The Stranger

Trigger warning: this story mentions rape.

In general, she didn’t reply to messages from strangers of the kind that he'd sent to her. And, to be honest, she had no idea what made her reply this time. Boredom? The lack of sexual excitement that has been permeating her life recently? An appetite for trying something new?

It was not like his message was anything original. 

“Hi, I find your profile intriguing and I will be visiting your city soon. Would you like to meet for a coffee or a drink?”

His profile was not that original either. He did seem like a successful dominant looking at the level of attractiveness of women in his pictures, and how willing they were to be used by him. But then, the pictures could always be fake. And even if not, that did not mean that he was the right person to dominate her. He did claim to like intelligent women which was a good thing. But then again, in the Western societies of the current times who doesn’t claim that?

There was nothing particularly special about him and yet still, she responded to his inquiry, positively. 

She didn’t want to know much about him before they would meet. In fact, she didn’t believe that it is possible to get a feeling of someone through an online conversation. So, she simply proposed for them to meet for a drink once he arrives in her city. She was generous, not having spent that much time lately on men and relationships, she decided to risk it.

He suggested meeting in a bar of his hotel at ten in the evening. It was quite a straightforward proposal and quite an expensive hotel. He definitely didn’t seem to feel like he needed to play games with her. And he was right. She loved playing games but not of this type. Keeping up the appearances of not being interested was not her strong point. It required a will to be on top that she didn’t possess in the slightest. At least not when it came to men and sex.

For their meeting, she decided to wear one of her favourite dresses, made of soft velvet in subdued colours, and high heeled lacquered shoes in a hue of young cherries. The dress was quite long, finishing a couple of centimetres below the knee and had no cleavage in front, the fabric ending right at the bottom of the neck. The design was loose and did not accentuate her athletic yet feminine body, but on the back, there was a long v-shaped opening which was almost reaching her waist. She did not wear a bra and an attentive eye could notice the sight of roundness of her big ripe breast in the opening under the right armpit. The dress was not obviously sexy. In fact, it was rather uninviting, hiding more than it was revealing. At the same time, what it was showing and how it was doing it could be deliciously stimulating to a person who cared to look beyond the obvious. She was curious if he was the kind of person who did. 

Traveling to his hotel she was daydreaming (or evening-dreaming, to be precise) about what was going to happen to her. The soundtrack of her journey (from one of her favourite movies with a delicious final scene of rejection where the main character, dressed up and fabulous, waits for hours in a restaurant for her long lost love who has contacted her recently to meet. In the last scene, she is sitting in the restaurant, ordering one aperitif after another, hoping to consume the main course accompanied by him. In vain.) made her fantasize of rejection. What if he didn’t show up? She took a leap of faith and agreed to his bold proposal of meeting so late at his hotel. She made all that effort dressing up way over the top according to the standards of her city and clearly showing her interest. What if this was the only thing that he wanted?

She had heard stories like that. Stories of call girls wasting their time, going to see clients who never showed up. They expected them to get off on seeing them arriving at the place. Those guys did not actually want to fuck them. They wanted to play at their expense. And maybe even punish them for whatever they felt like they should be punished.

She was not a call girl but at that moment she was close to feeling like one. And she liked the feeling. She liked to imagine herself selling her body for money. She felt like it would be the right way for her to make a living. She even investigated the technicalities of this line of work (that is how she heard the stories) but after hearing how much time and effort she would have to put into it, she decided that it was too much of investment simply to have her desires of being used fulfilled. There were other, less laborious, ways to achieve it. One of them was meeting the stranger tonight.

So, what if he didn’t show up in the end? Or what if he did but did not reveal himself to her? He did know how she looked but she didn’t. In his profile, he did not show his face and she did not ask for a picture. She liked the mystery. And in fact, she did not care much for looks in men. At least not when they were separated from their personality. The looks themselves could not tell her anything about the traits that she was interested in, intelligence, cunning, slight coldness, and reservation. She loved men who had an aura of effortless power around them. Men who were followed not because they were demanding it but simply because it was impossible not to follow them. And that you could not see in a picture. A man like that, however, would not fulfill the scenario of rejection that her imagination was right now presenting to her.

