I’m sinking into my mood again. Allowing myself, really, to engage the darker, right side of my head. While I am stained with sadism, the right side is, what you might consider, the creative thinker, the one that comes up with nasty ideas to mind-fuck my partner. He is the gun carrier, the needle lover, the brash genius. My left brain envies him, even as it tries to introduce the cool precision of the scalpel.

It may seem like two minds, but they blend and complement each other as well as music written by God and yet, conducted by the Devil.

I roll my head back and rest it against the espresso leather of my club chair, my favorite for it’s unique ability to embrace my frame. I stare at the ceiling and think of a mural so obscene that my company here would have to be select indeed. It would be the sort of sweet perversion that makes you stare before you remember to look away.

My fingers toy idly with my knife, the metallic sound of metal striking metal as the motion swings it briefly open and then shut again. I love this chair, but the urge to drive the knife into the leather and wood is compelling. The knife compliments my hands, my fingers, and whispers to me of pleasures I’ve no right to take. The light around me fades and my mind starts to wander…

It’s the chase, truly, that drives me. I am, in this case, no better than the dog chasing after the car, or the cat chasing the mouse. I want the hunt, the vicious take-down. I want to cut and feel the sticky blood on my fingers, feel my face contort with anger.

I want my fingers in her hair, twisting, pulling, until great quantities snap and break, and strike her until she cries the truly emptying, pitiful sobs of the defeated, resigning herself to what will come. I want her so drained, she can’t assemble thought except that of an animal, seeking to avoid the agony, lessen what she feels.

But I won’t let her hide. After the pain would come the most terrible of truths, the pure artistry of seduction, sex, for that is where my sadism truly finds root - in sexuality. Without this, the first part is wasted, harmful energy expended by a beast. To seduce her, I have to know her, know her secret heart of hearts. To turn her against herself, I have to play her gently, run my fingers along her back, coax awakening in her screaming nerves to receive more than just pain.

My voice, ever-present in her ear even as her body begins to vibrate like a finely tuned instrument. The pain lessens in one area to be brought back sharply in another. Pleasure finds its way like an intruder into her belly. Tears lessen, dried onto her skin in salty paths, or rubbed against my lips which kiss her everywhere but her mouth. I want to hear each delicious cut of breath, each cry, each wordless sound that bears my echo.

When my fingers finally make their way to the crux of her need, I want her body arched like a bow ready to fire an arrow. I want her taut, needing, in spite of, or in lieu of the pain. It doesn’t really matter, it simply is sensation at my hand. It is a fire that I nurture, evident in the nipples that never soften, never quite dry out from the moisture of my mouth.

When I do speak, after this dance where she was the music, I ask her - ‘What do you need?’

There is only one answer on her lips. It echoes in your head now if you followed the steps. So, when I tell her to beg…

You know she does.