NEEDY – a black obsession

I hate being like this.

Normally my kink hums away below the surface, a faint throb like the far away engine noise on a ship; there, should I want to listen to it, but unobtrusive if I am busy with other things.

Now though, my kink is more apparent; intrusive, persistent, dominating my thoughts. It’s like listening to a child on an aeroplane; whining, complaining, wanting to be the centre of attention; destroying my concentration with its noise.

I’m not sure why I’m like this; perhaps the three way dungeon scene I played out was too much. I had both caned and been caned; had witnessed a hard fucking with a dildo and been subjected to one. I had had sex with a beautiful girl half my age. The physical and emotional intensity of the session was thrilling and renewing but it has left me wired and struggling to sleep.

My thoughts are full of kink: the last session; the next session; Elita’s ethereal beauty; Katie’s pert little bottom; dungeons; nipple clamps; whipping; caning; flogging; fucking; all of it just random thoughts tumbling over each other in my head.

Perhaps it’s guilt. Perhaps the irresistible magnet of kinky sex has been held too close to my moral compass for too long. Perhaps, rather than merely flick to one side for an hour or two before returning to point North, it has been sent spinning uncontrollably, leaving me lost and directionless.

What to do though? Cancel, the next session? Back off it for a month or two, while trying to regain the precious, though always precarious, balance between my two lives? That would be sensible, sane and probably the wise option.

I know what I want to do though. I know what I always want to do when I’m feeling like this.

I want to kick Elita’s door down, so she can slam me against the wall of her apartment and slap my face backwards and forwards till I can no longer hold her gaze.

I want to call that Scottish Mistress I’ve been following and let her wrap the thick leather of her tawse round my arse till I’m yelling for mercy.

I want to taste the  gut wrenching fear as Elita’s man takes a practise stroke with his cane, knowing that there will be twenty four strokes before he stops.

And, if all else fails, I want to go into the garage and whip myself with a piece of electric flex till my arse is a mess of vivid red lines and I come all over the garage floor in angry, frustrated release. 

However, I will in all likelihood, do none of these things and the desperate wanting will pass; I’ve been here before and it always does. In fact writing these dark thoughts down may have actually helped.

Masochism can be a wonderful thing, opening up a world of heightened arousal and sensual pleasure, with extremes that many people never get to experience. It can be erotic, rewarding, joyous; a legal high of ecstatic, cathartic release.

Masochism can also be a black obsession that stalks the soul, making you doubt your own sanity, your thoughts taken over by dark, nameless fantasies of shocking violence and depravity.

I recently found myself in an even more darkly obsessive state DURING a session, and wrote about it here.

Not really a Valentine’s day story but it’s on Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness: