It is such a warm and inviting place, that dark space deep within the sadist’s soul, where the demon resides, and I am sometimes fearful of letting go lest I will lose myself in there and never again emerge.

Yet emerge I do. Every time. Because there is no demon.

There is no demon.

There is only me, a man and not a demon, and this is the way I love. This is the only way I can love, and as such, the lady deserves me to let go, to abandon myself in expressing my love.

She deserves nothing less.  

GentleSpirit’s question on FetLife reads:

Is there any one trait that you look for in a submissive over others? Is it looks, personality, or something else?

A: They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. However, the way to my heart is through my eyes.

As a poet, I again and again discover how important it is to me that she can and will express herself in writing.

Her written voice gives me another window into her soul, one which oftentimes leaves her more vulnerable, more… exposed, than when speaking. Perhaps because she is less self-conscious without me watching her, no matter how encouragingly, as she is laying her beating heart out on a silver platter for me.

I am a quiet man and language doesn’t always come easy to me. Sometimes I need to pause between sentences to search for expressions and when listening, sometimes I find myself lost in reverie from a word or a phrase. Maybe I’m slow because sometimes speech seems too fast, too… flippant, to express the complex currents of emotion that have us so tightly in their grip.

Honesty and integrity, yes. Intelligence and humor, of course. And, naturally, a round, scrumptious butt. He he. All these are important qualities, and necessary for me.

But when I can see her heartbeat between the words, then she has my full attention. When I can see her breath between the sentences, then I know that she is for me.

When I can see her passion and her grace between the paragraphs, then I know that I am for her.

This question on FetLife reads:

Just wondering if it’s more arousing to a sadist to hurt someone who is willing to suffer and endure some pain but doesn’t actually enjoy the pain itself but, rather, enjoys that the enduring pleases the sadist?

Or do most sadists find more arousal in someone who loves to be hurt?

Which is the preference?

A: Maybe I haven’t grown into my domly shoes yet, but inflicting myself on someone who is only doing it to please me would make me feel like a thug, a bully, a… monster. (And not a monster of the sexy kind.)

Note that there are many bottoms that submit to pain in order to please their tops and I find it admirable and actually quite romantic. It is just that I must have entitlement-issues that prevent me from relaxing into it and accepting such a sacrifice.

To me, it would feel like I have been the recipient of pity-sex and it is hard for me to find the emotional connection there. Maybe it’s because I fundamentally need to please my victim as much as taking my pleasure from her too.

There is nothing more arousing than seeing lust burning behind a sheen of tears in her eyes. There is nothing more connecting than her falling to her knees in agony, sightless eyes staring into the ceiling, breath catching while she processes my latest kiss, and then hearing her finally whisper, “That was yummy.”

Believe it or not, but amongst the tears and the begging and the screaming, Dreamwalker is looking for approval.

I ran my nails down her unprotected, vulnerable throat. She gasped but did nothing to protect herself or even tilt her head down. My hand settled at the bottom of her throat and grasped it possessively.

Her green eyes rested on mine for several breaths, breaths of hers that I could feel through my grip of her throat.

“Why do you need to hurt me?”

There was no judgment or accusation in her voice; the question came from her deep desire to understand me. To understand us.

I thought on the answer for a time that seemed longer than it really was.

“It’s my nature,” I answered and pulled her towards me by the throat to kiss her.

I just got a text that is so beautiful that I want to share it with everyone. Everyone: this is GentleSpirit.

Making love to you is about the journey and not the destination. I love it and it’s wonderful, all of it, and I want to get lost with you.

And sometimes we will get lost on the wrong side of town but I will feel safe because I know you won’t let any harm come to me. Other times we will get lost and discover the most beautiful parts of each other and we will be in awe at the raw beauty we see.

But the most important thing is that we take this journey together, holding hands until we finally reach our ultimate destiny. I love you.

I love you too, girl.

“Hello, there. How are you doing?

“Do you come here often?

“What’s your name? Richard? I think I’ll call you…

“Dick.”

Oy vey, I thought, as she was chatting up my cock. I couldn’t help but chuckle. She turned her head, causing her long, black hair slide over the glans and smiled.

“Do you mind?”

“No. By all means, go ahead.” I made a grand inviting gesture; have at it.

She chastely kissed the tip and then slowly slid farther and farther down, only stopping when her nose was pressed against my crotch. Staying there, her tongue slid up and down the length of the shaft and she started making those magical swallowing motions that make me feel like I’m being devoured alive by warm, slick softness.

Ahhh…

I settled in for a quiet, peaceful cock-worship session and I could feel her also settling in for the long haul in a comfortable position.

Then,

♪ Do–a deer a female deer ♪

Huh?

♪ Re–a drop of golden sun ♪

What?

♪ Mi–a name I call myself ♪

What’s going on?

♪ Fa–a long, long way to run ♪

She’s humming!

♪ So–a needle pulling thread ♪

What is she humming? I recognize it.

♪ La–a note to follow So ♪

That’s… that’s from Sound of Music!

♪ Ti–a drink with jam and bread ♪

Show tunes! She’s humming show tunes!

♪ That will bring us back to Do ♪

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

♪ Oh-oh-oh ♪

Speechless, I stared in disbelief at the silky mass of black hair by my crotch. A remote part of my brain questioned if the inclusion of show tunes in some twisted way made the whole experience gay. I quickly dismissed that thought and decided that it simply made it severely kinky.

Meanwhile, she busted out in,

♪ The hills are aliiiive with the Sound of Muuuuusic! ♪

It became too much for me when she, with earnest gusto, included the background choir,

♪ Ah-ah-ah-ah ♪

I burst out laughing. Oh, man. What can you possibly say about that? Nothing in my life ever prepared me for this bizarre turn of events. Was I dreaming?

