I hesitate to use the word addiction because I’ve seen addiction. I’ve seen the destruction it can do, the relapses and recoveries.
I am not a masochist because I am an addict, but right about now? I’ve got on my tourniquet and I am looking for the vein.
I should have known it would always come to this but I did not. Many, MANY, years ago a man I was involved with opened up a black duffel bag that was hidden in his closet. Within the bag was a pair of these :
My immediate physical reaction was shallow breath and a wet pussy. In fact he commented that he’d never seen me that wet.
I didn’t know what they were at the time but the light bouncing off the chain captivated me. I wanted to experience them. I would eventually and my response then was ouch. Honestly, my response NOW is ouch, but ouch is not a safe word.
Over the years my condition is such that I need pain. I am a girl who can get popped with grease while frying bacon and smile…. as I say ouch.
Pain elicits from a very distinct and sexual response, and a desire for more. Now I will wiggle, or cry, or try to “escape” your assault, but if we are familiar enough for your hand to be on my pussy, you will find it wet.
That is almost like a drug for me. Like other drugs, your brain chemistry says YES PLEASE, and you run off to seek more. Also like drugs, I get sick without it. I did not want to admit it at first. I prefer not to cheapen words, but the only word I could come up with was – addiction.
Pain is not something that I want it is something that I need, and I’ve found myself seeking out ways to inflict my own pain in the absence of my sadist or a suitable replacement. The thing with managing my need for pain is that it is different than being celibate. I can’t just pick up a vibrator and knock the edge off. I am always on edge until I get IT like I need IT.
The need is go great I’ve considered putting myself in danger just to get it. Yes, a more mature head talked me down from that bridge, but climbing it again is not out of the question.
I miss looking at my bruises. I miss wincing when I do seemingly mundane things like folding laundry. I miss the smell of the bamboo and the welts from the cane. I miss being at the mercy of someone who likes to hurt me. It is more than just the need to be physically spent, it is also the need to be an emotional vampire and suck the life from my sadist as they unleash on me.
There is a special energy there that can have me flying for days.
I find that sometimes I have to move my sadist along slowly. After all, we are reasonably sane people, and that means that we don’t push our new partners faster than they are ready to go. I find that I miss the sting of leather that comes from one who knows simple by the way I say good morning, how much pain I need at any given time.
I meet those who have potential, but when its time to get it dirty, well they open up a bottle of water and offer me only the cap full when what is need is to be baptized by the 5 gallon jug they have hidden in the corner.
The struggle is real.
Soon I will have to do something to about my need, it will grow too great if I do not. In the meantime I am learning to manage it, and my reaction to not having it.
Yes I am looking for the vein. I just haven’t gotten so bad [yet] that I have inserted the needle.