Prod, prod poke.
The fearful anticipation, I don’t want it, the scream and the yelp as I pull away from the digging digit. It shocks, it hurts, I want it to stop.
But oh, the sharp blossoming pain is so ecstatically good.
Marks. They’re amazing to look at, to track their changing shape and colour but their real beauty is in the way they hurt, don’t you think?
I find subtle ways to enhance the pain. Just last week I was standing on a tram had to stop myself from falling when it juddered or stopped so I leant my back against the grab rails. This meant the bruises on my shoulders from a delightful electro flogging were pushed into the metal of the pole and it really hurt when we jolted to a halt. Bliss.
My handbag is often my torturer, the gait of my stride banging the weight against my butt and thigh, every step like a dull spank, an echo of the action that caused the delightful damage.
And bras. Aching boobs or marked back, the straps dig in and the band binds. Blessed relief to remove but the torture of having it on is a paradoxical delight. Oh, it hurts so good.
Even the accidental poke is fun, from a door handle you’re too close to, a cat or a dog paw or even just resting a laptop on a bruised thigh. My immediate reaction is a curse or a yelp but then I always smile, maybe it’s more of a smirk. The memories flood back and I remember how the marks were made.
The best though, is when a cruel, purposeful finger jabs into the bruise, knowing precisely where it is and what it does to you. Or when nails are dragged down over sensitive skin, or stubble rubbed across aching marks.
In public, when an innocent back stroke, thigh pat, loving hug is actually a subtle sadistic act designed to hurt and enflame you. In private when the arousal overflows and the fucking is an extension of the purposeful poking, his body holding down mine, driving my pained, stretched skin into the bed. Me grinding down as he grips arse or boob bruises and squeezes to keep the orgasm flowing and my cunt gripped like a vice around his cock.
There is nothing like the orgasm that comes from the combination of stabbing, throbbing, screaming pain and the pleasure of hard, fucking sex. Everything is tighter, wetter and more responsive. The post coital bliss all the better with the slow mellow sting and heat of bruised flesh.
Prod a masochist, it’s all kinds of fun.