength I could. “Annie, please don't cry. You make friends so easily, you'll replace me in no time.”

Her face lifted, and her lips were slightly agape. The furrow and arch of her brow, some blend of anger and confusion. “Make Friends? Make… are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Then she slapped me. Hard. I fell to the floor, and my hair covered my face as I held my warmed cheek. She'd never even raised her voice to me before.

Her hands flew up to her mouth in shock, and she dropped down beside me. “Oh my god, Lynds, I'm so sorry. I…”

I held my hand up, quieting her. My eyes watered, and I found that strength I'd been lacking moments ago. “We hurt each other. It has to stop. Now get the fuck away from me and stay away.”

Based on an actual event in my life, and part of a WIP I'm working on for Tainted Love. (If I can finish my main one for the event in time... Otherwise it'll be a "whatever" story.)

I will say, as a caveat to this: I didn't know she thought we were dating. I thought we were just horribly traumatized co-dependent friends and neither of us understood what a boundary was. Once I realized my mistake (Pretty much when she asked me if I was breaking up with her.) I felt pretty fucking foolish until she slapped me. That made it much easier to walk away.

 

[SugarStorm]

Trish was behind her, close enough that Dina could feel the breath on her neck.

“Try again,” Trish said softly, coaxing.

Dina braced herself, fingers curling around the edge of the frame, knuckles white. Her shoulders tensed on instinct, body remembering things before her mind did.

“It's tight,” Dina said, voice betraying her. “It hurts.”

Trish paused, and settled her hands on Dina’s hips.

“We went a bit fast, sweetie. We’ll do it slower this time.”

A breath escaped Dina that was half a laugh, half a whine. “You said that last time.”

“And I was right,” Trish replied, smiling into her hair. “Just breathe. I’ll go slow. Promise.” A pause. “More lube, maybe?”

“Mm. Yes, yes please.”

Dina took a moment to collect herself as Trish stepped away.

Trish returned, and applied lube. Dina closed her eyes and grunted with effort. A sound slipped out of her before she could stop it, low and helpless. Her back arched and her chest pressed forward as she stretched.

“Relax, baby,” Trish murmured. “You’ve got this.”

A flicker of panic ran through Dina when she noticed door had been left open. Anyone could see.

“We shouldn’t be doing this here,” Dina whispered. “I feel dirty.”

“No one’s looking, and we can wash up later.”

“Okay.”

“And If you say stop, we’ll stop.”

Dina shook her head, eyes stinging. “No. J-just wait a second.”

Trish’s hands didn’t move, but they stayed. A promise Dina wasn’t alone in this.

“You’re doing great,” Trish murmured.

“Liar,” Dina replied, scrunching her eyebrows together.

“Am not. You’re just not used to it yet.”

Dina swallowed, nodded once. The heat was immediate. Unforgiving. Pain flared, sharp and insistent.

“God, okay, fuck, wait,” Dina gasped.

“It’s okay, baby,” Trish said instantly.

“Just… give me a moment.”

Trish waited. She always did.

Finally Dina’s fingers closed around something stubborn. She pulled.

“There. Found it.”

Trish’s laughter finally broke the tension. “Well done, baby.” She closed the hood of the car and kissed her temple. “Never thought I’d get my wrench back, but your skinny arms did the trick.“

 

[onehitwanda]

@SugarStorm you're awful.

 

[SugarStorm]

@SugarStorm you're awful.

I needed a few more words for it to land properly, but alas. Turns out misdirection is expensive in word count.

 

[AG31]

Pain au chocolat

Didn't even have to read your snippet for me to grin big.

 

[TheExperimentalist]

View attachment 2591508

I needed a few more words for it to land properly, but alas. Turns out misdirection is expensive in word count.

I enjoy misdirection. I was about to excitedly suggest that be @StillStunned's next exercise theme, until I remembered that it only really works when you don't see it coming. I do feel like yours had a few lines that, on reread, still seemed to fit the assumed scenario far better than the actual scenario revealed at the end, but I assume your word count struggles probably account for that.