In this scenario, she walks into the lobby of the hotel. The rhythmical noise of her out-of-place shoes turns the eyes of most people in the room on her. She looks ridiculously overdressed for this place. It is an expensive hotel but, in her city, people treat carelessness in appearance as a badge of honour. The fact that you look like you don’t care is an expression of being able to afford it. She takes off her coat and jacket, revealing the dress that she described so well to him. With that, she exposes herself even more to the judgmental eyes of the guests of the hotel in the hope that he will recognize her. She checks her phone but there are no messages. She sends him a text saying that she has arrived. A waiter approaches her and asks if she needs help. She says that she came here to meet someone. He advises to look around but at the same time mentions that he can’t recall anyone sitting alone at the bar. 

“How does he know that she is meeting just one person? Does he think that she is a whore?” she wonders.

She sits at a low table near the entrance and sends him another message stating her exact location. She feels nervous and exposed. Nobody is intentionally looking at her but she can feel their eyes on her back. Minutes pass. He stays absent and silent. She looks around but does not see anyone who would pass for her image of the stranger of tonight. She begins to feel rejected, betrayed. She starts to doubt whether he is going to show up at all. Maybe he is hiding somewhere in this room, observing her. If that is the case, he is probably having an exquisitely entertaining night. Maybe that is his thing? Maybe he has had so many women already that he does not care anymore for fucking them? Maybe he developed a more refined taste for using people? Not through the power of his muscles or even his brain but through his absence? Maybe what gives him his power trip is the fact that women show up for him? The recognition that they are his? That he could use them? But he won’t. Denying them even that, basking in their anxious presence while staying powerfully absent.

She waits at the bar for about an hour, and, after drinking one drink she had to pay for herself, she leaves. She hopes that he’s gotten what he was looking for. That it was some kind of sick game of his. This thought makes her feel fulfilled. She likes to be played. And this might have been one of the most sophisticated plays that have even been performed at her expense.

Imagining this scenario made her excited and also conscious that no matter how the night is going to turn out, she would, one way or another, enjoy it. But then she began to wonder if there is an outcome that would be even worse than the one she had just imagined. What could be the worst to happen? (Apart from being raped and murdered which, as much as sexually somewhat arousing for her, was not a kind of fantasy she hoped to fulfill. Nor was she finding it particularly plausible. Even though she could not deny that the inability to absolutely exclude it from the range of possibilities was slightly adding to her excitement). And then, she realised what would be worse from him not showing up - him turning out to be a complete jerk. 

From the scraps that she had gathered about his line of career and his lifestyle, it was quite possible. He must have had something to do with business, money, and power, and although these traits in the D/s context are somewhat appealing, the people who are attracted to them in real life are often not the kind of people with whom she could connect. So what if it turns out that he is a rich senseless overachiever, caring only about his money and prestige, and able only to talk about his investments? What if he is brainwashed by capitalism, has no interests or opinions of his own, and is overconfident in an annoying (and deeply insecure) way?

“Now that,” she thought, “would be a real treat.”

Since her first BDSM experience, she had been fantasizing about being given away to another man by her owner (and even though at the moment she did not have an official owner, she was still fantasizing about it, the fantasy was about being given away and not the person performing the act). Why these fantasies felt so appealing to her was that they would give her a way to be fucked by people she did not willingly would get fucked by. The decision would not be up to her. And actually, being fucked by the people she did not want to be fucked by was exactly what she was so turned on by.

Like that time when she was tied up and blindfolded at a party and her partner allowed the other participants to touch and play with her. Before it had happened, she flirted with two guys, one of them turned out to be an obnoxious overconfident brute and the other was sweet, intelligent, and very interesting. During the play, immobile and blindfolded, she felt the touch of man’s hands on her breasts and a soft voice in her ear saying “It’s me,” which was supposed, she figured, to be reassuring (in her experience, people when presented with an opportunity to use her in any way they wanted tended to be overly careful and extremely unimaginative). She did not know, however, which ‘me’ it was, the brute or the sweet guy? And to her dismay, the thought of the ‘me’ being the brute was infinitely more arousing.

