It’s not the pain that I get off on. It’s not seeing you writhe and cry out when I lay my hand on you, or watching the heavy rouge start to rise on your tender flesh. It’s not feeling the sensitive nub of your nipple swell between my fingers, only to pinch and twist, watch you try to pull away while simultaneously thrust your chest out. It’s not the physicality of it that makes me hard.
It’s how you react to it. It’s the mewls, the moans, the groans. The whimpers and the gasps, the cries and the winces. It’s every little part of you that makes every little part of me hum, an engine kick started by a sudden jolt, a storm that’s been properly awoken. It’s knowing that your brain is working just as hard as mine, just from the other end of things. We’re meeting in the middle, where my palm meets your arse, and in that thunderclap we become a singular purpose. Your need meeting my want.
It’s feeling your nipple swell between my fingertips while I watch your face grow foggy with lust. It’s watching you squirm and writhe under my hand as I bring it down hard, just as you call out a stream of profanity so perverted that it makes me pause with the virility of it. It’s seeing you pull back just as you thrust forward, because I know the conflict that lies at the heart of you.
It’s the mentality of it, always. It’s getting in your head, and seeing out. It’s pulling your strings, just as you tug me to attention. It’s psychology at the edge of sex, the final few moments of clear, conscious thought before we fling ourselves into blissful oblivion.
