I don’t just want them to hurt me, I want them to want to hurt me, and not just because I want them to.
What do I want them to do to me?
I wish they’d asked that earlier, because I have plenty of suggestions, but to make them now would kill the buzz; if they didn’t already think of it, how do I know they’re not just humouring me? Maybe they don’t want to after all, or at least not enough to have given it some thought. If they reach for the nearest hitty thing, is that convenience or coincidence?
I want them to think of something which will hurt (but not harm) me, and to do it to me for their enjoyment; because they really mean it.
One hand over my mouth, the other pinching and twisting a nipple while they fuck me rough and greedy like they stole me.
Clamps and a chain swinging between them, set in motion with the momentum of each blow to my arse; paddle, belt, hand – dealer’s choice, but they have to tell me why they chose, or I’ll worry that they didn’t think about it much at all.
I think about it a lot, about all the delightful, mean, titillating, sadistic things I’d like to be done to me, things I like because they hurt.
Like if they tied my legs wide apart and slapped me open-handed, leaving stinging prints everywhere but my clit; save that til last, for when I’m panting with adrenaline, flushed livid with their hand-marks and anticipation.
Or maybe they could use clothes-pegs, fasten me in place so I can’t wriggle away, place them where my skin is thinnest and most tender, then flick them off with the crop or belt.
Being a masochist isn’t just about enjoying pain; I don’t get horny when I stub my toe, or when various bits of my body malfunction. It’s about enjoying having pain inflicted on me, deliberately, for someone else’s gratification more than my own. It’s the story before and behind the pain that makes it meaningful in the way that an arbitrary injury can never be.