You'd like to be swept away, ideally; you'd like him to truly take control and know what you need and ravish you and use you as he sees fit. But you are realistic, and you know that to have the experience you want, you can't pretend it wasn't your idea. You have to take responsibility for your own pain. You have to hit yourself.
At some point before he hits you, you have to talk about it. You sit face to face as equals and disclose your kinks like you're working out a takeout order. This was agonizing for me the first couple times. "I like... uh... you know! I can't just say it!" I got over that. "I like hand spanking, flogging, clothespins, and verbal humiliation. I don't want to use a blindfold." "Interesting. I like the hand spanking too... how do you feel about caning?" And so on until you've hashed out an outline of how you'll be hurt. If you told him, at this point, that you didn't want to experience pain, he would respect that. You don't tell him that.
You start with him clothed and you naked, generally. Unless he's much stronger than you and somewhat experienced, you have to participate in your restraint--quietly offering wrists for the handcuffs, holding still and adjusting as needed for the ropes. With rope you can spend some time in this state, a human canvas for the fiddly art of bondage, calmly standing in the requested pose as you watch the work become beautiful and inexorable.
He faces you away from him, and you don't know when it's coming. In reality, probably you know within five seconds when it's coming. But within that five seconds are five thousand milliseconds, and you're going to spend every one of them tensed and clenched and agonizingly waiting for it.
And then he hits you. That's what you came here for, isn't it, you little slut? I bet you love this, don't you? You do. Warming up, before it hurts, the hitting is pure pleasure, it's being caressed and then fondled and then groped hard. It's being fucked, and when it starts to hurt, it's being fucked so hard it hurts.
Not literally, understand. Literally it feels like you're being hurt. The pleasure happens not in your skin but in your head. THWAP, THWAP, THWAP, and you yelp in pain even though you like it, because you can't help yourself. If he goes far enough, you won't be able to help crying. That's okay. It sounds terrible, but crying is intense and freeing and rewarding. Sometimes you cry from coming too hard; sometimes you cry because he wouldn't stop hitting you with a thick plastic rod. It all comes from the same place, and afterwards, at least, you're able to understand that it was a good one.
Sometimes a moment comes where you change your mind about everything. I want off this ride, he's a crazy person, I'm a crazy person, this shit hurts! You hold your tongue mostly because you went to such trouble to get here, and you'd hate to ruin the party for everyone. And an instant later it's a little less painful or a little more, and you're gone again. You're wet and you're flying and your skin is hot and you know just how damn lucky you are to be there.
At the end, if you have that sort of relationship, he fucks you. Any doubts you had about whether you really wanted this or you're really into it disappear as you have the most intense orgasms of your entire fucking life.
Afterwards you collapse or barely manage to crawl off onto a bed or sofa, and he cuddles with you. At this point, if it was good, you get high. The room spins and you giggle and your whole skin feels good. The cuddling's not just a comfort but an amazing tactile pleasure. You laugh like an idiot and walk all wobbly. It's a relatively brief experience, but a giddy one, and by God, you earned it.