Obviously, I like blood. If you’ve read just about any 3-4 posts you’ve likely come to that conclusion. Razors truly are my favorite toys, needles a close second, the bullwhip a distant third. Now, N, who in her grace has found a way to whittle through the crusty outer layer of my temper and thus return to some decent footing within my day-to-day, she prefers blood over say, spanking.

Of course I view it as a fait accompli that she would prefer to spill blood and possibly have a razor thin reminder of the moment for several months - or years, afterward. Usually, it is quite a different story with women. Blood? *horrified gasp* But both she and I tend to view spanking as more of a punishment than sex-inspiring kinkfest. (Occasional slap on the ass before, during or after sex aside.)

I’m not big on the ‘you’ve been a naughty girl and need to be punished’ idea. I think it’s hot, of course, the whole school girl/high school professor comes to mind, not to mention all those teenage boy fantasies I had about those Catholic girls and their knee-high, white socks and patent leather shoes. Sexy, hot, fuck-me boot-wearin’ Nun, hm, Aine? I like the idea of the ‘naughty spanking,’ I just can’t seem to apply it with any measure of seriousness. Straight-faced and holding a paddle because you didn’t have dinner ready for me? Eh. I’ll cook.

The image would likely send N into a fit of laughter. (Holding the paddle, wise-ass, not cooking.)

I do have some caveman-esque ideas in my head, but punishment because something is wrong, isn’t part of my fabric. I process disappointment differently and don’t allow it to surprise me. I always have a contingency plan in the back of my head. I’m a note-scribbling planner, remember?

Despite all of this, I have my moments when I like to pull her over my knee. They tend to be playful taps and usually involve some part of my hand making her squirm for entirely different reasons. I can’t spank her when I’m angry - if I’m in that range of emotion, I don’t bother touching her. It provides me distance and keeps any ‘I can’t believe I did that’ regrets down.

Aside from all of the above, I’ve managed to accrue quite a collection of finer torture devices. Jt’s Stockroom is always a fun and expensive shipment. The double cable slapper, I’ve mentioned it here before, is now a regular member of the ‘D’s bad ass bag of toys.’ I favor leather, dark woods and metal - lots and lots of metal. Stainless steel gets me hard.

Why did all of this come out this evening? Surfing spanking websites, of course. I love to read blogs even if the subject doesn’t always do it for me. Those Catholic school girls? They are still safe, so sadly outside my realistic age range for potential sex partners…but who says I can’t get N to dress up?

I’m rolling up my sleeves, grab your ankles.

Sadism is its own curse.

I say that with no great measure of feeling at the moment, just the conviction I’ve gained after having lived with the beast for years upon years. It isn’t to say I don’t feel at the moment, on the contrary, my entire body hums with energy - an awareness of everything around me. I can pick out the delicate notes that linger in the air, watch the butterfly several stories down without losing even a moments glimpse. Predatorial.

It is an albatross some days. At the moment I’m resigned. I know it is upon me, breaking over me as a wave would break upon rocks. I’ve known it was coming, felt it fill the glass, overflow it, and still I ignored it. Now it has arrived, saturating me. My fingers curl into my palms forming fists of stone as I fight for even a modest decorum. I struggle to be barely civilized.

My world is stained, tainted by the crimson glasses that have blinded me to anything but the desire for pain. I’ll try and protect the ones that mean something - people who don’t deserve or need to really know just how cruelly capable I am. My mind works always, but there are filters, many layers of filters that halt my tongue before I speak. Those are gone now and left is only the purest and harshest version of the truth. Simplicity is the key here. Delivery as sharp as a razor wounds them mortally before they even realize their skin has split. Their masks shred, and they are left with my view, my unfettered opinion. My truth. My reality.

Can you comfort someone who craves the taste of your tears? Can you accept pain so easily, knowing it is delivered with calculated intent? How do you face being stripped, robbed of your self-illusion, the image you thought I might see when I look at you? Do you feel just how much control it takes to tolerate your touch when all I want to do is hurt you? Do you understand how I want to slap your hands away and push your face into the floor and snarl at you like some animal?

