
Knife is for K
I wasn’t interested in patterns or significance. I just wanted him to cut me. I wanted to feel skin parting, I wanted to feel myself bleed, I wanted to be scared enough of something to hold myself still.
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…And nothing hurt: Masochist Musings
I wasn’t interested in patterns or significance. I just wanted him to cut me. I wanted to feel skin parting, I wanted to feel myself bleed, I wanted to be scared enough of something to hold myself still.
When we’d had the discussion about how I would greet him in future, it had been in the form of filth whispered directly in my ear as I’d limply struggled and moaned, held tight against his chest whilst he fucked me with his fingers.
I like lingerie – I like wearing things that make me feel sexy and slutty, and I also like wearing sports bras and boxers and feeling tough, cool, lightly masculine. My favourite kinds of loungewear, however, are roomy pyjama bottoms, brushed flannel, too-big t-shirts belonging to my partner that I hide before he leaves.
The first time I ever touched them I was wearing more clothes than I’d ever worn to do aerial before, and when I eventually performed on the chains it was with as much bare skin as possible. I was obsessed with the dichotomy of flesh and metal, of dancing with something so fraught with harm.
Bruising like this leaves me tender and vulnerable for weeks afterwards, it affects my day-to-day and is a constant reminder that I am someone who wants this to happen to me, who lets someone harm me beyond the level where it can be brushed off, moved past.
I’m chained and kneeling in the corner of the room when the doorbell goes. He put me there – naked but for the collar around my neck, chain lead attached to the wardrobe to keep me in place. I’m on my knees, legs a little splayed, bright red cane marks striping my thighs from earlier when I voiced my disagreement about this proposed treatment.
This week I’ve been finding other fun things to do in my hotel room whilst I’m not allowed to touch […]
He often mocks me like this, pretending ignorance of the hurt he’s caused, treating me as if I’m stupid and peculiar for reacting. It upsets and arouses me in equal measures.
Apart from my masochism and love of pain, it’s one of the reason I tend to gravitate towards sadists, as even if someone isn’t physically stronger than me they can easily overpower me if they are willing and eager to hurt me.
A year ago I was on the exact same holiday – the same dates, even – unable to sleep for the entire trip, because I was beginning to realise that the feelings I had for the man I’d started seeing were a lot more serious than I’d bargained for.