The Making Of A Pain Slut

I’m often asked if I really get off on pain. The truth is now I do — at least to the kinds of punishments Sir prefers to give — but it wasn’t always that way.

I’ve always loved a lot of breast play (my nipples are red-hot express lines direct to my cunt), but spanking, paddling, clamps, clothespins, hot wax, rope burn, slaps, etc. — on my breasts or anywhere — and maintaining difficult positions was all definitely more pain than pleasure in the beginning.

While Sir and I quickly discovered that I naturally became aroused by his inherent male powers over me, actual pain wasn’t so readily overcome by demonstrations of masculinity. Not even when combined with my desire to please him.

But Sir knew just what to do.

As I’ve mentioned before, many D/s relationships are based on a submissive’s dependence. Not only simple acts of comfort or kindness, but a cleverly calculated combination of pleasure and denial. For example, rubbing my pussy while spanking, paddling or cropping my ass, sends my brain a flood of conflicting input… Am I feeling pleasure or pain? Which am I feeling more of? It was horribly confusing…

But Sir also used denial to make sure my brain and body were led from confusion and rescued — he made sure that the only time I experienced sexual pleasure was when I was experiencing pain at his hand.

Sure, I could suck his cock and get him off; but I never felt his hands or mouth or cock on me unless he was also hurting me in his desired fashion.

While he may have focused on one sort of pain or use at a time, the method was the same: pain always came with pleasure and pleasure never came without pain. Until I began to have sort of Pavlov’s dog response. Eventually I learned to connect the pain (as in our earlier example) of being cropped with the euphoria of arousal and eventual orgasm.

No spanking, no coming; no pain, no gain. By George, my brain and body finally got it!

So much so, that when I am simply told to assume the position for a spanking, my cunt will drool! I might also be trembling with fear and crying in anticipation of the pain; but I’m sopping wet too. Even the next day’s bruises, welts, and sore spots became aphrodisiacs… Memories of what had been done, to me and by me; how I’d been undone.