So she began to wonder whether she would be able to force herself to be used by someone she did not wish to be used by without being ordered to by someone else… It was an exciting possibility, the fulfillment of her darkest desires. Unfortunately, taking into account how bad she was at acting, it was highly unlikely. Yet, she could still entertain the thought.

She imagined hating him the moment they crossed their eyes, and not showing it. She imagined a conversation in which, in her head, she was countering his every word while on the outside smiling and giving him an impression of drinking the words from his mouth. She imagined him hinting at leaving the bar and continuing the evening in his room and her obediently swallowing his bait while her insides were screaming: “Get out of here!” She imagined following him in the hotel corridor. She imagined entering the room, being ordered to undress, and doing it obediently. She imagined hoping that he will take the lead and be forceful because she was not sure if she would be able to allow him to fuck her without force. She imagined him stepping up his game at least in that regard and entering her confidently and swiftly. She imagined closing her eyes and allowing her mind to drift away. She imagined him getting off on her, unconscious of the fact that she is not in the slightest enjoying what he is doing, or rather, enjoying the hilt all the ways in which he was unknowingly abusing her. She imagined her fake screams and moans. She imagined herself observing her body being plundered by a dissenter who did not deserve it in the slightest. She imagined him thinking that he does. She imagined her hating herself for allowing him to once more perpetuate the lies about his dominant masculinity that he tells himself. She imagined despising herself for being a cause of his complacent smile. 

And she loved everything about those images.

Finally, she arrived at the hotel. He was waiting for her in the lobby and turned out to be nothing of the kind she imagined him to be. Despite that, she allowed herself to be raped by him that night.

The unvoiced truth of your touch

Disclaimer: this is a highly personal post in which I talk about how I want to be treated. By no means, it is an opinion on how a Dominant should treat a submissive. Nor is it a critique of service tops in general. It is simply an account of my feelings in certain situations.

It’s unbelievable how much I can read from the way I am being touched by someone. How many unspoken desires and motifs can spring from under the tips of their fingers. How subtle but at the same clear those unuttered truths are.

Your touch can tell me everything about your desire for me. No matter how rough or reckless your gestures seem to be, it is very easy to read between them and see how much you actually want me. How your touch often might seem objectifying, but what it really screams is “I want you. I am dying to have you.” 

There are people who can beat you up in pulp and each of their powerful strikes reads like an insecure question: “Do you like it?” And there are people who can stroke your cheek gently and what you read them saying is “You’re mine and I will do whatever the fuck I want with you. And it won't be pleasant.”

The second type is what I fall for.

So don't think that you can fool me with your violent pose. I can see how you are trying to read if your actions are pleasurable to me if this is the way I want to be treated. It is clear that you are looking for the signs of enjoyment in me, that you are drinking greedily from the cup of my contentment. 

Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing bad in wanting to please your partner. I don’t condemn you for wanting to give me the pleasure that I expressed my desire for. Your tender violence could be exactly what I need. By fulfilling my desire to be dominated, you could be giving me precisely what I want. 

And maybe sometimes you even do... But what I am certain about, is that by treating me this way, you will never make me yours. The moment I feel that you want me, I know that you’ve lost me. You handed the power over to me, no matter how much we want to pretend otherwise.

Being desired means holding the reins. If someone wants you, they will do anything to get you. They will do all the things that they know you want them to do to you. They will violate and hurt you. They will make you crawl on your knees and they will humiliate you. They will beat you up and make you beg to stop. But if underlying all this is their desire to please you, it becomes meaningless. An empty theatre of Dominance and submission. 

If this is the case, I can feel that all the things that are done to me happen only because I want it. One word from me and it would all stop and my Dominant would be at my feet. I stop being violated and start being served, in a twisted kind of way. And the thought of being served by my Dominant makes me cringe. Being served kills the sacrifice.

I love making sacrifices for the people I admire. I love to feel that I am serving them. I love to feel like I am giving up something for their pleasure. Sacrifice is one of my biggest fetishes. And what is the point of a sacrifice if it is not needed? 

When I feel like you are mine without any effort on my side, just because of the sheer fact of my existence, then I lose my appetite entirely. And I stop wanting to give you what you desire. 

Myself.