How necessary it becomes for me to taste you - like a lion might lick away the lifeblood of a recent kill? I don’t want you dead, I want you afraid. I want your fear. I want your tears and sobs. I want your anger boiled over in indignation that I could do this to you so fucking casually - without hesitation, a pause or even a second thought. I want the chase, the capture, the sensation of bearing you into the Serengeti grass with only my instinct to guide me.

It is an energy that feels like hate, tastes like hate, looks like hate, but never touches with hate. It consumes me, devours you and rages as its power weakens. It is a need that bursts from every pore in my body. A pure, clawing, piercing need pushing out of my body, eating away like a beast inside me. A beast that focuses on you instead of me. Will you sacrifice some part of yourself to feed it?

Can you comfort me? Accept the pain? Can you accept that my mind understands if you leave, but my heart will never forgive you your weakness in turning away when I called for you? Do you call me an animal? Do you call me yours?

Will you bleed for me?

Do you know I bleed for you?

What is the price? Can I afford it? Can you?

My fingers search blindly for you beneath the layers of silken cotton and a thick, brocade-covered blanket of feathers. I can feel the chill in the room that makes the heat of the covers that much more enticing. The sensation of warmth spreads across my skin anew and my mind is as dark as the coffee my body is starting to crave. I growl as I find you, shifting a little closer, my fingers sliding across your hip, around the swell of your belly. Digits curl in slowly, securing you, before I pull you closer and press against your back.

I rake my nails across your stomach just as I let out a slow growl in your ear. I can hear your smile even as my teeth rake the shell of your ear. That you are here is a testament of faith, to trust you, as I do, in my sanctuary, around my things. It is my sanctuary and here we are, swallowed in a sea of creamy cotton.

I scratch the side of your waist and you shy away, giving a soft laugh. You are ticklish. That memory revives itself and my mouth breaks into a smile just before I brush the spot again.

You flinch, and let out a burst of laughter, trying to inch away from me. You are caught. My arm tightens around you and my fingers dig in, drawing a squeal of feminine laughter and the violent kicking of legs. Your hands push at mine in an effort to stop, but the place is found and the sound of your laughter fills the room. I stop and watch you, laughing softly in amusement, delighted at having rediscovered a certain part of you.

The sound of your breathing makes me chuckle and I place a kiss against your mouth before smoothing over the abused spot with my palms. I hear a nervous sound, an almost half laugh that escapes. I blink, lifting my eyebrows. ‘Problem?’

Your grin widens and your hands cover my own. Your touch slides over the backs of my hands lightly. ‘No, babe, not at all.’ Its a lie, but as transparent as the look of seriousness you attempt to slide in place.

I dig in my thumbs a little bit and there is that sound again, followed by the ripple of your body as you fight to keep the laughter from erupting. My nails scratch and you let out a breathy sigh that shudders as you fight to control your breath. Your eyes are sparkling, even in the pre-dawn light. I glance up at the alarm as it goes off and move over you, covering you for a moment while I reach for the annoying little button that will silence that mixed CD that starts to play. ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ seems out of place.

I groan loudly as I settle into the idea that the night is over. The warmth is at an end, the cool air of morning calls for me to go running. I bury my face into your neck and move my stubbled chin against you. Your fingers crawl over my back, followed by the warmth of your arms, the subtle bite of your nails. Your head rolls to one side to give me better access to the slender column of golden flesh. I scrape my teeth across your skin. You groan. I groan.

‘I need to go.’ I say the words against your skin, my palm making small circles on your lower back.

You turn your face into mine, your cheek rubbing against my temple. ‘Nooooo.’ You say the word as you start to stretch, your body stiffening for a moment before melting back into the mattress. You foot rubs against my calf, your leg wrapping around mine. I feel your arms tighten.

I lifted my head, pulling back just a fraction, but still keeping you pressed close. ‘Going to hold me against my will?’

Your answer is to shift, pushing me back against the bed. I release you, laying back against the pillows, my fingers lacing behind my head. You are above me, your thighs hugging my chest. I feel the cool air that enters around us. You pull the blanket over your shoulders and lean down, covering me again. Your breasts press against my chest, your hands pressing my upper arms back further still. Your grin lights the subtle depths of your eyes. ‘Yes, and take advantage of you.’ You press a kiss to my mouth. ‘Over.’ A kiss to my neck, your body shifting slightly lower. ‘And over.’

