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Description
There is, as I feared, a bit of a sadist in me. What I sought to do with this little experiment was explore a different side to my personality, a side I’ve been hesitant to explore out of fear more than anything else, out of a vague awareness at the sheer panorama of irreversible truth and possibility.
To say my relationship with him is complex would be an understatement. The both of us switch back and forth from dominant to submissive, that I’ve grown more and more confused as to what I really am, or what is expected of me. It isn’t a conscious switch. We don’t just suddenly agree to reverse roles and flip a switch, and it’s done. No. It’s done unconsciously, and neither of us is aware until we’ve reversed back.
The curious thing about it, is that when one of us switches, the other one follows unquestioningly, as if naturally falling in like and balancing out the natural order of things. I’ve often wondered what would happen if one of us did the switch, but the other one, for one reason or another, did not. What would happen exactly? Would our personalities suddenly clash? Would we abhor each other? Not be able to stand one another?
I was brought up to be submissive. Brought up to be a subservient little doll-- my master’s slave. That has always been my role. My role before Michael, and my role with him as well. I now play that role gladly, whereas before...-- well, suffice to say my interest in poisons didn’t sprout upon meeting Michael, and perhaps the first victim to my experimentations was the man who previously help me captive and who made me what I am.
A die for a die, I suppose.
Lately there’s been a light hint of guilt in Michael’s eyes, a hint of what would almost seem disgust. I know I am the only one who could arouse in him such feelings, and almost panic-stricken at the thought of having displeased him in any way, had inquired as to the nature of his displeasure.
He didn’t like that I was so dependent on him, no longer took pleasure in my subservience, and willingness to please. He wanted me to be selfish, to be cruel and rebellious. Might as well have been Severin and Wanda in Venus in Furs.
“I could do that.” I said half to him, half to myself. I would be cruel and despotic. I knew of the grand cold streak of character in me, because I’d made use of it previous times before.
Before there was any intimacy between us, I’d had to resort to that kind of cruelty. Only frigidness and neglect could bring him to me, crawling and groveling for his improper behavior so that he’d lavish all the more attention on me, and truly cherish those few, selective embraces I granted him every now and then.
So long this lasted, that my features seem to be forever fixed by default in that same cold expression-- eyes narrowed, mouth a bit of a scowl. I truly was his mistress then. But I also hated him. Hated him in a very superficial way, only to have him walking on eggshells for me, but deep within, though I loved him, I really did resent him.
It’s so terribly exhausting to continuously hate someone. It’s positively draining. Now that I’ve grown out of it, now that I’m able to love him wholeheartedly and without any resentment, I understand why people prefer feeling this. It’s not empty the way contempt is, it’s not utterly unsatisfying.
Being aware of my potential for cruelty, and having grown used to the more easy, fulfilling sentiment of truly giving one’s self into love, you will understand my reluctance to revert into that darker side of my personality.
However, though I have indeed grown very spoiled by his affections, and instead of rejecting them to keep him making more of an effort, I receive them and reciprocate them generously, I can’t help but feel vulgar and very irritated at myself for being so terribly weak. Even in my role as the submissive one, I had full control over him, because it was I who decided when or when not to neglect him and leave him starving for my attention. Though not blatantly the dominant party, he was in a way my slave, and I his mistress, and that is the reason he was more pleased with me before, as compared to now when he doesn’t have to win an embrace, when I can simply grant him the gift willingly and effortlessly.
This is merely the psychological side of things, you see. What my little experiment sought to do, was explore that more dark and sadistic side of my personality, but in a purely physical and sensuous manner.
Though I am very much a prude, and have only recently (a few months, perhaps?) been introduced to the voluptuousness and ecstasy brought on by achieving this wholly new degree physical intimacy with another, I’ve attained an interest into the world of Lace and Leather, if only for Michael’s sake.
He truly is a masochist, and though I can fulfill only a certain amount of his needs, his need for overpowering and purely physical torment (psychological is my speciality, which is a brand he doesn’t particularly enjoy, so it’s not like I can make any use of it) is a little too much for me to handle. Why I would willingly abuse and bruise someone I adore because I adore them, is something I can’t understand.
Juliana can do it. It’s the only reason they even got together in the first place. She can be cruel and loving in bed both at the same time in a way I simply cannot. And I hate her for it, of course. I hate her, because she’s a better partner to him than I am.
Out of curiosity, I inquired as to the nature of sado-masochism, and she was kind enough to ‘tutor’ me in the very basics of it. Still, I was reluctant to partake in any of it, though I was utterly seduced by the exquisitely exotic paraphernalia, all those black corsets and leather collars.
So the source of my little experiment sprung out from my dissatisfaction of having dissatisfied Michael, and the irritation of the wholly submissive and utterly powerless thing I’d become (mind you, this is a war of two clashing sides of my personality-- the completely fulfilled, utterly content side of my freely loving Michael, and the proud, arrogantly resentful side that can’t stand being so powerless). Fueled by the likes of Lolita Haze and Lux Lisbon, two purely sexual, purely manipulative youths, I decided to give the role a try.
Once again, being aware of my potential for cruelty, and the latent darker side of me, I refused to fully adopt this new persona onto myself. If I was going to behave this new way, it had to be a form of play acting. It had to be like a sort of fantasy I could come out of any time I wanted. If things got in too deep, I could simply step back, and say to myself ‘It’s not you. It was never you. It was only acting.’
And so I dyed my hair blonde, because it was the color those two characters had in common in those movies, and I sought to explore that different realm of possibility.
I cannot stress enough the amount of fear in me at the time. The idea that I didn’t want to know what I was capable of; the idea that I was so happy now, and this was just a prideful, selfish whim, and if I opened the door to the whirlwind, I would become overpowered by it, and would not be able to go back.
I gave the role a try. I became more and more comfortable being openly sexual, I even grew close to being comfortable in using sex as a weapon a la Lolita Haze. I gave the whip the try, I gave the bindings a try, and I grew more and more accustomed to all of it.
I thoroughly enjoyed kicking Michael into the ground, pressing a heel to his back to keep him down, the stiletto almost rupturing the flesh. I enjoyed tying him up and gagging him, and took a very special perverse pleasure in whipping him. It excited me to see the skin rupture, and the blood flow.
The scratches, the bruises, the bites-- I enjoyed every minute of it. And it was the two sides simultaneously coming to an agreement. This fed the sadist in me; the proud, resentful powerless thing that craved control and craved this dominance, and the loving side of me that tormented him because it knew it was what he wanted, it knew it was what he liked.
It was all going fine, up to the point where this sadistic behavior, this thirst for power crossed over from the boudoir, to my everyday life. I began to grow ever more cruel and domineering, and even though Michael is a masochist, he doesn’t enjoy the loss of control twenty-four hours a day. He only enjoys being a slave on his own terms, and when he sees fit. His temperament is much more dominant, and so here is where our two personalities clashed-- when no one gave in and fell in line to balance things out.
I refused to give in, and so did he. This resulted in a terrible fight, which he tried to solve through seducing me. Knowing just how to overpower me and make me submit to his every whim, he attempted to seduce me. That made me think. He was using sex as a weapon, and so could I.
And so I played to his weakness. I let him think he was winning, then was terribly cruel, and left him in bed, tied and tormented, thinking to myself how sorry he would be in the morning, and how he’d be groveling for my forgiveness.
Suffice to say, he was not. I think I really pissed him off, doing what I did-- I’d not only let my sadistic behavior cross over to every-day life, but I’d also incorporated a psychological element to it, which I blatantly knew he’d detest, yet went ahead with it, simply to teach him a lesson.
I knew he would try to retaliate. I made a point of it to set my foot down, and show him I was serious about not backing down. He tried his usual approach, pinning me down against the wall and trying to render me helpless by playing to my triggers, letting my body’s instinctive reactions do half the job of overpowering, and consequently ‘winning’.
Well, I would not let that happen. The previous night I’d left in the middle of it despite the agonizing craving and the terrible need simply to make a point-- a small sacrifice surely, the way resisting now in light of this new predicament would be a small sacrifice.
“Are you going to force me? Because if you haven’t noticed, I refuse to cooperate” I’d said.
And then he’d stepped back-- wounded. I saw real hurt in him. Not playful hurt, but real, deep hurt. At that moment, I knew I’d taken it too far. Taken it too far, the way I’d done last night. This was two times already. And I’d been aware of it. Part of me kept saying ‘This is what he wants-- he wants to be overpowered. He wants to be forced into submission’, but I knew it was just some excuse the sadist in me was saying to avoid feeling guilty.
“I need you to make up your mind right now. What is it you want from me?”
Again, that misery in his eyes. And it was at that exact moment that the act dropped. The fantasy had faded, and my eyes opened wide at the realization of how much I’d hurt him.
I wanted to say “See? This is what I was afraid of! This is what I was afraid would happen. I never wanted to hurt you, I never wanted too--” but I didn’t. I couldn’t stand myself. I couldn’t stand seeing him torn like than. I felt a shot through the heart when I realized I’d pushed him right into one of his moods.