Even more so, I begin to wish to punish you for your weakness of falling for my whims. I start to torture you using your neediness. The door closes. By trying to win me over, you lose me irreversibly. 

I know that it is kind of cruel on my side. I know that I can be ruthless in my desire to be used and violated. I demand of my partners to truly disregard my needs. I demand of them to take pleasure in my real misery. I don’t want us to act like I am their property, I want to be their property. With everything that comes with it. 

It is a great responsibility because what is and isn’t too much for me becomes their decision. They need to decide how far we can go, without endangering my physical and emotional safety to an undesired level. I require them to know something impossible to know, that only I could know. I require them to know and state my limits. 

I would like to believe that what I desire is not a complete madness. That there are limits to the sacrifices that I will make. That I will see and voice those limits when they truly are unbreachable. 

I will never know until I get there, though. 

What I do know, is that being wanted makes me cold and cruel. Your avid and passionate touch turns me into stone. Your need to please me makes me indifferent and withdrawn.

I know that it's unfair and probably unhealthy. Especially, because I do not want my partners to truly not care about me. My desire is not to be a victim of abuse. But what I do want, is for your touch to show not even the slightest sign of worship. I want you to grab and grope me as your trophy and not as a precious gift. I want you to use me for your pleasure and disregard mine. I want you to demand sacrifices of me and make no concessions for my sake.

Only then, will I yield under your touch. Only then, will I relax into submission. And only then, will I feel truly recognised and appreciated for who I am. 

An object. A possession. A toy.

Sometimes, I wish that you’d kiss me more

I don't dare to tell you that, because I don't want you to think that I'm greedy (which I am) or ungrateful (which I am not).

I do cherish every single moment when your soft lips touch mine like it's my last moment on Earth. In fact, at that moment, I wish that it was the last one. I wish that I could just stay like that forever, captured in an illusion of us together, loving and tender.

And because I am greedy, I want more of it. I want more taste of that romance, because it feels so, so good when you are soft to me. So good, that I freeze when it happens, afraid that even the slightest of my movements might make you change your mind. Hoping that maybe if I remain still, you won't notice how much pleasure you are giving me, and continue longer.

I think that you know exactly how much your kisses mean to me, though, and that is why you are granting me that privilege so rarely. And I'm glad that you do. I'm glad that it's you who is deciding when and how I am going to receive pleasure from you. And that you are so frugal when rationing it. I'm glad that your mind is so strong and composed when mine is squishy and soft and restless. 

Because if I could, all I would do, would be to kiss you. I would bathe in the taste of your lips day after day after day until I would grow so sick of it that I wouldn't want to taste them ever again and I would lose your kisses forever.

Sometimes, I wish that you'd kiss me more and I'm glad that my wishes are not what guides your choices. I'm glad that you are so relentless in not giving me what I want. I'm glad that my disappointment and desperation is what gives pleasure to you.

Because underneath that layer of neediness and softness, there is the me who needs to prove herself to deserve tenderness. There is the me who only appreciates what requires effort and hardship. The me who needs a constant challenge.   

And I know that it's not easy to be that challenge. 

I can't help but wonder, though, are you treating me this way because you know that scarcity is what I need, even though it's the abundance that I want? Are you catering to my deeper needs, the ones that I wouldn't express, but that actually need fulfilment? Do you want the tenderness and romance as much as I do on the surface, but you're just smarter than to give it to me?

Or… Do you simply not care about me, and are you kind to me from time to time out of pity, just enough to keep me coming back, but not enough to ever satisfy me? Is cruelty all you care about and are your kisses a necessary evil, a prize that I'm granted for 'good' behaviour, and that you generously put up with when you feel that it’s time for it? 

These are the questions that cross my mind when I am getting desperate about the fact that I could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that you've truly deeply kissed me. And when I am thinking about how much I enjoy and admire this fact and how devoted to you it makes me feel.

I hope that I will never learn the answers to these questions because I need them all to be positive. And that's impossible, I know. Or is it? 

It would be impossible, once I've heard the answers, but as long as I don't, I can believe them all to be true. Sometimes, I can believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast. I'm one of those, you know? Like with the Schrödinger's cat, as long as I don't open the box, all the possibilities are equally true and valid. And I need them to be.

