Sometimes I really wish I was a pain whore. I know, what a ridiculous thing to say; however, there are moments in my life that I wish I was more masochistic than I am.  Whenever I watch women being spanked or caned or flogged to what I can only call a ridiculous amount of time and force, I often wonder what exactly makes them tick in that manner, why it is "they" can and want extreme pain and I do not?

Last night was one of those moments when I wish I liked pain.  Master and I had been enjoying a conversation when I begged him to paddle me harder than he normally does.  I am extremely fortunate to have a Master who respects my low tolerance of physical pain and although he has a rather sadistic side, he does not exert such behaviours with me because he knows it does not arouse me. Still, I wanted to explore, to push some boundaries and with great enthusiasm I ran up the stairs and grabbed his evil wooden cane. Due to some slippery socks and perhaps a bit too much vigor in my steps, I found myself sliding down all fifteen steps, smacking rather hard on my bottom all while slamming my shin into the unforgiving wood.

One would think that due to my rather non masochist mind set I would have been in a great deal of pain; however, for reasons unbeknownst to me, when it comes to hurting myself in a non pleasurable way, my pain tolerance is actually much higher than the average person.  Even though my bottom was smarting from the fall I still desired Master to make my flesh sting and being the generous man that he is, he proceeded to do so.  Now, he did exchange the evil can for a more narrow, lighter cane and the black diamond paddle.

I think it would be fair to say that Master did not strike me harder than a 2 (on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the hardest); however, I felt each caress of the black paddle as well as the wicked cane and there is still a lingering twinge on the right side of my bum where the cane hit me just a tad bit harder than anywhere else.  Although my spanking was exceptionally mild in comparison to what most receive, for me it was intense and stingy and exactly what I wanted to experience.  I know I looked silly jumping up and down, twisting my body, sticking my bum out only to pull it back in, wanting the pain and yet fearing it all at the same time.  Interestingly though, I did not cry, I did not even have the slightest moisture behind my eyes and in the past I would had at least a few tears trickle down my cheek.  I did scream though, most likely louder than necessary; however, with each forceful lung filled exertion, I felt a sense of strength and oddly enough, even arousal.

Yes, I felt arousal from screaming.  How bizarre is that?  It just felt so primal, so uninhibited and that is not my general behaviour. I have spent a lifetime controlling my arousal, maintaining it so that I do not walk around in a constant state of wetness, a constant state of being horny and yet, shouting, growling and repeating the words, "ouch, ouch, ouch" loud and without hesitation felt invigorating. It felt good. Really, really good.

And I am glad I received pleasure, some pleasure from the experience, still I wish that my body wanted more pain, more physical consensual torture. In fact as I walked back up the stairs to return the devil's toys back to their spot I had images of me being bound, completely immobile, face down while Master raised the wooden cane, only to bring it down on my pale skin over and over and over again.  My thoughts lingered as I moved back down the stairs, wondering just how many strokes of the cane I could endure before I screamed for mercy, before the sobs consumed me, causing me to gag and maybe even pass out.  When I think of that level of pain I shiver, I wrap my arms around my body and I shake my head wondering why I have such thoughts and yet can not endure that much pain, why I pull away from such pain, why I can not embrace it?

Pain is such an interesting concept, for although physical pain is something that I barely can muster, when it comes to mental anguish I seem to thrive on it.  Then again, I am a far more mentally aroused person than a physically aroused person and that was only reinforced last night after the playful spanking.  Even though the actual pain from the cane did not arouse me, the screaming did and I was eager to suck Master's cock the moment I walked back into the living room.  There was something unique to our exchange though, I could feel it between us the moment I lowered myself to my knees, nuzzling between Master's legs.  The sexual aggression I felt was not coming only from Master, it was flowing between us and even though words were not spoken, I understood exactly what was about to transpire.

Master often fucks my throat cunt, this is not the same as me giving him a blow job. Master uses my mouth cunt and throat cunt to his satisfaction and although I generally feel like a hole for his pleasure, last night I felt entirely like an object, an orifice for him to use and even though there were moments when his fingers were not strangling my curly tendrils, slamming my face against his pubic bone, never once did I feel as though I was giving him pleasure, on the contrary, he was taking it.  And those sensations were only reinforced every time I felt Master's palm strike my cheek, eventually causing the flesh to slightly burn.  There was even a moment when Master pushed me, causing my body to fall onto my back and as Master stood, I pulled my knees up, all while bringing my arms up to protect my face.  That image remained in my thoughts all night and even this morning, if only because I never fear Master; however, in that one particular moment I felt such a level of vulnerability, such an extreme feeling of being an object and it was startling and arousing. Startling because I was aroused.

I remained on the floor for but a minute for Master commanded me back to his cock, forcing my swollen lips upon his greedy shaft and although I can not remember much more of what happened I do know Master came down my throat and later, after I composed myself, he did ask me how I felt about him slapping my face, how I felt about being treated in that manner and the only thing I could utter was that I liked it.  I am not sure why I liked it; however, I was wet and my clitoris was throbbing and I felt very much like an animal in heat.  In fact I felt erotically charged all evening and even as I type this I am still aroused and all I can think about is Master and how he used me; how I want to be used again, repeatedly, indefinitely.

And so I have to ask myself, does that make me a masochist?  Is there such a thing as mental masochism?  I know, for at least now, I am not a physical masochist, I am no Harley Quinn; however, I definitely have my own relationship with pain and I shall embrace it, taking from it all I can, feeding both mine and Master's pleasures all while exploring this new awareness.

Let the screaming begin.

~His

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