My fingers tighten on the fabric of the pillow as you slide down, your mouth closing around one of my nipples. It’s difficult to allow you these moments ‘in charge’ and we both know it. Nature wins in the end, my dominant side, your elegant ability to yield - it all melts away into some liquid rush of pleasure and pain. I smile as I feel the scrape of your teeth and the resulting tightening I feel in my cock. I flex my fingers on the pillow, they are sore.

The smile fades when I feel the sharp sting of your bite. I curse your name and glance down at the waterfall of black hair that hides your misdeeds. My hands move to brush your hair away from your face. Your dark eyes stare at me, your tongue tracing the inside of your lower lip. I pull your mouth up to mine and roll you onto your back, my mouth covering yours attempting to consume to the food my body craves. Coffee is forgotten. The run in the crisp morning air is forgotten.

My nails carve out paths of red skin on your back as I press you back into the sheets and the pillowy mattress. My teeth rape the same curve of your lip where your tongue recently lingered. My hands curve around your ass and pull your hips and cunt up to meet the lewd thrust of my cock. Its length slides along the channel of moisture, the head nudging your clit and we both break the union of our lips with a soft gasp. You move and my fingers press against the puckered hole of your ass, the tip of one digit pressing in.

I shift, my teeth moving along the tendon in your shoulder to lightly press, not hurting, but holding you as an animal. It stills your movement and a tremor of energy courses through your body. I feel your fingers weave into my hair and grip, your mouth crying out my name in the tones I secretly crave. I thrust my hips again and drive the shaft along that slick path of skin. Your fingers pull roughly on my hair and then release, your legs twining with mine, restlessly stroking the bottoms of your feet against my legs.

My fingers move around as I slide further down, my mouth closing around your nipple; it is a mirror of your earlier gesture. My tongue laves the tip, the flesh tightening into a firm bud of red. I part the folds of your sex, my fingers brushing along the edges, following the narrow path of course hair. The pads of my fingers brush over your clit, one by one. Your hands have now moved to my back, your body trying to inch down under mine. I look at you, meeting your gaze and then close my teeth around your nipple. It is a harder bite and your back stiffens at the sudden surprise, your body going still.

I move and drive my cock into you with one movement of my hips that leaves us both breathless. My teeth have released your skin in the resulting gasp of sensation. I push slightly and thrust again. Your hips lift to meet mine at the angle we both desire. My fingers curl into your ass to keep you in place. Our bodies slide against each other with no ability to hide just how much we want to devour the other. Your nails curl into my shoulder, your teeth, lips and tongue licking the salt off the skin of my neck.

I push up from the bed and throw the covers off, shocking us both, rewarding our damp skin with cool air. I pull out of you, drawing a sound of want from you, a roll of your hips and your fingers reaching blindly into the air. I swat your hands away, and they retreat as you sit up, propped on your elbow, your eyes wary. ‘D?’

You silence as I walk across the room to the closet, and roll onto your side in that lazy stretch that always invites me back. Your lips curl into a smile as you run your palm down your belly to the juncture of your thighs. You know how to weave your magic, and you do so with authority. I open the door to the closet, you roll onto your tummy and I watch two of your fingers push into your cunt. My cock twitches and I reach on the shelf to pull down one of those white scarves. You’ve changed my plans, but you will never know it. The razors will stay in their bag this morning, less favored in the heated rush to be buried inside you again.

Your face is buried in the mattress, your manicured fingers assaulting your cunt with the expertise of a master. The scarf is crushed in my left hand, my right lightly stroking my cock. A muffled moan comes from your mouth, your body like liquid sex. I come behind you and pull your fingers from you, replacing them with the stiff length of my cock. The fat head pierces you and you push back, impaling yourself even as I push forward. There is a wet slap as our skin comes together. I curse your name again, watch your fingers claw the sheets of my bed.

My hips push, my hands falling on yours, curling in, the scarf licking your thighs and calves. My head rolls back, my eyes blindly looking at the vaulted ceiling. I hear noise that can only be coming from my lips. A thick bead of sweat rolls down my back. I feel the brush of your fingertips on my cock as it sinks into you again. Religious expletives erupt from your lips and bring a smile to mine. There is a rhythm that takes over. The scarf is forgotten as the pressure builds. My nails curl in, making each thrust controlled by my desires. I feel your inner muscles tighten, that magic again assails me. You squeeze me, holding me inside your body. My teeth grit, grinding against one another.

