Pulled This Way And That

Before Rachel turns me once more and my fantasy shatters just as it builds to the good part. But it builds in my body as well, an urgent need that moves a notch higher and builds in intensity. A shuddering running through me that goes unnoticed by my friend as she is pulled by her own desires away from this section and into one dominated by dark leather and cold metal.

It's all around me. It seems like it's everywhere. Everywhere I look the intimidation of the items, the leather and the hardness and the simple fact of their existence which only makes me think of how intense it would be.

Pain.

Pleasure.

The two of them are intertwined and nowhere are they better exemplified than here with all the implements out on display for our perusal.

Once. I have a memory of once. Tumbling into a spiral as I perused videos on the internet that I can remember so vividly even now.

The walls were fake, an affectation of a dungeon. The idea of it more than the reality, the set designers artfully interpreting grunge merged with opulence, all hard woods and dark colors and crimson.

BDSM was never an interest of mine and isn't still, but I can't deny that it struck some small and primal part of myself. I can't deny that I cannot forget the videos I saw and the intensity of them, the intersection between pain and pleasure so potent that it left me gasping.

It's always been intimidating, this fetish. The danger of it and the taboo, this sense that we were giving in to our own most base and carnal instincts. Something almost primal in it, akin to animals rutting in the dirt next to a fire, the only source of warmth in light.

But as humans we've evolved past that. We went through so many changes, so many ages. So much evolution that is all just simply adornment on the core source of things. Dressing it all up but the objective is the same, pain at the sake of pleasure.

No.

Not at the sake of it. Not in spite of it. Not impeding it at all.

But augmenting it instead, making it all the sweeter because pleasure in the midst of pain, edged by it and tinted by it, is only amplified.

So that in the end when you take it, when you get your gentle release, it all but overwhelms you and undeniably makes you only want more of it. More than just wanting it but needing it in the soul of yourself, aching for it with every fiber of your being.

That is what I saw, in the dark when I pursued those videos down a spiral. Watching video after video from the same studio, all those women trussed and bent, attended to by men in fine suits who balanced her on the knife's edge and made her only want and need and ache for more.

I remember her face, contorted in a mask and in a place where I could not make out whether she'd had enough or needed more but each time she gasped it was to ask him to go on, her body vibrating and glistening with sweat as she sought to bear it out.

One night. Only one night did I pursue those videos. So overcome by them that I was almost fearful of every going back.

But there in the middle of all that leather and metal it all came back to me and I couldn't help myself, couldn't help my mind traveling back to that space and that place and all those images that had been seared in the darkest recesses of my mind.

This time, though, it wasn't some anonymous woman. This time it was me. This time it was me taking all of it.

This time it was me begging for more.

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