He wrapped his arm around my shoulders, a barrier from which there was no escape, and pulled me in. A sudden move that pulled me off balance. And he bit down on my shoulder until the world reduced to that exact spot.
I felt his teeth as he bit down. Sharp. Too much. Not enough.
The pain was intense and blossomed and bloomed in tight, pin-sharp ripples. I moaned. Breathed. Processed.
The world zoomed in until it was just that spot on my shoulder. My cunt clenched.
More bite. Another layer of pain. More processing. Pleasure rippling through me in a way that nothing else does.
It was vicious, visceral. Vicarious pleasure.
I moaned and gasped and writhed as he held us in that space. He held me physically as he administered the pain. But he held my head in that space too, allowing me the luxury of turning pain into pleasure.
It hurt so good. It hurt so much.
It hurt too much. My safewords formed on the tip of my tongue. I needed to use them. I needed to speak, but it hurt too good to call an end to it. My body screamed for it to stop, yet I needed the pain.
Pain speaks to me in a way that nothing else can. It’s grounding, liberating, arousing, and challenging. It shows me my limits and endurance. It makes me clench. It makes me wet. It makes me want.
Nothing else can come close to it.
The bite happened last week. The bruise is still tender and sore and I’ve come so many times since, fingers pressing into it to remind me, my other hand working my clit until I come in big heaving gasps.
It was a one-off. A unexpected play session. But it showed me what I want and what I need. How I get that, regularly, with someone who understands these things about me, I don’t know.
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