My beast. It is the label that I give to the demon inside of me that craves the noise of screams, the scent of fear and the taste of blood. He - and I try my best to keep him distant, somewhat outside of me at most times - he is the one that I work hardest to control. Leashed, always leashed, because I respect him enough to never underestimate him. My sadism is a stain on every part of me, but controlling words I do for a living. Controlling the beast - it is much harder to do when inflicting pain… and it always screaming in my mind for more.

I love the smell of fear, real fear, her fear. It is my beast that loves the scent of it, the rapid thump of a heartbeat, the suspended breath just before the plunge. I know it well, but the lines between me and the beast during those times, become so blurred that we are indistinguishable between one another. The growl that tears from my lips is as involuntary as my next breath. I can feel him just under my skin, stirring, stretching, roaring to life inside of me - twisting my gut, arranging himself inside of me, an animal, recently awakened. Lazily reviewing his surroundings before catching the scent, and immediately ready for the kill, the bloodlust involved in the slaughter.

I use the term symbolically - if you weren’t aware.

Forced consent, or voluntary rape plays into those needs - those cravings when nothing else but a clash of minds, of bodies, will serve. I like her to fight. I like her to resist, scream, struggle against what even she must realize is a foregone conclusion. It is a clash of both our animals - primal, as if she, too, is an animal, resisting so that only the strongest will have her. She will yield. I will see to it that she does - my beast will sink its teeth into her shoulder and the fight will leave her, whether her mind or her body yields first, she will be left the same, hot, wet, wanting…acquiescent.

The sweetness of the reward for both of us makes the fight, the blood, worthwhile. It is sating - the violence like an evanescent vapor that soothes us, leaves us drained, our eyes glazed over as we try our best to catch out breath.

Sometimes it’s a wonder I don’t howl at the moon.