It’s not just the moment when I’m hit that I appreciate the agony, as the marks change and develop I get a new kind of thrill from following their patterns and whirls but it’s not just about the pretty, it’s about the different types of pain.

The tossing and turning and waking to screaming bruises, rolling over delicately or in a different way, trying not to move, not to jog anything as I settle to sleep.

Then the next day is filled with constant soreness and pain which flares when marks are knocked, prodded and poked. Sometimes it’s accidental (a dogs paw, a bumped corner) but often it’s on purpose. Domly types take much joy in poking sore bits. Evil Sadists.

That constant rolling ache that comes after a thorough beating always leads to a point of self-pity for me. It’s not pleasant but it has a simple solution: dedicated snuggle time with the man who loves me and hurts me. Warm blanket, his strong arms and something mindless to watch on TV. Pity eradicated, love topped up.

There is nothing quite like sex with marks. I’m tight, tense, wet and so very, very easy. Orgasms flick, ebb and release and every stab of pain from a mark extends the pleasure further.

A shower becomes an exercise in endurance not just clearing, as the water hits and pummels punished flesh.

Exercise makes me grin. Dancing, shaking, jumping and bouncing. If it hurts me, the next time I will do it harder and faster now that must certainly label me a pain slut, right?
So why do I love the aches, stabs and throbs of pain?

It reminds me of what I took and who gave it me.

It takes me back to the strikes and the euphoria that filled me.

It is proof that I am strong, that I am good, that I am loved.

It makes me exceptionally me.