Pain, Pain, pain! It's reliable, consistent, stimulating and I find myself craving it more and more as the hours pass.
I've always enjoyed the throbbing pangs of physical blows. Whether it be slamming my fragile figure along metal bars- which used to be my go-to thing- or slamming my fist along the sides of my own head- I love it! The initial strike hurts, yeah boo hoo, but if you tough it out you're rewarded with waves of serenity.
The dopamine delivers an unexpected calm and I indulge in it. Also the mentally of it is sick- I'm sick. It's a self destructive thing, seeing all the bruises and blood gives me relief, I let out a rewarding sigh when I see myself deteriorating, I want to destroy me.
Brutal blows would usually get me off until last night when I was introduced to something called 'bloodletting' and my new fetish unraveled, bursting color into my now pleasurable sex life. (I say pleasurable now b/c before the Joker, sex was just a perverted ritual.)
J pulled out a knife while we had sex and sliced me up good, so, so good.
I remember being on my hands and knees, back arched as he split me down the middle, when I felt the first slit and blood rushed out from along my side. Before I could turn my head back to see him, three new wounds were placed horizontally along my rib cage and my toes curls as an orgasm rippled up and down my spine.
As my nails dug into the purple bed sheets, blood splattered all over the place ruining the mattress but J was overjoyed. Really his groans and moans were beautiful and his face was buried in the tender wounds, his scars collecting a bloody river.
My gashes still feel searing hot just thinking about his fingers digging in with those sharp, sharp nails extracting more bloody blood, making the pain almost intolerable. I loved it- I love him. Best sex I'll ever have and it's all thanks to my insane lover.
Now he's up in the attic slamming away at a keyboard instead of into me. ): I'm withdrawing from his attention and also drugs but that is not nearly as important. I need him, I need my deadly fix. I'm tweaking, trembling, and shivering all the while suffering from a cold sweat. I've yet to find a strong enough coping mechanism to combate the loneliness and the drugs are decaf. They're not hitting me as hard as I want, so I've been hitting and hurting myself but oh how I want to be hurt by the craziest man alive.
•
I tap back into reality waking up from my fever dream and look up the unreliable wooden steps which lead up to the occupied attic, the keyboard clattering as loud as ever.
I climb, desire moving my feet closer and closer to my beloved menace who's illuminated by the blue hue of his ancient computer that sprouts what seems like hundreds of multi colored wires. I find myself wishing to be plugged into it myself so he would study me as much.
"Ahhhhh." He sighs with great boredom and doesn't stop typing. "What it is bunny, can't you see I'm busssy?" He asks nonchalantly, continuing to ignore my presence, and slowly break my heart. I know what will get his attention or so I hope.
There's a short filing cabinet next to his desk, small enough for me to plant my foot on to it and give him a perfect view into my short latex dress. "But I wanna play." I whine because I know he loves it and you know what? He stops typing cramming his head my way and audibly sucking his teeth, making me flood. "You like what you see?" I ask as he reaches out for me with his gloves hand, his soul-less eyes fixing between my legs.