She stopped humming and peered up at me, beaming. “I was wondering on my way home today… when they talk about hummers, does that mean that they hum while giving blow jobs?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“Like that?”

“Mmmpphhh…” I was stifling a laugh attack and squealed, “No…

“I think most people just hum aimlessly,” I labored out with one hand covering my mouth.

“Like this?” She asked and sucked me in again and made the sound of a fishing trawler’s fog horn.

“Eeeep!” That was intense. “I guess…”

“But that’s so boring! Doesn’t it feel better this way?”

Before I could respond, she devoured me again and hummed Ave Maria with my dick in her mouth.

I sank back onto the pillow and rolled my eyes. Images of Franz Schubert spinning in his grave flashed before my eyes. Oh, holy Mother of God…

Finally, she concluded her performance with The Star-Spangled Banner. Why not? After all, I was already at attention. Although I did find myself idly wondering how many men would have stayed rigid through this… experience.

Truth be told, I was just happy that she hadn’t chosen the music of Gilbert and Sullivan. I didn’t actually have to keep a straight face but there’s no way my shaft would have remained straight through a medley of topsy-turvy librettos.

She studied me with laughing green eyes while I struggled to compose myself before asking as intelligibly as I could muster,

“Do you take requests?”

1. Girls. They are freaking cool and an awesome invention. God had a good day when he came up with those. They are soft and pretty and smell good. And they have delightful little butts.
    
2. Coffee. That was another good day that makes my days better.
    
3. GPS Navigators. Having just moved to Orange County, California, one of those is indispensible. I remember printing out directions from Google maps and never being able to deviate. If I missed an exit, I had to retrace my steps lest the instructions would be useless. These things make getting lost fun.
    
4. Internet. I honestly can’t remember life before the internet. Can you? Really?
    
5. The kink community in general and FetLife in particular. I have made real and good friends in this community, locally and on the web. More and better than before I came out. You guys are awesome. Truly awesome.
    
6. Coffee. Well, so I just made a new cup. So I like it. So what?
    
7. DVRs. Can’t remember the last time I saw a commercial. I feel wonderfully uninformed about current purchasing trends and I no longer know way too much about feminine hygiene products. Sorry girls, but I prefer your visits to the powder room to be clouded behind a veil of magic.
    
8. Kilts. Girls get really curious what’s underneath that kilt. Do the math.
    
9. Skirts. Guys know what’s underneath that skirt. Do the math.
    
10. Starbucks. Yeah, well…
     
11. iPhone. I love my iPhone. Recently, I discovered that you can make calls on it too, not just browse the web, check email, and text people. W@@t! They think of everything.
     
12. Amazon. I order dog food and cat litter from Amazon and the FedEx guy huffingly and puffingly delivers it at my door step. Gotta love that. Really. I’m a lazy bastard.
     
13. The baker’s dozen. Can’t knock ordering a dozen bear claws and getting 13 or thinking that you will get a list of top 10 inventions and then getting three for free. Just sayin’…

My girl, GentleSpirit is a beautiful, generous, vibrant and magnificent woman. She has the biggest heart I have ever come across and the sharpest mind. For some reason, it seems that she tries to tone down how smart she really is, but, spending as much time as I do with her, she can’t keep the pretense going all the time.

She is also one of the funniest women I have ever met. I remember writhing in pain from sore stomach muscles after laughing too much in the beginning of our relationship. I still do from time to time but not so much anymore; I chalk that up to my stomach muscles getting more toned. They can simply take more nowadays. Grins.

You couldn’t beat the goofy out of her even if you tried. She’s the kind that will put out her palm and exclaim,

“STOP… Vanilla time!
“U can’t spank this!”

All the while doing the MC Hammer shuffle.

All you dominants with submissives who like to brat around on occasion, remember that image and it really won’t seems so bad.

I remember a moment with GentleSpirit being her delightful bratty self like it was yesterday. It’s a 4-hour long drive from Las Vegas to Los Angeles (if I’m driving; if she’s driving it’s a 3-hour drive!) and you have to find things to entertain yourself with. Last time we made the trek she was bored and on her period and was quite the handful all the way back.

Less than an hour from our destination, she got impatient when I didn’t immediately respond to something she said and all of a sudden I felt a knocking on my head.

“Hello? McFly? Anybody in there?”

Without taking my eyes off the road, I flung out my right arm across her chest and found her right nipple and tweaked it hard. A surprised yelp and squeal later, I had almost a whole minute of blessed silence. After that, she was much more soft and pliant.

Or “calm and submissive,” as Cesar Millan, Dog Whisperer calls it.

Heh.

The thing is, she likes wearing these padded bras that make it hard to pinch her nipples through them. I have tried many times and she’ll just look me in the eye and smirk as I ineffectually pinch the padding without reaching her nipple. She calls them “armor-bras” and they do a very good job of protecting her incredibly sensitive and tender nipples.

But that moment on the road, when I really needed it, my aim was perfect (even without looking) and I managed to get hold of the nipple through all that padding.

Bullseye.

“I’ve had quite a bit of alcohol tonight, so I don’t think I can come,” I mumbled while weaving my fingers into her long, thick, black hair.

“That’s okay,” she responded, “I just love the feel of you in my mouth. I really want to taste you.”

The room was pitch-black but I could hear the smile in her voice. I have come to associate that inflection in her voice with a shy smile and a twinkle in those green eyes. She really wanted me in her mouth.

We had stumbled to bed at her place after visiting with friends and finishing a few bottles of unfamiliar but quite tasty Cabernet Sauvignon. I was sleepy from the alcohol but I’ll be darned if I turn down cock worship so graciously offered.

