Pain Junkie

There are not too many of him around. He's a masochist, a real pain slut, he doesn't mind marks, welts, bruises, and he'll take just about anything I give him, with or without a warm up. He says I'm mean, but he says it with a smile on him face. He says I start at full sprint, but it's not so much that I don't build intensity gradually, it's that his enthusiasm for suffering for me infects me with a desire to inflict discipline swiftly and aggressively, and the curve is steep and quick.

He is not stoic. He whimpers. He trembles. He yelps, and breathes quickly, audibly. He perspires. He quivers. He giggles. I fantasize that he is on the verge of tears. I tell him not to think, not to do anything but exist, to fulfill his purpose in that moment, which is to entertain me, to suffer for me. And he suffers for me, I can see it in the texture and color of his skin, I can hear it coming through the break in his voice.

I lean forward, I am behind him, chokehold around his neck, and I whisper in his ear, "There's no safe word. Did I mention that?" He says, "No, I mean, yes, Mistress. I mean, I know, Mistress." I didn't mention it, but I know he knew intuitively, or maybe he heard the rumor, that I don't use safe words, especially with someone like him, someone who knows he will take it all, will take all the pain I give him while he's behind closed doors with me.

And the thing about this one is, not only will he take it, he'll take it and he'll feel it, he won't push it down, or out, or take it silently; he'll experience every single drop of pure pain that enters his body through the tip of my dragon tail or flogger or cat o nine or crop, every drop of pure pain that travels through my fingertips as they pinch, squeeze, pull and twist his flesh. He feels it, every microsecond of it, and I feel him feel it.

I feel him feel it.