Mr Biter has a phrase he uses, about ‘hurting me.’ Whilst it’s true I want him to restrain me, to hurt me, to make me feel that particular way, ‘hurting me’ sounds far too clinical, too black and white. And what I crave is far more nuanced.
‘Hurting’ sounds absolute, and what I get off on is far from that. It’s the build up of layers of sensation. Starting with that warm up, through to pushing me to my limits.
It’s the gentle grip getting gradually firmer, until I breathe harder and harder, processing the pain as endorphins flood my body, my desire flooding my cunt.
It’s the wide bites, half sucking, half teeth, halfway to a bruising hickey of my teenage years. The ones that become less suck, more teeth as I squirm under the sharpness before finally giving in, and letting it sweep me along in the pleasure pain.
It’s the spanking, the crop, the cane, the belt. All beating out a steady rhythm that rises and falls, and rises and falls as I rise and fall to meet it. Long, slow, steady, increasing layers of bliss. It’s not pleasure and it’s not pain, but the intersection at which my mind stills and gives itself over.
It’s not pain I want. But it’s the journey I take to get to where I need.
There are days when I crave the pain. Hard, controlled measures that take me to a different place; one where I meet myself and find my endurance and limits. They’re rarer, those days.
Mostly, I want to stand at the crossroads and let it all wash over me. No thinking, no anxiety, just that sense of being there.