I simply didn’t want her to feel disappointed if I didn’t come, so with my alcohol-related disclaimer in place, I pulled her face to mine by her hair and said, “Alright, but no pressure,” and kissed her in the darkness.

“No pressure,” she echoed and scooted down while flinging the comforter off me and made herself comfortable over my limp cock.

A few, tentative licks as a greeting, and then I was engulfed in gentle, heavenly softness, as if whispering, Come in. Deeper. Just let go. Relax and enjoy yourself.

No pressure.

No pressure, indeed. Even the sloppiest cunt will offer at least token resistance, and when I take her ass with no lubrication there is quite a bit of resistance, but her mouth offers no resistance whatsoever. There is nothing to do, nothing to accomplish; there is just this instant sensation of being engulfed, cradled. It is such a loving, inviting, intimate, nurturing feeling being lost inside her.

I love her mouth. Truly and completely. I remember that, in the beginning of our relationship, it felt like sticking my dick into a spool of barbed wire. Those teeth were everywhere. I remember thinking, Goodness gracious, the first time her teeth made my dick burn.

Ed’s note: “goodness gracious” is in this case employed as what’s called “a euphemism” and was not the actual phrase that went through my head.

I would hiss, “Teeth! Watch the teeth!” to her and she’d blush prettily. Not that I made the job easy for her. I remember one time early on when I was in her mouth and I was spanking her at the same time. Those little razor-sharp teeth would chomp down on me with my blows and I would grit out through my teeth, “Continue.”

Heh, she actually mentioned it in passing here, not realizing that the coldness in my voice was in part due to my own suffering for my art:

…whimpering around your cock as I tried to wiggle away from the sting of your hand crashing down on my ass one after the other. You grabbing me around the waist and forcing me to accept each blow as you coldly ordered, “CONTINUE.”

And as time went by, I would give her some hints in the interest of self-preservation and the longevity of my appendage and—I’ll be darned—that girl learns quickly.

Incredibly quickly.

One evening a month later she took me in her mouth and brought me to release. And I don’t know which one of us was more surprised. Long before I met her I had resigned myself to being an almost impossible nut to crack when it came to coming through oral stimulation.

But she did it again the next morning, showing that it wasn’t just a fluke. And she would show it again and again and again in the days and weeks to come.

That day, the girl with the smiling green eyes walked around with my seed on her breath, smug like the cat that had swallowed the proverbial canary. The Cheshire cat had nothing on her that day.

Anyway. Back to last night.

“Good girl,” I heard myself mumbling as I felt her throat opening up to take me in all the way. My hand found her head and petted her silky hair while her tongue danced around my cock deep inside her. My hand on her head made her sink down the last fraction of an inch.

I could feel her lips tense around me in a way that I have come to associate with her smiling and, pulling back bit to breathe for a few seconds, she cooed back, gently vibrating my sensitive glans and making me involuntarily push back in.

I breathed a sigh of relief, grasped her neck and pushed the girl down and held her down, nose and lips mashed to my crotch. Relaxing completely and offering no resistance, she took everything I had to give her into herself.

And I poured my entire being into my girl’s soft, inviting warmth.

Where there’s no pressure.

Where I belong.

This FetLife question reads thusly: As a D-type, how do you process making a consensual, willing partner really, truly suffer? Is there a point at which it becomes clear to you that your partner is in the “hate it zone?” Is this for you a sign to stop? Or is it more like a carrot dangling that says, “Charge! Now’s when the fun really starts!” How do you feel after?

A: With me, there are no hard, fast rules about practically anything. It depends on my mood and her mood whether I consider the “hate it zone” a sign to stop or a sign that the warm-up just ended and that she is fully receptive for the sadist in me to make love to her.

And that’s exactly what it is for us. The moments when GentleSpirit is in so much agony that she can’t even draw a breath to scream, or when her long, black hair is plastered to her face and she can’t even move her arms to cover herself up, or when I muffle her screams with my hand and her little hands shoot up to cover her own mouth over my hand because she cannot stop screaming, that’s when the sadist in me is making love to her.

There are no times when we are more intimate, connected more deeply, and more complete than during (and after) those times. It is making love primally, elementally, with our hearts and our souls, rather than with our minds.

So how do I process making a consensual, willing partner really, truly suffer?

Generally, I rely on my sensitivity to her responses to me, on my empathy with her to guide me. I have no wish to harm her and it is not even really about hurting her; in the end it is about connecting with her, of making love with her. And, yes, of pleasing her too in my own Safe, Sick, and Consensual way; her pleasure may not be immediately obvious while I touch her but it is most definitely there afterwards.

I once said this to a fellow sadist:

I think that might be the golden rule of thumb in assessing success for the likes of us; the lady may question her sanity at the time, but when everything is said and done, she should shyly, or not so shyly, ask when we can do it again. She may be glad that the ordeal is over, but the next day, or the next week, she should be thinking about it, reliving it, feeling her skin tingling for that particular touch, feeling her heart tingling for that particular emotion again.

She is the emotional engine in the relationship. It is through her emotions and her responses and her acceptance of me and my needs that we both draw strength from our relationship. And, believe it or not, my burning touch gives her emotional spa-days vital for her peace of mind and wellbeing.

GentleSpirit once told me:

I know you worry from time to time that I am just suffering through pain, but darling, oh how I crave it. I need it. When we make love, to me it is like a beautiful, delicious Indian spicy spicy curry. It burns, nose is running, eyes watering, tongue on fire, but you can’t stop eating it. You crave that burn. This is how it feels for me. I crave your burn.

But I don’t always process making this beautiful, magnificent woman suffer very well. On occasion after a more intense session I suffer top-drop laced with guilt, for instance. Interestingly enough, it is actually not guilt about what I have done but rather about what I could have done. A pre-emptive guilt about what I learn that I am capable of, if you will, even though I may never go there.