Because sometimes, I need to believe that you don't care about me, otherwise the foundations of our dynamic would fall apart. And other times, I need to believe that you do, because otherwise what is between us would be a simple abuse and I would be its naive victim.

The uncertainty is what holds it all together. And even though I often wish it would go away, I know that it's a cowardly wish for safety. And like with the kisses, fulfilling it would take away from me what I really want. 

Sometimes I wish that you'd kiss me more, but I hope that you never will.

Mindsets in which I love to receive pain

I think that I am a weird masochist. If I can be called one at all (to hell with the labels anyway).

I haven’t always been like that. In general, what I like a function of what my partners enjoy. Recently, however, I began to realize that I do also have my own taste for certain things.

My first kinky experience was quite painful and violent and the fact that I enjoyed it left me deeply disturbed and confused (a ‘decent’ girl should not enjoy being spanked and fucked until her ass turns completely blue and she can’t sit for a week). Then, my first dominant boyfriend was all about humiliation and degradation and we didn’t explore physical pain much. I didn’t feel the need to, either. Enough was going on already. After that, I entered the kink scene and that was the first time when someone pointed out to me that I am masochistic. And it was true, I enjoyed physical pain enormously at that point in time. It was a way of easy release and achieving the intensity that I craved for without investing much emotionally.

That fountain dried up for me though when I started discovering how much pleasure emotional suffering gives me. When I realized the depth, complexity, intensity and ease with which the emotional pain can be given to me by some people, my interest in physical pain deteriorated significantly. I even felt like I am not masochistic anymore. A bruised butt or other parts of my body lost their appeal to me. A bruised soul was what I was looking for.

Recently, I began to appreciate physical pain again, only not in the way that I used to. I am not so much interested in the pure sensual experience of pain anymore, but what its combination with emotional suffering can bring. The circumstances that I enjoy when being hurt are the ones that take away any possible physical pleasure that I could be experiencing from it. They take away the context of pain being a different tool of giving pleasure to a masochist and interchange it with actually being physically and mentally hurt.

Being an object

Receiving pain when you are objectified has a special flavour to it because you can be sure that it is not about you. There are coldness and carelessness to it. You're hurting, but it's not relevant. You could as well not be. Your pain doesn't matter. You're just a toy and you're used for someone's amusement, but your pain is not part of the amusement. It is just your body that is being used for someone else's purposes as if you were a puppet. And if it hurts then too bad for you. Do puppets even feel anyways?

Somehow I love this state because it makes me let go of my own experiences. Let go of myself. Yes, I am being hurt and yes I am in pain, but there is no way to prevent it, as the person who is hurting me doesn't even seem to see what I am experiencing. So better stop fighting against it and just accept it.

I love the mental challenge that accepting it requires of me. Since I don't have the usual supporting power of doing it for my partner to help me go through it, I really have to use all my resources to carry on. Being able to cope with pain like that is a very powerful experience.

A punishment

Punishment is another situation in which pain is not pleasurable to me. The same strokes of the whip can feel very different when they're purely sadistic entertainment and when they are a source of punishment.
When I'm being punished, my head automatically tries to help the person who is punishing me by putting me in a mindset of atonement, making everything more painful and reminding me with every stroke that what I am currently experiencing is an expression of someone's disappointment. And being a disappointment is one of the worst crimes in my eyes.

Since I always want to please, being punished is a painful experience in itself for me. Adding pain to it only intensifies it. That's because at that moment all I dream of is being forgiven and embraced and told that everything is fine and they're not going to leave me behind because of what I did. Receiving pain, when you're waiting to be told that everything is going to be ok, can be quite devastating.

Being not cared about

Pain can also be an expression of someone not caring about me. And I love to feel not being cared about. There are little things hurt more than that.

Being objectified can also be a sign of not caring, but that's not what I'm talking about here. Here, I want my partners to see and recognize what I feel, but not care about it. For example, when they beat me way harder than I might find enjoyable, just because they feel like it, knowing that they are causing me a lot of pain and showing me that their entertainment is more important than my suffering. Again, it's a sign that what they're doing to me is not about me, which is exactly what I want.

