Cravings.

My masochistic side is craving again. Hot skin pinned to cold walls. Fingers and nails trailing up thigh and flesh finding wet, moist panties and pushing or ripping them to one side.

Words I have read that at first scared me now resonate inside me, laughing at me that I don't have that trust with a person any more. People abusing it. This is why we can't have nice things.

I can hear the music surround me. The beat pulsing in my chest. His hand is pressed against my throat, my eyes shut tightly as the light from the club occasionally bleeds into them. His teeth run over my skin, his breath hot and his whispers dirty. The scene is dark and just right. The right time, the right place the right amount of pressure.

His hand moves to my hair, gripping at it at the scalp and pulling my head back bearing my neck. Something cold and sharp feeling then pressing against it.

My thoughts move then to being thrown into a dark room. The click of a gun as I feel the muzzle pressed to my temple. I am on my knees looking around, but the person is in black and their face is not visable. I am blindfolded.

I stay knelt, listening to the boots move around me. Thudding onto the floor.

All these things come at me, fast and hard. Thoughts and feelings. I'm sat naked, running my own nails over my skin, causing red marks and pulling at my hair.

I want these things. I crave the pain I used to be able to take. But when it is given I cower, I hide and I detest it. I tune out.

I wear cuffs to simulate tight hands around my wrists.

My mind is like a movie studio, flashing images at me, some make it some end up on the cutting room floor.

Another one now, his face burried between my legs in a toilet stall, listening to the music pound against the wall outside. Orgasm swelling to the swell of the music.

But I don't trust anyone enough any more to give me this, and the person I do trust doesn't want it, doesn't want this side of me. I'm doomed to be forever vanilla. The safe choice.