I’m not saying this to make myself sound gnarly; this is a truly frightening feeling for a thinking man, a man who can’t bear the thought of shying away from his own mirror-image in the morning.

It is like the sinking feeling you may feel after avoiding a crash on the freeway more or less by pure luck, when you continue driving unscathed with a clump in your throat but your mind is left at the spot of that close-call, shrinking in the rear view mirror behind you. You find yourself playing nightmare scenarios in your head of what could have been.

It is like being afforded a brief look behind the veil over Dorian Gray’s painting; when I am in that place I feel like I get glimpses of what I truly am and what I really look like and it can be… disconcerting.

That is one of the things I struggle with, no matter how much she assures me that she knows that I am a good man and that I would never harm her. After all, I am not a machine and I am not Superman; when she suffers and spills her tears for me and on me, how can I possibly guarantee that I won’t snap and feed deeper? How can I possibly promise that I will not feed more from her than she can afford to give?

Sigh. Nobody can.

After all, we are dancing on the edge of reason here; the deeper she sinks into the primal and the elemental, the deeper she draws me in as well. Is it reasonable to remain calm and collected and completely in my head while she loses herself for the benefit of us both? Doesn’t she deserve me to make the journey with her? To hold her hand in free-fall rather than dispassionately watching her descend from the safety of the ledge of reason?

I don’t want to push her off the ledge. I want to leap into the void and pull her along with me, holding hands as we descend.

Together.

This is my contribution to the ensuing discussion between dominants in response to the following question posed by GentleSpirit in the “Ask a Dominant Questions” on FetLife.

Q: I have read a lot about Dominants who choose to cut off contact with their submissive for a prolonged (days, week or more) period of time as a punishment. Personally I believe this to be emotionally abusive and cruel and unusual punishment. Are there any circumstances that you feel warrants this type of reaction, and if so, what would those circumstances be?

One of the fundamental things in this, the thing that we do, is the profound and soul-clenching intimacy and closeness and trust that we build together. Isn’t that what it is all about for us dominants? To reach into our submissives’ hearts and souls, to shape their sensations, their experience, their very feelings?

Many moons ago, I was taught, above all else, to leave my submissive better than I found her. That means being a rock for her to hold on to when she’s thrown around in the storm, be it in her life or in her emotions. That means being the one constant thing she can always, always, count on. That means being the steward of everything that she has surrendered to you.

Many say, “to each his own,” and, “everything in this lifestyle is a matter of preference.”

Yes, to each his own, and yes, everything is a matter of preference. But not all preferences should be catered to.

I am a lazy bastard and I do have a preference for skirting unpleasant tasks. And real, effective, constructive punishment, as opposed to the play punishments we all indulge in from time to time, is sincerely hard and sometimes unpleasant work.

Yes, it’s hard. Being a dominant is hard. Make no mistake about that; if it isn’t hard, you’re doing it wrong.

I’m sure that most of us can understand the occasional temptation to sometimes take the easy way out and impose a punishment that requires nothing from us. I know of dominants that view it as a vacation, even!

But a fundamental responsibility for us, the dominants in our relationships, is to exercise judgment and to do The Right Thing even if it might go against our own preferences. It is our privilege to use our submissives but we are also called on to sacrifice when necessary. And the hardest part is that there is no arbiter telling us when to do so; we need to figure that one out for ourselves.

Is cutting off contact really The Right Thing to do? Ever?

Cutting off contact for prolonged periods of time is detrimental to the submissive at a point in time when she needs leadership the most. Our submissives deserve to know, and much more importantly, need to know that we are not only their dominants on sunny days but especially during those rainy days when it may not be that much fun being the dominant in the relationship. How else can they ever feel safe with us? To feel safe enough to surrender everything?

Punishment without the purpose of promoting desired behavior is simply revenge. I wouldn’t treat my dog like that, much less a beautiful, vibrant, complex, magnificent woman.

The relationships we foster are stronger, closer, more intimate than the ones we see in the vanilla world. They don’t get there without both partners being present in it and for each other. As dominants, it behooves us to know our submissives better than they know themselves; how can we truly know them if we remove ourselves from entire aspects of them?

I was just re-reading It’s No Longer Complicated: Series Finale and my final closing words on that post were, “We will be resuming regular programming shortly.”

I honestly thought that I would be able to move on, to move through the loss I felt—am feeling—after Thea’s loss in the battle with cancer.

I am in fact moving on, or moving ahead, I suppose, but the journey is much bumpier and crooked than I ever anticipated. Looking back, I chuckle grimly at the naïveté of the sentiment of those closing words.

Regular programming.

Snort. Indeed.

I feel like I am not doing anything, that I am just standing still, marching on the same spot. And then I remind myself that I am actually doing things.

Since Thea died, I have applied for and been approved for American citizenship; the only thing left is the actual swearing in, which will happen within a few months now.

I have also, with tireless help from GentleSpirit, left Las Vegas, Nevada, for the calm, balmy weather of Irvine, California. I am writing this sitting in my new apartment in the middle of paradise. Well, to a Las Vegas resident of 15 years, any place with grass on the ground and fountains liberally sprinkled out everywhere is paradise. And here you can actually have lunch outside in the middle of summer. That was a novel experience for me. He he.

And yet.

And yet, I sit here in the middle of paradise and I am tired and unenthused and I’d rather sleep than write. And it bothers me.

Sigh. I miss writing.

I used to be good at it, really I did. Writing used to be an escape into a warm, emotional womb that recharged me and made me a better man. And now, even writing these paragraphs feels like pulling teeth.