 

[PennyThompson]

Total Parenteral Nutrition. Twice a day I unbutton or take off my shirt and carefully clean the implant port that runs under my collarbone and connects to the big subclavian vein that runs directly through my heart. Then I prepare a big syringe filled with a viscous milky liquid. Carbohydrates, proteins, fats, amino acids, electrolytes, all of the special things that keep the human body alive and healthy.

The human gastrointestinal tract is a miracle, an omnivorous superpower, a machine that can eat almost anything and be happy about it, that can effortlessly extract and synthesize the necessaries out of everything from potatoes to seal livers. You should be thankful every day for its power and majesty.

I stick the syringe into my port and slowly, steadily, inject the liquid directly into my bloodstream. Can’t go too fast, have to be patient. It doesn’t really feel like anything, there’s no pain, no sensation of filling, certainly no taste. The pain happens at other times.

Installing the ports, the laparoscopic surgeries, the physical therapy. The flareups. Those can be painful. Disappearing into the Quiet Room while everyone else eats their lunch in the break room or goes off to the cafe across the street can be painful in a different way. Isolating. Boring. Lonely.

Sometimes I join them and sit and chat while they eat, but it can be awkward.

You’re so brave, I can’t imagine, how long do you have to do that, don’t you miss eating food? Doesn’t it hurt? Sorry for eating in front of you, does it make you jealous, does it smell good, are you sure you can’t just have a little bite? Doesn’t it hurt?

Pain is a spectrum. Some of us live with it every day. Sometimes the pain is too much for someone to bear, the costs outweigh the benefits.

I won’t live as long as most people, I just won’t, statistically. Eventually renal or cardiac failure will get me, a bit sooner than most. But not today, and not tomorrow, and not for a while. Not for years, hopefully.

There’s still a lot that I want to do, and life is worth the pain.

---

(inspired by a friend )

 

[dirk2024]

I couldn’t believe it was happening again. But then, when she faced no consequences, why should she change her ways? I watched with a bitter taste in my mouth as she slipped her garter belt into place.

“Maybe you should stay and watch. Would my boy like that? Do you wanna watch mommy get fucking railed by that big black stud while you jerk off?”

God, I hate her.

“If you’re a good boy and don’t cum, I may even let you clean me off afterwards.” She barked a short laugh at that thought, slowly walking towards me now. Her eyes said seduction, but her lips were still twisted in a mocking sneer. She was toying with me as usual.

But then I watched her eyes turn mean as she drew near. This. This was the part of her I knew all too well. “But, if you do cum before I say so, mommy will have to fit you for a chastity cage so you can’t jack off too soon.” Her four-inch spiked heel stepped down as she stopped in front of me. If I hadn’t moved my foot at the last minute, she’d have me pinned to the floor right now.

Her delicate fingers, the ones that could deliver so much pleasure when she stroked my cock, found themselves tangling into my hair. She used it to pull my face backwards and, as she leaned over me, I thought she was going to spit in my mouth.

Again.

No, not again. Not this time. I twisted away from her grip, losing some of the hair from the back of my head. But it was worth the pain to be free from her dominion. I stood and walked away from her, just like I had before. But this time I will remain steadfast with my actions. I grabbed my already packed suitcase and headed for the door. Her laughter hit me in the back as I passed through the doorway, stabbing me deeper than usual.

“You’ll be back,” she jeered. “You always come back!”

Fucking bitch, she’s probably right.

 

[StillStunned]

Didn't even have to read your snippet for me to grin big.

I assumed that someone here would try it, so I decided to pre-empt them so that the snippet at least tied in with the theme.

