You know what they say about bullies, sweetheart.
They’re only doing it because they like you.
pain
“Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.” – Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince.
“We are kept keen on the grindstone of pain and necessity.” – H.G. Wells, The Time Machine.
Sometimes I just need you to have the gall to tell me you don’t care whether or not I’m comfortable.
It’s not so much about the pain
as it is about the anticipation.
That’s what hurts the most.
Full Service, Part Five
Craftsmate slipped the tweezer clamps onto my nipples before picking up the flogger. He started to beat my thighs, stomach and chest in quick, sharp hits. However, I noticed that he was holding back a bit, carefully ensuring that he was not hitting me too hard.
Usually, I appreciated when he did this. I’m not much of a masochist. However, as subspaced as I was, I wanted more. I wanted to go deeper and I wanted it to really, genuinely hurt.
“Harder,” I gasped out. He looked a bit surprised, but he swung the flogger harder. I continued to beg, “harder, please, Sir, please…"
Soon, he rolled me over onto my stomach. I squealed and winced as my clamped nipples pushed into the bed. The pressure sent a sharp, persistent pain through my breasts.
"Ow,” I whined, squirming to try to find a better position. However, the hogtie left me very few options.
“Aww, it hurts?” He teased, attaching the clover clamps to my pussy lips. My breath caught as he gave a sharp tug to the clamps, forcing them to squeeze my labia tighter. He slipped the vibrator underneath me, lining it up with my clit and turning it on low. “Does that make it all better?”
I moaned, grinding up onto the vibrator, “uh huh.” I caught myself. “Yes, Sir.”
I always want it to get that red, but I’m far too squirmy and sensitive to be able to sit through that many blows. I wish I were more of a masochist, but I like the marks much, much more than the pain.
“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning,” – Haruki Murakami, 1Q84.
There’s nothing relaxing about sleeping in when this is how he wakes her up in lieu of an alarm.
Easing out the Kinks, Part Four
In the staircase of his apartment, a place that Penthouse promised was seldom used, he had me unzip my coat and lift up my sweater.
Carefully, he removed the clamps from my nipples one by one. When the first one came off, I barely stifled a scream. I don’t usually wear clamps for an extended time and though there was a somewhat pleasurable aspect of the feeling of the blood rushing back into them, I’m not as much of a masochist as I am a submissive.
He placed them into his pocket and sat down on the stairs. Pulling me into his lap, he stroked my hair and told me that he was proud of me. Once I had my composure back, he pulled me up to my feet and made me perform the endlessly humiliating task of grinding on his knee.
I knew I was wet, but I wasn’t aware of just how aroused I was until I was doing that, hoping nobody decided to forego the elevator and use the stairs. My cheeks were flushed when he asked me if I wanted him to use my pussy. I nodded a little too eagerly.
“Hm,” Penthouse looked me over and smirked. His hands lowered to my hips and he bucked me a bit harder against his thigh. “I think you’re too little for that, sweetheart.”
I pouted and tried to turn away from his grin, attempted to keep my head off of how badly I wanted him, and focused on the sound of the opened belt of my coat, clanging against the stone steps of the emergency stairwell.