I really do miss writing.

Where the hell is that regular programming I was talking about?

“Fuck my ass! Hard,” she panted while supporting herself with her little hands on my chest as she was riding me. For a heartbeat I didn’t comprehend what she was saying, all I knew that she was suggesting something that would remove me from the lovely, soft warmth of her cunt.

My eyes snapped open. Fuck her ass? Sure; it was on the agenda for the weekend after all. This weekend was her last as an anal virgin. I had been telling her in no uncertain terms before I arrived that I was going to take her ass.

But I had also told her that I wanted to do it slowly and gently the first time. She was quite surprised of my determination to ease her into it because I am, after all, a sadist.

Or as she likes to call me: Crazy Meanie.

“Are you sure?” I asked, surprise probably leaking through in my tone. I remember reaching up with my hand but I can’t remember if I grasped her throat or her nipples.

I wasn’t so sure, myself, at that moment. I had already told her what to expect, that I would be gentle the first time. I didn’t want her to later on feel like I didn’t stick to my word. Especially considering how painful it would be for her. What if I turned her off on anal sex because of it?

“Yes,” she panted and looked at me, eyes blazing with determination, almost as if to challenge me.

Taking her virginity gently did indeed seem to go against my grain and, frankly, I was almost as surprised as her that I would forgo an excellent opportunity to tear into her. Still, I had even prepared by bringing a lube syringe to minimize friction.

Don’t ask me what I was thinking; I can’t figure it out, myself. Granted, she was new to erotic pain and I didn’t want to overload her with too many intense sensations at once.

After all, she didn’t even know what it felt like to be taken in the ass and I suppose I didn’t want to muddle that experience with white-hot blinding pain. By doing it gently once or even a few times, she would be able to tell the difference between being fucked in the ass for pleasure and being fucked in the ass for pain.

Thing is, being of my particular bent, I don’t do the former. In fact, in the past, even though I never shied away from anal sex, I never understood the purpose of it and thus only did it on the lady’s request. Pussy simply feels better; it’s lubricated and I like the texture of it a lot more.

And of course, there is less logistics surrounding using her pussy; as soon as you’re done draining yourself into it, you can grab the lady by her hair and make her clean up after herself with her mouth, like the good little slut she is. You can’t do that if you have been in her ass.

I pushed myself into her pussy a couple of times from below. I was not at all sure that I wanted to leave that clingy warmth. I could hear a growl in the distant recesses of my mind; I belong buried in that cunt and I didn’t want to emerge.

“Yes,” she moaned again, this time with her eyes closed and her face raised to the ceiling and I believed her. She wanted this.

The temptation of taking her virginity in my own way, without worrying about more than keeping her safe, without worrying about her pleasure whatsoever, proved to be too much for me. The need to tear into her, to take her, to push down her head and make her stay put while I used her, firmly took hold of me.

Screw sticking to the plan, I thought. I mentally chuckled at my use of the word “screw.”

“Lay down on your stomach,” I said and pushed her to the side and got out from underneath her. I wasn’t going to be gentle to her in a few seconds and I wouldn’t be gentle getting her in position. This was my show now.

She immediately assumed a deliciously spread doggie-style position instead of laying down on her stomach. Obviously she had played out this scenario in her head ahead of time and this was the way she had imagined it.

Not so tough now; she must be nervous, perhaps even scared, I thought to myself and smiled while running my fingertips lightly over her lower spine.

“No, on your stomach. Legs together.”

I could tell that she was a bit bewildered, trying to figure out how it would work as she silently got into position. Was that a little bit of reluctance I saw in the tentativeness of her motions?

Poor girl… She had made her choice, though. Heh.

Momma Dreamwalker raised her cub to not keep a lady waiting so I mounted my female’s body as her head came to rest on the bed, close to the headboard. I guided my cock in-between her ass-cheeks but didn’t bother with more aiming than that. With enough pushing force, it would find her virgin entrance on its own. And it did just that, as if there was a funnel directing me into her.

Her head snapped up from the bed and a guttural moan escaped her while I sank deeper and deeper into her. I felt small shivers in her arms and legs and I lay down square on top of her, using my body weight to drive myself home.

Oh, man, that felt so good. No lube so there was quite a bit of friction. Just enough friction, though, since I was wet from having been inside her pussy moments ago.

I fucked her deep and hard and with no concern about her comfort or her pleasure. I used her for my own pleasure, encouraged by her whimpers and moans of pain and discomfort. This was her first ass-fuck and I was trying to make her scream in pain.

And she did. And it was like hearing angels sing. She screamed and I could hear the love in her screams of pain. She was doing this for me, to show me that she was worthy of me. She was worried that since she was so new to all this, I might get bored with her.

I wasn’t bored at all. On the contrary; my heart was dancing a sadistic rain-dance in my chest and I had an epiphany as I was driving myself deep into her. I grasped her throat and choked her to silence her and I nuzzled my face close to her ear, her hair tickling my nose.

“I feel like I’m raping you,” I growled/sighed into her ear. She responded by becoming completely limp for a few heartbeats until I resumed stabbing her, raining white-hot sparks of pain over her ass and in her mind.

I really did feel like I was raping her. I knew that she had asked for it but there was no way she could have anticipated what it would actually feel like. You can romanticize pain when you think about it but there is no way you can prepare yourself for this kind of assault. You can either take it or you can’t.

She was taking it.

She was screaming and luckily we had a room in an airport-hotel, so the rooms are extra sound-insulated. She was trashing around but the poor girl’s head was smashed up against the headboard of the bed and she was trapped in a cage of my arms and legs on the sides and she was hooked up on my cock in the rear. There was simply no way out for her.

Her consent was a moot point.

