My Girlfriend Discovered Her Sadistic Side with Me

It’s the first time I’ve dared to write here, and what follows isn’t exactly a made-up story. These are the notes I kept on a rather peculiar social network, one of those devoted to unconventional sex. I’m sharing them with my girlfriend’s permission; she laughs every time she sees me typing like a man possessed after one of our nights.

I should make something clear from the start: I’m a masochist. Pain excites me, turns me on, takes me somewhere I can’t reach any other way. And when that pain mixes with sex, and even more so with love, the result is something I don’t know how to explain in decent words.

Vera discovered her sadistic side with me almost by accident, and it turned out she was a born expert. Nothing scares her. I’ve been with other women, even in domination and submission circles, and most of them are repulsed by certain things. Blood, for example. Not her. Blood makes her eyes shine, and more than once I’ve had to stop her because we were getting into territory that was no longer safe.

Because that is my only real limit. I don’t care about wounds that take weeks to heal, or scars I’ll carry forever. What I don’t want is to end up in a hospital, let alone be left with irreversible damage that would prevent me from continuing to have the kind of sex life I have. Everything else is on the table.

Without further preamble, I’m transcribing what I was writing down.

***

First note.

I’m fascinated by the human mind and by how well two people can sync up without saying it out loud. Let me explain.

That afternoon Vera was depilating her legs with cream. At one point she looked up, can in hand, and gave me that crooked smile I know far too well.

—Do you want me to put some on you? —she asked.

—Whatever you want —I answered.

—Where should I put it?

—Wherever you want —I insisted, because the answer was obvious and because I knew exactly where this was going.

—On your cock! —she exclaimed, delighted with her own idea.

And she started smearing me with depilatory cream, from the base up toward the glans. She pulled my foreskin back with two fingers and put a generous amount right there, on the most sensitive part, which was exactly what I expected from her.

—The cream needs to stay on between five and ten minutes —she said, rubbing it in patiently—. But I’m going to leave it on for fifteen.

A little later she asked me what I felt. I confessed that it barely stung, hardly at all, really. Then, surprised and slightly wounded in her pride, she went down to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of hydrochloric acid drain cleaner. I warned her it wasn’t a good idea to mix two chemical products, that anything could happen.

—Aren’t you game? —she challenged me, holding up the bottle.

—If you are, then I am too —I replied, in a display of cheap bravado.

If I feel anything strange on the first application, I’m running to the shower. That’s what I thought to calm myself down.

We waited almost half an hour with the cream on. Then she took a cotton pad, soaked it well in the acid, and started wiping the cream off the base. There I only felt a slight itch. But I knew, from previous experience, that on the glans this was going to be a different story.

She took a second pad, soaked it until it was dripping, and ran it over the head of my cock, slowly, missing not a millimeter. The burning was brutal, much more intense than other times, almost impossible to bear. But she kept going, and I, between growls, clenched my teeth and endured it.

—Kiss me —I asked, because I know excitement helps me tolerate pain.

And she, happily, leaned in and gave me a long, deep kiss while with her other hand she kept torturing me. After a while I slipped off to the bathroom to rinse with water, because I started to fear a serious burn.

When Vera came out of the shower, fully aware that my cock was raw, she came up to me and whispered in my ear:

—We’re not going to fuck. But I’m going to take it.

And that’s what she did, practically dry, with considerable pain on my side. Though I was desperate for it, because I like doing it that way too, with that stabbing edge. We started slowly, and within a few minutes, already wet, she was riding me at full speed until she came all over me with a rough moan.

A while later I went down to the living room, where she was still sprawled on the sofa, and showed her my visibly irritated foreskin.

—You left the job half done —I told her.

—Oh, yeah? —she replied, amused—. And how do we finish it?

—How about you whip me with the cable whip with the metal spikes on the ends until I bleed?

No sooner said than done. I went to fetch it and asked her how many lashes she intended to give me. She said twenty. I suggested we toss it up with dice, whatever number came up. She wanted to know how many dice we used, and I told her to choose; she said two.