 

[TarnishedPenny]

I very rarely do anything involving serious pain, so I had to dig the dust off some oldies. This one is an excerpt from one of my very few essays into horror, April’s Fool:

Bandit got up from his chair and circled the limp figure hanging from its bonds. The girl was semiconscious, her pale body covered from shoulders to ankles in a spiderweb of bruises and welts. Where the thin lines crossed, drops of blood were still drying. He pulled her head up by the hair and examined her face. April closed her eyes. Her anger had almost been drowned out by the pain and humiliation of the past few hours. The man had methodically, almost artistically, flogged her, pausing only to repeatedly sodomize her. When her screams became too loud, he had fitted her with a sturdy ball gag.

Spoiler apart: He’s not what he seemed. Neither is she and his evening is… about to change.

 

[StillStunned]

The anticipation was like torture. All the hard work, hours and hours of it over the past month – it all came down to this. The moment of reward. But that moment just didn’t seem to come. It was unbearable, almost physically stifling.

The clock on his phone ticked forward another minute. It had been more than quarter of an hour now. How long would it take? Surely by now…?

Another minute, another refresh.

Another minute, another refresh.

Another minute, another–

There it was! The very first vote on his story – and a comment as well!

He looked at the numbers, his mind not recognising what they meant. “2/1”. He’d never seen that before. Somewhere, deep down, he knew it wasn’t good. If he focused, he’d understand, but he preferred not to, not just now.

But the comment? The reader had taken the time to express their thoughts. He could read that. Comments were so few, just getting one was good, surely?

He tapped the icon and the page flicked. He scrolled. Past the nonsense, looking for the comment, for – aha!

By Anonymous 3 minutes ago

Waste of time. Don’t bother reading.

Ow.

 

[Bazzle]

The three AM pee. It's so annoying. Get out from the warm bed, shuffle across the bedroom to the ensuite.

Three problems, for one solution. I am now awake, the wife is now awake and I am cold. At least I made it to the bathroom.

The wife is huffing on her side of the bed. I can hear the 'You shouldn't have had that last cup of tea before bed' as she scowls over the toast in the morning.

I was looking at her as I shuffled back to the bed. I was thinking about her complaining.

I wasn't thinking about my foot and the end of bed.

Fuck. Yes, I swore very loudly. My little toe hit the base of the bed. Like the captain of the Titanic, I turned to avoid what I thought was the iceberg, but no, bang.

Now the wife had turned on the bedside light.

Now I was in trouble.

I was in pain and woken everyone up.

I hobbled to the edge of bed and sat down I was surprised, the wife showed affection, asking me I was ok.

I wasn't, my toe was throbbing, and me rubbing it didn't help.

"Come on dear, get back into bed. Let me give you a big hug and make the pain go away."

She did just that, the light went off and my wife did make everything better.

The End

 

[StillStunned]

The anticipation was like torture. All the hard work, hours and hours of it over the past month – it all came down to this. The moment of reward. But that moment just didn’t seem to come. It was unbearable, almost physically stifling.

The clock on his phone ticked forward another minute. It had been more than quarter of an hour now. How long would it take? Surely by now…?

Another minute, another refresh.

Another minute, another refresh.

Another minute, another–

There it was! The very first vote on his story – and a comment as well!

He looked at the numbers, his mind not recognising what they meant. “2/1”. He’d never seen that before. Somewhere, deep down, he knew it wasn’t good. If he focused, he’d understand, but he preferred not to, not just now.

But the comment? The reader had taken the time to express their thoughts. He could read that. Comments were so few, just getting one was good, surely?

He tapped the icon and the page flicked. He scrolled. Past the nonsense, looking for the comment, for – aha!

By Anonymous 3 minutes ago

Waste of time. Don’t bother reading.

Ow.

This snippet would probably have the title "Death of the Author".

 

[TheExperimentalist]

The anticipation was like torture. All the hard work, hours and hours of it over the past month – it all came down to this. The moment of reward. But that moment just didn’t seem to come. It was unbearable, almost physically stifling.

The clock on his phone ticked forward another minute. It had been more than quarter of an hour now. How long would it take? Surely by now…?

Another minute, another refresh.

Another minute, another refresh.

Another minute, another–

There it was! The very first vote on his story – and a comment as well!

