How I discovered I wasn't vanilla and got the kinky sex I really wanted

In general, I’m a pretty non-violent person. But being the deliciously kinky fuck he is, my boyfriend Bubby recently has started asking for me to be rougher during sex. By the end of our session last night, he was satisfied, bruised, bitten, sore and covered in cooled candle wax – and I was smiling a Cheshire grin. Turns out, this gentle giant has a sadistic side.

While I’m anti-violence in general, when it comes to sex, all I’ve ever really cared is about safety, sanity and consent. Whatever you like may not be my thing, but if you love it, I’m happy for you. If I’m fucking or loving on you, I’m probably even happy to help. So, as Bubby has slowly discovered and rolled out his varied and sometimes violent kinks, I’ve been happy to lend a hand, penis, fist or a few teeth.

While I admit to being amused by the roughness, until last night, all that kinky play was for his benefit. I mean, I generally enjoyed reddening Bubby’s backside and making him feel all submissive, but that’s just because I love to make him feel good. During this latest punishment session, it was all about me, and I loved every minute.

The thwack of my hand smacking his bare ass made me woozy with arousal. His wails of pain, which previously made me lose my erection, made my cock throb. Every time he cried out, I wanted to hit him again but harder. I wanted to see just how much he could take before he was forced to cry out “waffle” – our safe word.

Although I never thought of myself as a particularly vanilla person, I also never thought I’d get such joy out of causing such pain. Considering that I frequently desire to spank and otherwise punish people who piss me off – Bubby included – I probably should have. Instead, I kept those feelings locked inside and ended up thinking less of myself for having the urges.

Like most violence, I always thought those urges were classless and uncouth. I recognize that BDSM is different than kicking an annoying bitch down the apples and pears, but I never got why people liked it.

Now that I’ve been lucky enough to find a guy who loves almost nothing more than getting choked out and beat up whenever I feel like it, I’m drowning in a lake of epiphanies. I’m also feeling more at peace with that part of me. In fact, I love every minute of it.

Being able to let the urges free is an incredibly liberating experience. Not having to curtail my cruelness allowed me to find a place where it fit in my life. It helped me feel less crazy. Not hitting people didn’t make me feel crazy, but I definitely felt stifled and suppressed.

Beating the shit out of Bubby was like pressing the pressure release button on my head. Everything evacuated my mind to make way for pure creativity. All I cared about was finding new and surprising ways to make him hurt. In the moment, I’m sure I looked happier than Dexter slicing up one of his victims. Today, the smile is less devious, but it’s no less gleeful.

All day, my mind has been clear, focused and running like a cheetah. I feel more confident, capable and strong than I have in a long time. For a guy who’s been dealing with a roller coaster of depression and anxiety for the past few months, that’s a pretty big fucking deal. It’s almost like knocking Bubby around knocked the gunk out of my head. If nothing else, it seems that I’ve found one non-medicinal way of managing my mind and accompanying flaccid cock, which often feels unmanageable.

I like to think of myself as a good person who wouldn’t hurt anyone. In my desire to be good to the letter, I never considered that being a good person could also mean hurting someone exactly how they want to be hurt. Considering the rigidity of my erection when my hand bruises Bubby’s body, I’ve definitely got a huge incentive to be a great person as often as possible.

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