Being Splattered With Blood Isn't Supposed to Feel Good. My Journey With Sadomasochism.
Let's be real, pain isn't supposed to feel good, pain is supposed to be our body warning us of potential dangers. When our brains get these signals of "ow! ow! ow!" isn't the instinctual reaction to go "run run run!" in the face of whatever is bringing it about? So why does my body and brain instead go "Yes, please, please!" in the same face of danger?
I'm a Sadomasochist. And I love pain in all manifestations, physical or (less admittedly) emotionally. I make it an active part of my day to look for other people that might be interested in beating me to a bloody pulp, or I them. When we link up and the chemistry is good for play, there's no other rush in the world than feeling like you have to defend yourself from this person that you've made yourself so vulnerable in front of, and probably, based on the rules and agreements of the arrangement, you can't or won't do jack shit about it.
Many people find these types of situations extremely alarming, being tied up with rope, having a ball gag in your mouth, your thighs spread open with metal bars and leather crops teased down your spine. These are just some of the incredibly intrusive activities that I love to potentially employ in a session. Most of the people around me in my Psych class would probably inch away from me slowly if they knew I was typing this piece mere feet away from them. Alas, in a vanilla day to day world, my desires and passions for play are taboo, and unaccepted as common discussion typically, unless inside a classroom such as this when promoted by a professor, therefore breaking the silence, with authoritative coaxing.
Most people resign these thoughts as evil, or bad, or things they should wash away. Think...Christian run gay conversion therapy camps. That's what I imagine these people looking for in the wild, as they keep their kinks wrapped away in their purses and bags, and I'm just eagerly awaiting the night, so I can grab the play toy of my choosing, and have fun that night.
I'm not shy about my open-minded nature, some of the faculty here at school even know I've done professional pornography shoots for one of the biggest producers in the world. I don't think many people at my college know though, that I have never felt so turned on, in control, and powerful, as I did when I was beating someone's ass into a bloody pulp with a paddle lined with tacks. The other side was coated in tire tread. I would alternate striking with the tread, creating new pinholes with the tacks, until I was splashing small drops of her blood onto my tits and stomach. My paddle was a crimson mess.
Think about yourself doing that. What do you feel? Guilt? Shame? How could you hit another woman like that, even if she wanted to? I feel neither of those things. I feel joy, I feel contentment, I get one of those giant, cheesy grins on my face that cannot be denied as bliss. Why? Because you were a good little girl and gave me what I needed, you gave me your passion, your pain, and your essence in your blood. You've given up[ control of a risky situation, and trust me to keep you safe, but only safe enough to keep you screaming each time I press myself or my tools into you.
What makes me like this? I'm not quite sure, but I do have a good idea of the origins of my love for S&M. It started when I was 12/13 years old, and I had started taking skateboarding out of my driveway, and into the streets of my city. To stairs and rails, specifically. Have you ever watched someone skate for a while? Notice how many attempts it takes them to land one trick, how much pain they potentially go through throwing themselves down a flight of stairs in an attempt to up their arsenal of maneuvers. When I started jumping down sets of stairs, it hurt, it wasn't fun, and it made me wonder why people did this.
I loved skating though, so I sucked it up and kept going. I realized when I was about 6-7 years into my time skating every single day, that there was a change occurring, an almost primal desire was growing. Instead of going "owch wow, that sucked, maybe I won't try that one more than a few more times" to "ouch, fuck! that was bad, let's try again!!!". Instead of basically limping back up to sets of stairs, I started almost jobbing up them with glee to throw myself back down them with lust.
That was my first dose of masochism. When something I loved so much, was connected to so much effort, pain, passion and dedication. It was also my first run in with Sadism, as I was the only one inflicting this damage upon my body, only I could tell myself to throw my body down those stairs one more time. This is very much the same in BDSM, in a scene, there are rules, there are limits, there are artificial stair steps that you throw each other down, or help each other crawl up in the end.
Do you know how hard it is to find a partner that can create mutual trust in one another, to the point of shoving needles inside one another's tits and thighs? Or making them drip blood on their bed before having sex? Saying degrading and humiliating things to get into their head, and ordering them to stop clinching their ass together when I'm hitting them, because it only hurts more that way.
I'm jealous of those that are excited by vanilla sexual activities, how simple and common and easy it is to find what each partner needs. At the same time, I hope you envy my experiences, I wouldn't change them for the world and then some. I love my pain, and my pain loves me. <3
(had a hard time looking for pictures related to this in the middle of class obviously, I want to be polite, so no pictures this post, I hope you read it still!!!)
I appreciate your honesty. No one is talking about these topics here much yet. 👌🏼
Thank you very much for the supportive words :) I know it's not a very hot topic here yet, but that will never make me shy away from sharing my experiences with the Steemit community. :)
Great post :)
Reading this kind of cemented my self-understanding that I am in fact pretty vanilla. Or at the very least I know I'm not a sadist or masochist.
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