He looked at the numbers, his mind not recognising what they meant. “2/1”. He’d never seen that before. Somewhere, deep down, he knew it wasn’t good. If he focused, he’d understand, but he preferred not to, not just now.

But the comment? The reader had taken the time to express their thoughts. He could read that. Comments were so few, just getting one was good, surely?

He tapped the icon and the page flicked. He scrolled. Past the nonsense, looking for the comment, for – aha!

By Anonymous 3 minutes ago

Waste of time. Don’t bother reading.

Ow.

I felt that in my soul. I was afraid of exactly this when I posted my first story. I'm very lucky it got the amount of positive response that it did, at least in some ways. (In others, not so much, as nothing I've posted since has gotten nearly that many comments, nor has felt quite as real and deep to me, and I'm trying hard not to do the whole chasing-former-glory thing and just appreciate writing and posting and whatever responses I do get...)

 

[TheExperimentalist]

This snippet would probably have the title "Death of the Author".

There's no laughsob react, so I just went with laughing but... ouch.

 

[StillStunned]

I felt that in my soul. I was afraid of exactly this when I posted my first story.

I go through it every single time I publish a new story. I think we all do - and the fact that we keep writing and publishing anyway, again and again, gives the lie to all those posters who claim that we only do it to hear how wonderful we are.

 

[TheExperimentalist]

I go through it every single time I publish a new story. I think we all do - and the fact that we keep writing and publishing anyway, again and again, gives the lie to all those posters who claim that we only do it to hear how wonderful we are.

Eh, now I'm more afraid of getting stuck in the queue forever or falsely rejected... I've been in content creation spaces before, and learned-- Actually, never mind. I don't want to take this thread too far off topic. Maybe I'll find a more appropriate thread to say what I was going to say, or I'd be happy to have a conversation about it in DM if you want or whatever, but I realized I was about to potentially turn your beautifully crafted writing exercise into a shitshow, and I didn't want to do that.

 

[Erozetta]

This is not meant to be a how-to on “keeping your masochist happy.” But it is meant to be insightful in a “This is why I enjoy this illogical experience” way.

Pain is difficult to numb.

I can get to a point of overstimulation that turns off my ability to process emotions. No empathy, no love, no fear, no desire. It's a dangerous state of mind to be in because I can be hurtful to other people without meaning to be. I approach from a purely logical point and not everyone can set aside their emotions and operate purely on the facts of a situation. Particularly if that situation is emotionally stimulating.

Having someone I can turn to before I get to that point can be important. While masochism can be a sexual thing, it isn't always. It can go either way for me.

When it's sexual, it's because the person hurting me gets some sort of enjoyment out of it. Whether it's physical, emotional, or intellectual enjoyment doesn't matter. They enjoy it and I can tell they enjoy it, which in turn makes me enjoy it.

And it doesn't have to be hitting me or cutting me to count. Making sex hurt can be enough. Pulling my hair can be enough. Forcing their cock down my throat can trigger that painful moment I need to let go of everything I'm holding onto.

Ultimately, for me, that's what masochism is. It's about forcing me to stop trying to control everything. It's about making me allow someone else beyond the walls I normally have up to keep people at arm's length. It's about feeling safe enough to be entirely vulnerable with someone. Because sometimes I need to be allowed to be vulnerable.

In my life, I've only come across a handful of people I trusted to that degree, and none of them were either doms or sadists. They don't understand the need and they don't want to hurt me, though I'm sure a couple might've been willing to try at one point or another.

Excerpt from an essay I wrote on my experiences with masochism.

If anyone would like to read the whole document, let me know. It's one of a few essays I have written about myself and my struggles with mental health. I've been considering editing them and posting them under reviews and essays but dunno if I want to be so broadly open.

I have another one on my experience with suicidal ideation and depression.

Weirdly, both go into sexual elements and I'm using the experiences and thoughts from these essays to write a story about masochism and limits and what happens when trust is broken.