Sometimes the pain is pleasure, pure and simple, your skin alive with the power of it, dancing again
Sometimes the pain is pleasure, pure and simple, your skin alive with the power of it, dancing against your muscles, trying to get out. It washes over you like a purge, turning you from who you were then into who you are now, and you’re better for it. Scalded clean, the pain is cathartic, physical, something to savour and get lost in. A deep dark pool of sex, a philosopher’s stone that lets you swap elements, pain into pleasure at the end of a strip of leather. Sometimes its deeper than that, and it burrows into your bones, sinks under your skin, where the pain still sparks and flares, remains very much painful, but your mind is relishing it, sucking air through your teeth in such a way that this isn’t physical pleasure you’re feeling, even though the pain is very, very real. You’re lost in a different kind of catharsis, something more true and powerful, something you feel you deserve. It’s flaying your mind of its impurities, pouring ethanol onto your brain and dropping in a match. The alcohol burns away, along with everything you wish you hadn’t done. It’s penance, and you can’t get enough of it. You’re high on absolution. Administered and consumed only by you. I’m just the conduit. -- source link
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