And that was my epiphany; I would not let her get out of it. I was taking what I wanted from my female and she was simply along for the ride. Her body wasn’t hers anymore and I was driving home that point deeply again and again and again.

In my mental state of suspended disbelief, I was raping her. And it fed a dark, hungry hole in my heart. With that thought, my orgasm wasn’t far away.

Then I heard something in the distance through the fog in my mind. Almost imperceptible through the rushing stream of my pulse in my ears, I heard her plead in a little voice to please slow down.

Huh? Slow down? Did she mean More? Harder? Faster? For a few of my rapid breaths, I didn’t comprehend the concept of slowing down. Slow down? What does that mean?

Slow down. I tasted the alien words on my mental tongue.

Oh…

Right.

I slowed down but remained inside her. Nothing would get me to withdraw until I was done with her. Nothing.

Her breath was catching and her eyes staring straight forward into the distance. Little twitches were dancing in her muscles and she felt like a ragdoll beneath me. Her lips were parted and I couldn’t see any evidence of it from my vantage point but I wouldn’t have been surprised to find her drooling.

This was quite an ordeal on her. This beautiful girl, the most gentle soul I know. Shy and tender and warm and loving. Someone who would never take the F-word in her mouth. Yet, her request still rang in my ears; “Fuck my ass! Hard!” I made a mental note to tease her about her foul mouth later…

I dislodged my right hand that I then realized had been alternating between grasping her throat and covering her mouth and gingerly brushed the hair away from her ear. I covered her ear with little kisses and then I whispered into it, “I love you.”

She shivered and I felt a miniscule movement in her hips, tilting her ass up against me for the tiniest fraction of an inch.

Fuck! You can’t expect a poor man to exercise that kind of self-control for long. I drove myself into her and continued taking my pleasure from her, pinning her down with my entire body.

Stay! Good girl.

Little mewling noises came out of her throat and I don’t know to this day if they were from arousal or from pain but it really didn’t matter. I was going for my orgasm inside her ass and there would be no more slowing down. This soft, lovely, beautiful ass was mine and I wouldn’t stop even if the police were pounding on the door. They would simply have to wait outside until I was done with her.

This is what I have come to love about anal sex. I use it as a means to hurt her and it feels so good to me at the same time.

Few people realize it but many things that we sadists do hurt us too. Take a simple hand-spanking, for instance. There is as much force being imparted on your palm and fingers as is delivered to the poor, quivering receiving butt-cheek, but your hand has more nerve-endings per square inch than said cheek.

Or imagine using the violet wand with a body probe and using your own fingertips to direct the charge. Who do you think hurts more? Hint: the fingertips are much more sensitive than anywhere else (except for the obvious) on your body.

Sigh. We sadists do indeed suffer for our art.

But fucking this delectable ass this way is a beautiful exercise in contrasts. I experience her only as soft and warm and receptive; there is no pain involved for me, only pure pleasure.

On the flip-side, though, she experiences me as white-hot blinding pain, invasive and raw and owning and implacable. This is the best of both worlds for me.

Swoon. To a sadist like me, few things are more romantic.

Ahem.

“I’m coming in your ass,” I growled into her ear and she responded with a little squeal. It was a welcoming squeal and I choose to believe that it was because she wanted to feel me pulsing inside her. It could have been welcoming because it meant that I was soon done but somehow I doubt it.

She took it all. My heart was swelling in rhythm with my cock and I was—nay, I am—so proud of her. I had half expected her to try to get out of even the gentle taking of her ass (not that getting out was ever an option) and there she was, beneath me, trapped, overwhelmed and exhausted, having taken so much so early on in her journey.

She is definitely my girl, I remember thinking.

And then I drained myself utterly and completely into her warm body.

Home. I had come home.

Please read my girl’s take on this evening here: http://gentlespirit.dreamwalker.com/those-few-seconds

“Holy mother of God! Take it off! TAKE IT OFF!”

Her thighs clamped shut and she tried to squirm away from me. That did nothing to help with the clover clamp on her clit, though.

I couldn’t help but pretend to not understand what she was wailing about. “What do you mean? Does that hurt?” I grinned.

For a moment I seriously considered pulling it off rather than just releasing it. If you have ever played with a clover clamp, you know what that does; it just clamps on harder, trying to retain its grip.

Still, I had to hand it to her; she didn’t even make a move to remove it herself. Such devoted dedication to her own debauchery and defilement must be rewarded from time to time. So I pried her thighs open and released the clamp gingerly and was rewarded with an even more piercing wail.

“Oops. He he. Forgot to tell you that clamps hurt when they come off too…”

“This is like real torture. Medieval,” she shuddered. Then she fell back to the bed and sighed to the ceiling, “Damn endorphins; where are they?”

You are my treasure and it is important that you know that.

Every aspect of our relationship is founded on the concept of you being my treasure. It speaks to my sense of ownership of you, my sense of entitlement to you, my claim on you, my irresistible urge, right even, to use you at my discretion.

It also speaks to my responsibility to care for you and protect you, my duty to ensure your wellbeing and to meet your needs, my obligation to compel and deny you, to guide you and to lead you to safety.

You are my treasure. It speaks to how important you are to me. It also says that you are mine and that you belong to me. You are not your own anymore. On the other hand, you are not on your own anymore, either.

This is not an equal relationship. I will take from you everything that you have to give. And when you think you have nothing left to give, I will wring even more out of you.

I am arrogant enough to believe that through me taking what I need and want from you, you will find your own satisfaction and have your own needs met. That by belonging to me, by being possessed by me, you will find freedom through peace of mind, freedom to be who you truly are and to drop the mask you wear to protect yourself.