Outside of kink the fact that someone gives another pain is often a sign of them not caring about the other person unless it is a necessary evil for your own good. Within the realm of kink, this reasoning is twisted as giving pain to a masochist can actually be a sign of love, of recognizing and catering to someone's needs. But since for me, the last thing that I want from my partners is for my needs to be recognized and catered for (at least in play), I often bring myself to the 'real world' mindset, where I don't want to experience pain and the fact that they are still giving it to me is a sign of not caring, of doing what they want without considering how I feel about it. At least, I want to believe that this is the case.

Being a recipient of anger

Being hurt by someone who appears to be angry is yet another flavour that I love. It makes one feel so panicky and abused. There is some carelessness there, but it's mixed with fear and violence. They might be careless, but not because they don't care whether they hurt you or how you feel. Here they actually actively want to hurt you. Their carelessness comes from a deliberate loss of control (or at least it looks like it).

I love how terrified it makes me feel to think that not only am I out of control but my torturer as well. It gives me a feeling of being in the power of an uncontrolled natural force, unstoppable and deadly. It awakens lots of primal fears and makes me freeze with terror.

An additional aspect is added to it if the person who is angry and violent with me is someone who I care about. Someone who I wish would be kind and loving but instead is using me as their punching bag. It makes me feel lost, confused, and hurt, and wishing it all to stop. It gives me a feeling of betrayal because I thought that I knew them but I find out that they are not who I thought they were (especially when it's something unexpected and played really well).

Humiliation

Physical pain can also be a great tool for humiliation. In general, if you are equal to someone, they will not cross the boundary of physically hurting you (in normal circumstances I mean, not in kink). If someone feels entitled to hurt you and you let them do that, it might be a sign of lowering your status. Especially if it is done in a humiliating way.

To me for example, being spanked with a bare hand or beaten with a belt is somewhat humiliating, as it makes me feel like an insubordinate child. In such a case, the humiliation is often bigger than the pain. Especially if other people are watching it. Having my nipples twisted is also often an act of humiliation to me. It makes me feel so vulnerable and exposed. Another obvious painful form of humiliation is face slapping.

I love the combination of pain and humiliation because the pain somewhat intensifies the humiliation (and to me usually is absorbed by it). It always makes me think about the fact that I am so subdued to the person doing it that I'll allow them to do anything to me. I'll go as low as they want me to. Pain makes me realize that and at the same time makes me feel more helpless in it.

Denial of loving touch

This is a circumstance that I love to go to in my head. Even a slight sign of denial (conscious one and not because of carelessness) of touch or softness makes my mind tremble from a feeling of lack. I start to desperately want what I can't get. Longing for the thing that they're denying me more and more, showing them how much I want it. And giving them more opportunities to deny it even more painfully.

And when someone makes you hungry for their kindness and care and love and then feed you with pain… It hurts. On so many levels. When you long for their touch and the only touch you get is mixed with pain. It makes you so confused and helpless and trapped. You become their prisoner. You begin to long for the pain that they are giving you because it's the only way that you can be close to them. And despite the hurt, you want to be close to them. It is so tragically romantic that I can't get enough of it.

Bein in someone else’s control

Finally, I love when someone is using pain to show me how much I am under their control. Not as a tool of gaining control (in general when I play with people I am under their control already), but rather of executing it. Of showing me how much they can do to me and that I am not going to stop them.

I am not a fighting kind of person, you don't need to use force to overpower me. If I'm there playing with you, I'm already yours. The fact that even though that is the case, you will still hurt me just because you can, makes me truly feel the power that you have over me. It makes me realize that you know exactly how much I have given up and that you are going to use it.

It's both exciting and terrifying. On the one hand, you're fulfilling my desires. Being entirely under the control of someone else is one of the states that I long for. On the other hand though, knowing how much I'm letting my guard down and seeing someone who might actually use it to the limit is scary. Can I really take as much as I think I can?

Being hurt by someone who has complete power over me is so thrilling, again, because the pain that they are giving me is not about me. They are hurting me because that's the experience that they want to give me. And I know that because it's for them, I will suck it up and go way further than I find pleasurable. I won't say stop when it gets hard to take. I will let them bring me just on the brink of breaking. And that's the place where I love to be.