Since I’m a bit fussy about numbers, I explained that with two dice the average falls far too short, that to get close to twenty the sensible thing would be to roll seven dice, because the average for each one is around three and a half. She found my calculation amusing. On the first roll the numbers were low, so I offered to roll again, and on the third we got twenty-eight.

She started with a few warm-up lashes. I warned her that I would only count the hard blows. And that’s what we did. When we were at lash number twenty, since I was genuinely enjoying it, I opened my big mouth:

—Let’s see if we can make it to a hundred.

I knew the idea would delight her. And she kept going, blow after blow, until she reached the number. I have to admit that from around seventy onward, I stopped enjoying it. But I endured it out of pride, because I can’t stand giving up in front of her.

And I don’t know whether that’s where it’ll end for today, because before that we’d talked about the possibility of burning me with incense, or with her cigarette, or sticking needles into me. And now, while I finish writing this, the idea doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

***

Second note.

With her permission, I’m copying here the conversation we had over chat during the day, while we were both at work. I found it funny and hot in equal measure. From what we were saying, it must have been a couple of days after the previous one.

—By the way —I wrote—, yesterday you didn’t give me my hundred. We’re going to have to make them up today.

—Hahaha —she replied—. Again? By the time we get to seventy, you can’t take it anymore.

—I took the hundred.

—Shaking, hahaha.

—But I took them, which is what matters.

—Fair enough —she conceded.

—Exactly. Doctor’s orders: a hundred a day, right?

—Oh —she wrote—. Then we’ll have to follow the instructions to the letter.

—Okay.

—And today we’ll have to go past a hundred, to make up some of yesterday’s.

—That would be two hundred —she answered—. I don’t think you’ll be able to handle it.

—Are you challenging me?

—You tell me.

—Whatever you say. I commit to recovering today the number you set for me.

—Then two hundred.

—Hahaha. You’re wicked. It’s going to be a hard night.

—It’s going to be a pleasurable night —she replied—. At least for me.

—See you tonight, then. This afternoon I’m going to sharpen the spikes so they pierce better. I hope you like my initiative, so the night is even more pleasurable for you.

She didn’t answer with words, only with a string of licking-the-lips emojis. And I knew I was done for.

The end of that day was that we made it to two hundred and quite a bit more. When we reached the agreed number, I started pleasuring her with my mouth while she kept whipping me, so I stopped counting; my head was elsewhere.

I ended up with my cock considerably swollen and covered in blood, because the spikes sink in and produce small tears in the skin with each lash. The last blows, striking flesh already soaked through, sent little droplets flying in all directions. The whip was literally stained red.

Afterward she asked me how many days of treatment the prescription called for. Before I could even open my mouth, she answered herself:

—Ten!

We’ll see whether we make it, because it feels like a lot to me and today I’m left pretty battered.

***

Conclusion.

To this day we still haven’t managed to complete the ten-day treatment, despite having tried several times. And there are two reasons for that.

The first is that, by around the fourth day, my cock is so full of wounds that even going to work becomes difficult. I live in fear of staining my pants with blood, or with that transparent fluid that oozes out when the skin is closing. It’s hard even to urinate, because my underwear sticks to the wounds. And on top of that, the sores that heal without being able to air out give off a strong smell I don’t want anyone at the office to notice.

The second reason, and the truly important one, is that by then my member is so swollen that it takes on a thickness that’s hard to describe. A little wider than a small beer bottle, but not as wide as a can. And that, far from putting us off, drives both of us crazy. Vera begs me to take it, telling me I’m huge, and I, blind with arousal, am unable to say no.

The sensations of fucking in that state are so intense they’re almost unbearable. You can feel how penetration takes more effort, how every movement rubs against the wounds, and I, between the swelling and the pain, don’t have time to think before I come. And there’s the problem: as soon as I come, my desire shuts off at once and I can’t take a single lash more. To endure the whipping I need to go several days without coming and be very aroused.

But we won’t give up. We’ll keep trying, because for me it has become a challenge I’m obsessed with completing. Just as I’ve been obsessed in the past with other challenges, persisting until I could tick the “done” box in my mental list.

And that’s all for now, friends. If anyone wants to ask or comment on anything, I’ll be happy to answer. Vera, for her part, is already sharpening the spikes for next time.