This is not an equal relationship. We are not the same. You belong to me and I belong with you. Yet, we are equally important. You are the treasure and I am its safe-keeper. Your role is to be the source of beauty and nurturing warmth and my role is to enable you to do and be everything you can be for me.

I expect you to submit to me. I recognize that it is something that may be hard for you to do on occasion and I do not consider resistance from you as a negative thing; together we will find the reason for your resistance and work through it. Also, it is more important that you feel free to express truthfully how you feel in every moment.

I expect you to be an eager accomplice in your own debauchery, in your own violation, in your own defilement. I also expect you to be a keen collaborator in the rest of our relationship.

This is not an equal relationship. The concept of fairness has no place here. Instead, we strive for harmony and to meet each other’s needs while acknowledging that our needs are vastly different. You need me to be aggressive and invasive whereas I need you to be responsive and receptive.

I promise to use you and take from you as you care for me and nurture me. I am a sadist and as such, I will hurt you. However, I will not harm you. You will always know that you are pleasing to me because I simply take whatever I need and want from you whenever I need it or want it. I am not giving you the option to decline; you are mine and I will use you at my discretion.

I promise to look out for your wellbeing. I will protect you and keep you safe and never abandon you. I will hurt your body but I will not hurt your heart. I am your home just as you are mine. You are my treasure and you belong to me and I consider you my property. I will not share you and I will not squander what you give me. If, at any point, you feel unsafe with me or feel that I am neglecting your needs (not your wants, however), you must tell me at once and we will figure out how to get back on track together.

I promise to honor all limits that you request me to observe and I have agreed to. Remember that I cannot honor a limit or tread gingerly around a subject unless you explain it to me. Free-flowing communication between you and me is paramount.

I expect you to be honest and forthright with what you think about and what you feel. I will not allow you to keep secrets from me, even those that you may think serve to keep the harmony in our relationship. I am not giving you the autonomy to make that decision.

I promise to learn your mind and your heart and your body and to use that knowledge to torture you and to keep you safe. You will use safewords whenever is appropriate to augment my own sense for your emotional and physical state. Note that the safewords are not yours to do with as you want. I am not giving you permission to stop using those safewords unilaterally, no matter how much you trust me; safewords may only be dispensed with if we both agree to do so.

You are the nurturer and care-taker in our relationship and I expect you to pay attention to my likes and dislikes and proactively make my life easier and more pleasant. Unless you ask me for instructions, I expect you to figure out things for yourself. You are a grown woman and I expect you to use your considerable intelligence and imagination and resourcefulness to become the best girl for me possible.

You are my girl. Now, get to it.

“You’re a… you’re a crazy meanie,” she whined incredulously while protectively clutching her breasts.

And then she giggled, her green eyes sparkling with delight.

She had never been bitten before. She rubbed the side of her neck, looked at me with big, green eyes and said in a little voice, “That hurted. You hurted me…”

And then she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me.

A: Heh, the only sexual goal I ever had in my life was to lose my virginity. I accomplished that at age 15. After that, my only goal has been to make the lady want me again the very next day.

I once said this to a fellow sadist:

I think that might be the golden rule of thumb in assessing success for the likes of us; the lady may question her sanity at the time, but when everything is said and done, she should shyly, or not so shyly, ask when we can do it again. She may be glad that the ordeal is over, but the next day, or the next week, she should be thinking about it, reliving it, feeling her skin tingle for that particular touch, feeling her heart tingle for that particular emotion again. If that is not you successfully taking possession of her, I don’t know what is.

Actually, I believe that I am in fact forming a goal recently, a sexual/relationship goal. I have had occasion to think a lot about it lately.

One day, I will meet a woman that I will want to take total and complete ownership of and who wants to surrender herself to me as… property, for lack of a better term.

I speak a little about the background to that in my piece Violence in the Garden by Polly Peachum. I was exploring the concept in depth with a young lady a while ago and also the possibilities of emotional sadism in erotic humiliation and degradation. The latter (humiliation and degradation of someone you love) was a real eye-opener for me because I have always been vocal about my strong opposition of the concept.

What can I say? If I learn new facts about something and that causes me to reevaluate my position on things, I have no problem changing my mind publically. I won’t stick to old opinions just because I’m worried about what people may think about me. I’m more worried about being right than appearing right.

To me as a sadist, the holy grail is not her total submission but her ultimate surrender. It is to take away her ability to say “stop” or “no.” Or rather, to create an emotional context in which where everything she says is advisory only and not imperative. To where her saying “no” or “stop” or fighting me are only indicators of her emotional state, nothing more. To where she is utterly and completely at my mercy. To where her submission is immaterial because she is my belonging.

I wrote this to my friend Swarm a while ago when she asked about the term TPE (Total Power Exchange):

Some people throw around the master/slave labels left and right and seemingly too frivolously in my mind. Of course, whatever rocks your boat is fine by me, but to me, a slave is property and it’s a relationship that is stronger and more permanent than marriage. If she gives herself to you as property, she is indeed that. Property as a cherished treasure, but still property. Whatever she has is yours, whatever she is, is yours; she may be higher on the property-chain and you may cherish her but she belongs to you.

A TPE can go outside the “normal” d/s dynamic, in that a dom or a sadist can very well be a slave, or property. Their submission is immaterial because they aren’t given the choice to submit. Of course, most people don’t subscribe to the idealized definitions of slave/property and/or choose to deal with it in a more playful way. After all, you can’t legally own anyone, so a slave can just walk out the door, or call the police, and the house of cards comes tumbling down.

Still, there’s a lot to be said for suspension of disbelief. If there is enough trust going both ways, people can indeed create a bubble of pure owner/property dynamic that will weather even serious relationship problems.