You roll your hips despite my grip and I curse. ‘Bitch.’

The laugh that rolls off your lips is butterscotch that melts over my skin. I shudder. My eyes squeeze shut and I explode, pleasure spilling out of every pore in my body. I push into you and erupt, the seed bursting from my body. My grip eases and your bottom rolls against me, your cunt milking each drop of come from my body. I gasp, my cock thrusting into you still, prolonging the sensation. I hear the sound of the fabric rending and growl loudly as I feel the tightening and sudden release of your body.

The room is filled with the sound of labored breathing. Our bodies moving against one another still. I lean forward and press a kiss to your lower back before I pull from you and sink to my knees. My face rests against the bed. The bed shifts a moment later when you fall to your side, letting out a satisfied sound. The scarf is still in my hands. I push up from the floor only long enough to collapse on the bed. I can feel the pulse of blood in my head. I close my eyes and feel you roll against me a moment later.

‘I win.’

‘You win.’ I reply.

Your lashes beat against my chest for a moment before you lift your head. ‘What was the scarf for?’

I smile. ‘A little light bondage.’

You smirk. ‘Very light.’

‘More important things came up.’

You make an almost lewd purring noise. Your fingers sliding over my belly to grasp the still semi-hard flesh. ‘And went down again.’

My hand covers yours. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘No?’ You make that noise again, pressing a kiss to my chest, your teeth scrapping the same area you assaulted previously.

‘No.’ I sit up, feeling a slight rush of dizziness. Your hand falls away. I move from the bed in slow movements. I feel the tension as it bleeds from my muscles and savor the feeling. ‘I’ve got to go running.’

‘Running.’ You say the word in a flat tone of voice.

I look back at you as I pull on my boxer-briefs. ‘If you are here when I get back, we’ll go have breakfast.’ I run my fingers through my hair. I smell you on my skin. ‘But be prepared for blood afterwards.’

Your secret smile is back, forming slowly on your lips. ‘I’m in the mood for waffles.’

Photo Credit:
Deviant Art - ‘A thorn, to prove a point‘

Oh, I’ve typed a few posts in these days past, but those children never quite drew a second breath. I do get tired of talking about myself somedays, but it is the subject I know well. What are my options? N? Her, yes, I am still quite heartbreakingly pining for some of those moments we had together. It isn’t that I think of her every passing moment, but rather those times when I am presented with something she likes, or would do - a situation that can be uniquely handled by her. Ah hell. I would beat myself up on the playground if I had a third party perspective of me. Wake up, dumb ass.

I seem to be fighting off a cold or allergies at the moment, most likely the result of prolonged exposure to family, weekend partying, or a combination of them both. I make a very poor sick person. I view it rather like a challenge, pushing myself to ignore those symptoms and for the most part, only making them worse. Bastard cubed.

That brings me to the overwhelming restlessness that has plagued me for several days. I should establish a sadistic hotline - Call for all of your bloodletting needs! I’d likely get most of my calls from prison inmates, lonely men looking for answers to their love life, or angsty teenage pricks with vampire fetishes. I guess it will have to wait. Still the urge for controlled violence is almost spilling out of my fingertips. Rough sex isn’t really the right answer either, because no matter how much they ‘like it rough’ it always turns when you break out the razors, knives and whips.

There is no room for me within the life of someone who can’t grasp sadism and its finer points.

My thoughts circle back to N when it comes to this side of my personality. She told me once that it seemed like I only sought her out when this type of violence was riding me. In some measure that is true, at one time it seemed to be the main fabric of our time together - my need for sadism, and her desire to drain it out of me. N doesn’t like pain, she likes the results of pain, the feeling of being drained. I understand it because it is the same for me. It is like finally pouring out the contents of an overflowing glass. Feeling the relief as the pressure drops and peace can consume some part of your day.

Sex just isn’t enough in this state. When the glass is less full, yes, but not now, not when I barely control the finer edges, seal the hairpin cracks. I rub my eyes and I see her, my siren, taunting me. Sharp rocks await, but the desire to go is there…and strong.

…porque en ese minuto te habrás ido tan lejos
que yo cruzaré toda la tierra preguntando
si volverás o si me dejarás muriendo.