Lots about Me Ch. 15: Mild Sadisty

-------

SHARP GIRLY FINGERNAILS

-------

I like being scratched with fingernails. It feels nice. As in, I like fingernails scratching on my back when I fuck, and I like them scratching on my thighs while I get licked out, and I also just like being scratched any other time someone happens to scratch me too, like more as a back-rub kind of thing. Just because, I don't know, the pully diggy scrapyness is sexy. It feels nice. Stuff like that.

I get scratched fairly often, is what I mean.

So basically, I've been asking people to scratch me for ages, either during sex or not, and so I don't think especially much about the marks it leaves, ever. Because fingernail-marks only last ten or twenty minutes, and then mostly fade. So who cares? As in, I think maybe once a housemate caught me in a halter-type sports top thingy, so with bare shoulders and shoulderblades, and my back was basically a criss-cross checkerboard of scratches because the person with the fingernails had been systematically scratching me over and over and thinking it was funny to make me look like the shading on a pencil drawing. But other than then, no-one's ever really noticed or commented or whatever, and so I don't think about scratches like I do, say, actual bruises.

Which is all very nice.

Except that, one time, I was with someone who had actual nails, and actual nails kind of dig in deeper. Which I hadn't thought of. Because I don't, and boys don't, and lots of girls who like girls supposedly don't.

But she did.

Um, my bad I suppose.

So she'd licked me out, and had been scraping her nails on the top and insides of my thighs as she did, because that's nice, and slightly painfully scrapy-intense. So we did that, and then we finished, and I was going out right after, so I just put on a skirt and went and didn't think very much about marks.

Because nail scratches fade in twenty minutes.

These didn't.

They were kind of deep. Like actual grazes, like these pink welts that had drawn blood.

I didn't realize for ages, I went out and was wandering around, and the skirt wasn't short but it was shortish, like enough that when I sat down some of the scratches were visible. Which eventually I did. And after a while I glanced down, and kind of went oh fuck, oops. Because it looked like I'd been whipped, basically.

I mean, not to ordinary normal people, probably, but with my guilty conscience, yep, like I'd been whipped.

So that was embarrassing. And after that I sat a lot with my jacket on my lap, and tried not to stand up, and no-one mentioned it so hopefully no-one noticed.

Or probably they noticed, but just didn't mention it.

I made up a story anyway, in case I needed it, that I'd been trail-running and gone through some scrub and cut my legs to fuck as I did. Just in case. Which was completely believable except how the scrapes started just above my knees, and were mostly on the insides of my thighs, and pretty obviously had been scraped upwards.

But never mind. No-one said anything. And I learned about scratchy fingernails the hard way!

-------

MILDLY SADISTY

-------

One person I slept with sometimes had one of those spiky roller thingys like a cowboy spur. So a spiked roller wheel on a handle? I'm not sure what they're for, but maybe pie crusts or sewing patterns, something like that?

Anyway, she liked to roll it on me, on my thighs, slowly and quite gently.

Not so it broke my skin, or drew blood, or even hurt very much at first. Just rolling it on me, up and down, over and over, until it got almost painfully intense as the spikes kept pressing on me. It was weirdly like sex, as in, like the tempo of sex, the way the intensity of it built up and built up.

I liked it, but she was weirdly reluctant to do it to me. She was really into it once she started, but she never seemed to want to actually start. As in, she never suggested it, and I always had to get the roller and make her. But once I did, she was fine. She also never hit me, or hurt me any other way, and she didn't seem to want to do anything else other than the thing with the spiky wheel. As if this one little secret hurting of me was all she allowed herself, because she didn't like to admit she wanted to do things like this at all.

So we did it when I made her, and when we did I sat or lay there, and stroked her arm, and kissed her sometimes, or masturbated, and she rolled her spikey wheel on the top and insides of my thighs, over and over, more and more, until it got so sore I would wince and gasp and sob.

And she looked at me, as it hurt. As I squeezed my hands tight, and my eyes teared up, and I kind of moved my legs almost but not quite to get away. She watched me doing that, and seemed really into my pain.

But only once she'd already started. Only once she'd done it to me gently for a while, and begun slowly, as if she was hypnotising herself into it or something. Because then, I suppose, once she was excited by a little bit of pain, she could bring herself to cause more. As if her one little secret hurting of me was something she had to be seduced into, and which she had to let build up slowly, and make worse gradually, so to really hurt me she already had to have been doing gently for a while first. Something like that, anyway.

Because once she started, once it hurt, she actually kept going a long time, longer than I think a lot people would have. Like into actual hurt, and actual desperately sore, rather than just uncomfortable sexy pretend-sore.

She liked to hurt me. She liked to really hurt me. She just didn't want to admit to herself she did.

She liked to hurt me so much that I think I always had to tell her to stop, every time. I don't think she ever just did on her own.

But I let her do it, just because. More than I usually would let someone do. I don't know why. Because her face was so engrossed and entranced and sexy when she was actually hurting me, and knew she was, I think. As if, just for that moment she could allow herself to do that to me, what she really wanted to do, and actually feel what she wanted to feel, as well. So it was like my gift to her, to let her do it to me. And watching her do it, watching her being into it, that turned me on a lot.

She'd roll the roller on my leg, and keep going until I hurt so badly I had to shriek or tell her to stop. And then once it had really hurt me, and once she knew it had, then she seemed quite happy. She'd stop and put the roller down and lick me out.

And being licked was always better, and more intense, because of how I'd just been hurt.

It was sexy. It was sexy being hurt, and it was sexy how desperately she wanted to, in that hidden repressed way.

I never quite completely understood, but I desperately liked doing it anyway.