Sadistic Pleasure and Drop

Some time ago I found a new playmate. Or he found me. We had talked at a munch and afterward he made contact through Fetlife. Because I already had a good impression of him, I answered, even if he was a man who asked if I would like to play. In most circumstances like that I have stopped answering, but in most circumstances like that I have never met the guy and don’t know anything about him. This was different, so I answered, we talked a lot, and it ended up with playtime. Once, then again, and again. Both enjoyed it. Why stop a good thing?

Last week we had session number four. I had really begun to trust him. Trust that he could communicate well enough, trust that he would tell me the moment something was wrong and that he himself would recognize it if that happened. Trust that he wouldn’t suddenly turn on me. I had, in other words, begun to let go a bit more. To stop overthink my every move and enjoy more. Feel more.

It’s a long time since I have played like that. I had forgotten what it felt like. How it could make me feel. How high I could soar on the pleasure from others pain.

I had also forgotten that the higher you fly, the harder you fall.

How to put into words the feelings that I’m not entirely sure have names? And if they do have names, do I want to know them?

We didn’t do anything new. It was more of the same, maybe harder and more intense, but not new, or big, or dangerous. Just … intense. For me, the closer I’m to my victim physically, the better it feels. I can hear every little sound, every whimper, every gasp and cry. I can feel every shudder, every startled movement and every tug at the bonds that hold them. I can stroke and soothe and whisper and kiss, all the while I scratch and pinch. The skin on skin contact feeds my sadism in a way nothing else does. It’s that closeness, that intimacy, that really brings out the sadist in me and make me soar. It’s everything I want out off a session. It’s what makes me sure that the word sadist is a label that fit me perfectly.

I want to bring pain, to hurt them, the ones who let me. Not harm them, never that, and yet … Last week, when we were good and well into it and he was whimpering while I hurt him and held him at the same time … I wanted to bite and tear instead of kiss, rend instead of just scratch. I wanted everything that he had in him and I wanted to take it; to tear him apart. That was how intense my response to his reactions was. Like I wanted to burrow under his skin, like it never could be enough, like he never could give me enough. Like feeding a ravenous beast that hadn’t been fed in forever.

That was how it felt. I’m not really comfortable with comparing myself to a beast, but in this case, the case of my sadistic side on a rampage, it’s apt.

Come the hour, I leashed the beast. Maybe with more difficulty that I would like, certainly with more difficulty then back when I felt like that on a semi-regular basis, playing with my then girlfriend. But I leashed the beast and we went back to the real world, both of us whole and hale. Though, not without marks.

 

The day after I paid the price for my pleasure. I paid it almost from the moment my head hit the pillow that evening. I tossed and turned in bed and thought far too much. I knew, even before we left the playroom that I would get a drop. I had flown too high for it not to happen. I was so filled with endorphins and adrenaline that it felt like my bones buzzed slightly. It had been intense, and it had been delicious, and I had dared to let go. That last part is what bothered me the most. Call it sadist anxiety, a form of drop; what we can get after a session, instead of the headache and worry you can get after drinking heavily and doing weird stuff the night before.

I worried because I let go. Because I was afraid that that led to inattention. What if I did something wrong? What if I did something that really bothered him, and he tried to make it clear and I didn’t notice? And even if it went well this time, would I have noticed if it hadn’t? Will I notice in the future? Was I attentive enough, and will I be attentive enough, in that state, to note if something goes wrong? Another day, I would have said yes. I was probably more attentive, then and there, more attuned to him, than ever before. I might have said or done something slightly weird after, I felt untethered and a bit woozy, but I would have noticed if he stiffened or reacted differently. I’m as sure as I can be. It’s not guaranteed, nothing really is, but I do believe that I would.

That didn’t help then and there. Anxiety isn’t rational.

(And yes, I did text him when I thought he had the time to answer. He was fine and had had a good time. No worries and could he help me in any way?)

 

I will try to remember that I might drop after a session like that, and safeguard against a hard fall in any way I can, but I can’t stop flying; I can’t stop wishing to fly.

To fly, to slip the leash for an hour or two, is worth all the rubbish messages on Fetlife, all time talking that’s needed to learn if this is someone I want to play with or not and how that play might look like, all the preparations and all the nervousness.

All is worth it to fly, safely. To be me, just as I am. To be a sadist, revel in my kind of pleasure and be free.

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