Thoughts on Pegging

To be honest, pegging scares the hell out of me.  It makes me cringe.  It makes me squirm.  It makes every nerve in my body go active and I want to run away.  Anything near my hole has me cringing, screaming, and struggling.  It seriously terrifies me.

Anal penetration was a hard limit of mine for years.  Years.  It was up there with "nothing illegal" and "no scat."  It took a desperate series of events for me to relax this limit.  It was a last ditch effort to save what was broken.  I felt inadequate and like I had to be more.  I wanted to be able to be everything.

There are times when I wonder if I have some deeply repressed memory that I haven't managed to locate that would explain my body's reaction.  It reacts like PTSD.  Like there was trauma.
The first time I allowed myself to be penetrated, I didn't care about topping from the bottom.  I knew she wanted it and I prepared myself with what would have to be done.  When we talked about it, I explained it.  I must be absolutely restrained with locks, chains, and a spreader bar.  I must have no means to be able to close my legs or interfere with my hands.  I must be gagged.  My predictions were correct.  I fought.  I fought hard.  I shrieked and screamed into the ball gag.  I tugged and tussled and even tried to flip over.  I sobbed and wailed.  I trembled to my core.

I just wanted to get away.  Anywhere but here.  Anything else but this.  My worst fear was happening.

She was gentle.  It didn't matter.  I hated it.  I wanted it to stop.  I just wanted to get away.

When it was all over, I laid there, a sobbing, broken, and crumpled mess.  She unlocked my restraints and held me tight.  I sobbed and sobbed, unable to speak.  I was broken.  I was defiled.  I was nothing.  I was an empty shell.  I was her submissive.
We did it several more times after that.  Each time setting up the intricate system of chains and locks that rendered me completely helpless.  Each time she gagged me tight.  Each time I felt myself react and break as she penetrated me.  I cried every time.  It never got easier.  My body still thrashed as I shrieked into the rubber ball.  I was the same mess in its aftermath... every time.

Beforehand, we had a ritual that would get me mentally prepared.  The process was to diminish me.  Lower my worth.  Lower my status.  Reinforce my purpose.  I was to be her hole to be used.  She would dress me like a sissy whore.  I was to be locked in chastity to make sure there was nothing sexually pleasurable about it.  Sometimes she would blindfold me.  Sometimes she would fill my ears with cotton and earplugs.  I was just a hole to be used.

When I was trussed up and in position she would leave the room and change into the clothes that made her feel the sexiest.  She would make me wait.  I would stew in my restraints, having my terror build as the time would pass.  When she would arrive she would beat me while scolding me and informing me... that I was just a hole to be used.

After a month of so, something happened that began to terrify me.  I would get an erection when I would think about it or when we would talk about it.  I began to draw pegging scenes.  I began to crave the darkness of the feelings that would overwhelm me when I broke.

It still feels very confusing.  I can rationalize what aspects of it that I want.  I am not comfortable verbalizing the desire.  I like to feel broken.  It brings about my purest form of service.  I exist... solely for her.  Pegging serves as the key.  I feel fucked up.