My relationship with pain has evolved over the years. Early on in my kink experiences, pain served as an outlet for stress and depression. At the time I needed catharsis, and kink “play” was an efficient vehicle for release. A spanking/flogging session with my top (now boyfriend) would build in intensity until the hurt brought on tears, and I would cry until I wore myself out.
These days I find myself seldom in need of pain as a path to relaxation, though a good play session can produce an excellent cerebral buzz. But that’s from all the endorphins that kick in after you cross that ever elusive pain threshold.
Distance runners know this rush, that sensation of floating in the air. The sudden peace and calm that envelops your mind; the spiritual high. It’s the most spectacular feeling in the world, and it’s all natural. No drugs, just physical intensity…the body under stress.
My body has made some interesting shifts as I’ve built up a tolerance for pain, one of which is an aversion to light touch in specific areas. I’ve become less fond of oral because it tickles now. It’s more distracting than arousing. I need at least a small amount of pain to experience pleasure.
It seems like my physical experience has mirrored my emotional one. It’s only after encountering grief that I’ve come to know joy. Why shouldn’t my body conform to that same logic? I find the symmetry strangely comforting.
Furthermore, all these shifts have pushed my exploration of kink forward, revealing delightful new torments to indulge in, (clit cropping…ooooh, so good) so it’s hard to complain about the change.
I get to keep my sex life hot, fun, and freaky by continually trying new things?