#nsfw-reflections

Some people hear “I like pain” and think that means I like being lightly spanked and told I’m a good girl.

Don’t get me wrong — I like being a good girl. But that’s not what I mean.

When I say I like pain, I don’t mean I like it soft. I don’t mean I like it ornamental. I don’t mean I want to be gently bruised just enough to say we did something edgy before cuddling for two hours.

I mean I want to feel it.

I mean I want to breathe through it. Bite through it. I want the kind of pain that makes me forget everything else — because nothing else in my life slows my brain down the way a hand around my throat or a belt across my thighs can.

I don’t want it for show. I don’t want it to impress anyone. And I don’t want it to be performative for you. I want it to mean something to me.

I like pain that makes me let go. Pain that makes me cry — not because it’s too much, but because it’s exactly enough. Pain that makes me trust you in a way I can’t explain without sounding unwell.

It was honestly some of the best sex I’ve ever had. Easily one of the hottest men I’ll ever sleep with — the kind of beautiful that makes you feel a little bit ruined afterward. He used me exactly the way I wanted to be used: held me down, choked me out, spit on me, left me shaking. I gave him everything, and it felt incredible.

Afterward, he handed me a cherry Poptart and said, “You’re stronger than you think.” Then he built a pillow wall between us, put on his headphones, pulled down his sleep mask, and went to sleep.

That was the aftercare.

No touch. No real check-in. No “how do you feel now that I’ve pulled you apart and made you cry.” Just a motivational quote and a boxed pastry.

I wasn’t expecting poetry. I didn’t need to be coddled. But I think I expected something. A gesture. A glance. A little softness to remind me I was still a person, not just an incredible fuck.

Instead, I laid there in the dark trying to convince myself I wasn’t being dramatic. That I should be grateful. That not everyone gets to be split open by someone that gorgeous. That the sex was worth it.

Pain isn’t always intimate. Sometimes it’s mechanical. Or bored. Or just enough to say “we did something.” Sometimes it’s sloppy — like a checklist of rough things someone saw in porn and decided to copy on a real body without ever checking to see who lived in it.

I’ve had pain that left marks but no meaning. Bruises that didn’t ache in the right way. I’ve had hands on me that thought pressure was the same as presence. It’s not.

Because real pain — the kind I crave — asks something from you too. It’s not just about how hard you hit or how red my skin turns. It’s about whether you’re watching what happens after. Whether you’re listening when I go quiet. Whether you're giving pain, or just doing pain.

I don’t want to be your experiment or your proof-of-concept. I don’t want to be handled like a body that will bounce back no matter what.

I want pain that knows me — or at least wants to. Pain that remembers what I said when I flinched a little too hard. Pain that doesn’t always mean cruelty. Pain that might mean care. Pain that can coexist with reverence — not because it’s soft, but because it’s earned.

A Dom I used to play with messaged me today. It’s been months—maybe longer. Long enough that I’d almost convinced myself I’d stopped wondering if he ever thought of me. If he missed the way I softened when he got sharp. If he remembered how much I gave, even when I pretended not to want anything in return.

When the notification lit up, I thought maybe he was checking in. Maybe I meant something more than a scene. Maybe this was one of those rare, quiet moments where someone reaches back—not because they want something, but because they remember. Because they care.

But all he wanted to know was where I lived. And once I said I’d moved, he didn’t respond.

It felt like the entire stretch of vulnerability between us—all the kneeling, the trust, the ache I never quite voiced—got folded into a single unanswered message. He didn’t ask how I’ve been. Didn’t say he missed the way we played. Didn’t even say goodbye.

And I knew, even then, that I was more invested than he was. I let him mark me up and called it something sacred, even as I tried to pretend it wasn’t more than play. But I wanted more. Not just more of him, but more from him—something steady. Something real. Something that didn’t dissolve the moment the scene ended.

What hurts isn’t that he moved on. It’s that I still ache for the idea of him. Not even him, exactly, but the hope that someone could want all of me. The neediness. The intensity. The soft parts that come out when I’m handled with cruelty and care.

He was one of the most experienced people I’d ever been with. Gorgeous. Confident. The kind of partner who makes surrender feel like gravity. The kind of man you call Sir without hesitation — not for play, but because it settles into your mouth like truth.

So I wanted to be good for him. Desperately. I wanted to be the kind of submissive who left a mark — open, eager, soaking wet, saying yes with my whole body.

Instead, I dried up.

No matter how much I wanted it, my body just wouldn’t follow. The harder I tried to force it, the more panicked I felt. I kept thinking, he’s doing everything right — this has to be me. I was embarrassed, ashamed, and completely in my head. I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want to disappoint him.

So I faked it. The moans, the “please, Sir,” the praise — I gave it all like it was real. I kept thinking if I just said the right things, my body would catch up.

And the thing is… I think he knew. He didn’t say anything. I didn’t either. But something in the air shifted. The performance held, but just barely.

We both let it happen. We both walked away pretending it was a good scene.

Maybe in some ways it was. But I’ve thought about that night more than I should. About how easy it was to slip into that role — the eager submissive — even when my body was saying no thank you. About how much I still wanted to please someone who didn’t ask for the truth.