I am still very much working on a framework that will work with and for me in this respect. I am not a “master” or a “dom” so I am coming from a different emotional space. The demon in me is more likely to look at her as a sacrifice, as something to feed on, as a toy for amusement, rather than a servant or a slave or outright property.

Last year, I said this to the same fellow sadist from earlier when we were talking about choking in particular:

Inviting suspension of disbelief is not cheating, my friend. Reality is subjective and as such it is malleable and subject to interpretation. Reality is what happens in your mind and at the moment of blacking out, her reality is that you have control of her breathing, of life itself.

And it is that much more magical when you yourself “forget” that you cannot possibly hold her and surrender to the joint reality that you are creating in the moment. It is within that cocoon of designer-reality that both of you connect and experience each other. It is within that cocoon that your relationship exists at that moment and that is all that counts, after all.

Imagine her experience the moments before she blacks out. It is a way to quiet her mind, a vehicle to quiet the buzzing of thoughts and ideas swarming inside her awareness. That quieting is the moment of focus, the moment between heartbeats that the athlete waits for to make the jump, the moment of clarity that allows her to step on the bridge of suspended disbelief and to make it safely from here to there.

And you are there, making it happen for her. Through the intellectual blindfold of  submission, of relinquishing all control, her awareness descends into the darkness of her emotional womb and she finds parts of herself that are warmer, more primal, more feminine, even.

Can it get better than that?

While I believe that deity is irrelevant, I like the metaphors of a feminine force and a corresponding masculine force intertwining and apparent in day-to-day activities and people.

We all have a mixture of the elemental feminine and the elemental masculine in us, and we all express that mixture differently. Most women are endowed with more of the elemental feminine and most men are endowed with more of the elemental masculine.

When a man and a woman interact, in any capacity, there is an interaction between the elemental feminine and the elemental masculine.

Yes, this is all hetero-centric, but I am heterosexual so this is what’s going on inside my head.

The elemental feminine permeates everyone and everything with a nurturing, nourishing glow, whereas the elemental masculine pierces through to stir the feminine and to transform it. The elemental feminine is vast and soft and intangible and it relishes the tangibility, the defined-ness of the masculine to shape itself around it, to feel it, to focus on it. Conversely, the elemental masculine relishes the softness and the restful warmth of the feminine.

All in all, that belief system is ripe with sexual concepts and metaphors and that is right and proper because it is all about sex after all. We have been males and females long before we became humans.

Most people say that they are human first, and men and women second. I say that we are males and females first, and humans second.

You should never, and can never, ignore or deny the differences between males and females. Neither is better or worth more, but we are certainly different, and I happen to like the way girls are different from me.

Grins.

This is condensed sliver of a part of what I have had evolve in my head. I promise that it would make much more sense if I could convey it better and had much more time. It is definitely well suited for an all-nighter in the dark with a bottle of wine or two, my favorite way of connecting mentally and emotionally.

I have been thinking that I wanted to write a book about it, named “The Elemental Connection,” hence me buying the elementalconnection.com url. It would speak on relationships.

I have no degree to lend it authority, but it would not be authoritarian, nor would it be spiritual per se. It would also not be a self-help book offering 10 steps to make your relationship better.

It would be a book about art, about seeing your world through poetic and lyrical metaphors and then view and experience the relationship between men and women using that approach.

No answers because there are none, only observations of the beauty of the fact that the male/female distinction is much more fundamental and profound than we tend to give it credit for.

I don’t even know what format it would be in. Sometimes I wonder if I should make it into a dialog, like Richard Back’s Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah. I tend to become too preachy when just trying to convey a topic in a lectural way. We’ll see…

The more I think about it, the more I keep thinking that the elemental connection is an approach to life and relationships that invites tools and practices found in BDSM to promote connection and intimacy, but is much more.

I know that there are many others that find BDSM in itself shallow and too focused on sex and to little focused on making love, connection and intimacy. To me, hurting you is making love; I cannot explain it any better than that. But  I can be very tender and loving too.

This all is still fermenting and percolating in my brain. Someday I might actually establish something that gives people an alternative to plain old vanilla BDSM. Something affirming, warm, and loving. Something that acknowledges the immense power in our women without resorting to goddess worship.

I once participated in a Tantric workshop that was heavy on goddess worship, and while I enjoyed many of the concepts brought forth, worshipping the goddess did not really sit right with me somehow.

It felt more right to think of it as cherishing the goddess, that instead of putting women on pedestals, to take them into my arms and my hands and treasuring them.

Swarm said this when I told her about participating in a year-long program to become a certified mentor in BDSM: “they just don’t know what they’re messing with, do they? You would create Tops like no one has ever seen. The way that you touch women is unique. I wonder if that will extend to men…”

I don’t know if it will indeed extend to men, but the primary reason I entered this program was just that. I’ll just have to find out if I can reach my brothers. I feel like I have something to share, something to contribute, and I know that when my rotation comes up, my topic will be in the lines of the elemental connection between the male and the female.

Heh; imagine how disappointing when all the other mentors do fun stuff like teaching you canes and fire play and whips, and then you get stuck with Dreamwalker and you’re forced to write poetry and your homework consists of listening to your lover’s heartbeat and shit like that…

I’m such a fucking girl.

Ah, well…

Another thing that keeps popping up in my head is the term “Dreamwalker House.” There are enough of us out there that live in the outskirts of the BDSM lifestyle but still feel like outsiders because we are more interested in the emotional than toys and fashion. (And lists, he he.)

One day, there might be a Dreamwalker House, a tangible place or an abstract concept or something that offers an alternative built on beauty and intimacy and empathy and connection. And, yes, fisting and erotic pain and surrender.

Heh.

What it will look like, I have no idea of. My subconscious is still percolating on that one. All I know is that I feel strongly about it.