So I guess that what I actually want is to be hurt in a way that my partners want to hurt me and not on my terms. I don't want them to use the pain for my pleasure. I want them to really use it to hurt me. I can also recognize how much physical pain can enhance and alter emotional suffering. How it can add to the intensity and bring me to a state of terror or nervous breakdown that is hard to achieve otherwise.

So please, do hurt me. Use the pain against me. Just don't make me feel for a moment that what you are doing is about me.

I have a thing for rejection

The moments when he points my head away from him, denying me his sight, when he reaches out to touch my face but in the last moment he slaps me instead. The moments when he pushes my body away with his foot like it's something disgusting that doesn't deserve to be touched with hands...

... are the moments that I am waiting for.

I so long to be rejected... In fact, almost everything I do in play is asking “Please, push me away.” I make myself so vulnerable, so eager, so subjugated, so needy that it is almost inevitable that I will be rejected. Who would want a despicable half-human like that? Who would give such a creature what it wants, when it clearly has no power to claim it? Why should one be kind to it, when one can be mean with no repercussions? I try to make it as easy as possible for others to stop seeing me as a human, in hope that it will make their threshold for cruelty lower.

I have just written, “Why should I give it what it wants?” meaning, "Why should I give it a kind touch?" while a minute earlier I mentioned that what I actually want is rejection. Confusing, huh? Am I playing my dominants? Am I trying to trick them into thinking that I want kindness, while what I really want is to be rejected? Am I topping from the bottom? Am I?!

On some level I do, I think. But it is not deliberate and not fully conscious. In the moment of play, I experience a personality split of sorts. There is a soft part of me that really only wants to be touched gently and simply loved. This needy part is not staged. I really feel that way at the moment it takes over.

There is another part of me, though. This one lets the vulnerable one appear on the surface during play while it's hiding beneath. This is the part of me that longs for rejection. This is me that feeds on the emotional pain of the needy one. This is the cruel me. And in order for the cruel one to be satisfied, the needy one needs to be truly hurt. And it is truly hurt when it’s being rejected.

Because kindness and a soft touch really are all that the needy one wants. It wants the pain to be over, it wants to feel loved. There is no deceit in the needy one. It is like a child. Any emotion that it feels is immediately expressed. It is so vulnerable that the only thing that it can do is to express its needs and hope that the person that it expresses it towards will meet them.

Of course, this is not what the cruel one hopes for. And it is the cruel one who screens the partners that the needy one is going to interact with. She chooses for the ones that she hopes are as cruel as she is. She also interacts with them before the scene, hinting at all the terrible things that she would like to be done to her. And then she hides in the corner to watch.

Recently, I’ve seen someone at a party engaging in a humiliating act, and he was smiling and visibly enjoying it. I don’t think that I ever look like that when I am being humiliated. And it is because the conscious side of me that is experiencing it, is not taking any pleasure in it happening. It will do what you tell it to because it needs you. And it loves you. You are its only hope for receiving what it needs, for feeling loved and nourished. So it will go as low as it gets to get it. Because there is no other way. Because it is too weak to get it by itself. It needs it to be granted to her.

So when you reject me and humiliate me, it is not that I pretend that I don’t want it, while I secretly do. The part that is being rejected really doesn’t want it. It truly is suffering and its heart is truly being broken. There is no pleasure experienced by it.

Who is taking pleasure is the cruel one and it is a kind of ex-post pleasure. During the scene she is just watching and only after that she devours all the pain and suffering that the needy one experienced, tasting and appreciating the craft of the dom who carried out the act.

This is why I think that it takes real cruelty to hurt me. At least to hurt me to the level that I want to be hurt. Because I won’t show you that I am enjoying it at any moment. Because I won’t be enjoying it. Because during the scene my entire body will scream, “Please stop and just hold me. Please, love me.”

But what you need to do is to ignore it and go on. And in order to do that you need to enjoy breaking this little heart. You need to enjoy using my vulnerability against me. You need to want to truly hurt. And you should.

Because trust me, the cruel one will thank you hundredfold for it.

And the needy one will heal. It always does.