I’d like to say the experiment was a success.
I’d like to say it was worth it.
But with a price this high?

Never.

Description
There is, as I feared, a bit of a sadist in me. What I sought to do with this little experiment was explore a different side to my personality, a side I’ve been hesitant to explore out of fear more than anything else, out of a vague awareness at the sheer panorama of irreversible truth and possibility.
To say my relationship with him is complex would be an understatement. The both of us switch back and forth from dominant to submissive, that I’ve grown more and more confused as to what I really am, or what is expected of me. It isn’t a conscious switch. We don’t just suddenly agree to reverse roles and flip a switch, and it’s done. No. It’s done unconsciously, and neither of us is aware until we’ve reversed back.
The curious thing about it, is that when one of us switches, the other one follows unquestioningly, as if naturally falling in like and balancing out the natural order of things. I’ve often wondered what would happen if one of us did the switch, but the other one, for one reason or another, did not. What would happen exactly? Would our personalities suddenly clash? Would we abhor each other? Not be able to stand one another?
I was brought up to be submissive. Brought up to be a subservient little doll-- my master’s slave. That has always been my role. My role before Michael, and my role with him as well. I now play that role gladly, whereas before...-- well, suffice to say my interest in poisons didn’t sprout upon meeting Michael, and perhaps the first victim to my experimentations was the man who previously help me captive and who made me what I am.
A die for a die, I suppose.
Lately there’s been a light hint of guilt in Michael’s eyes, a hint of what would almost seem disgust. I know I am the only one who could arouse in him such feelings, and almost panic-stricken at the thought of having displeased him in any way, had inquired as to the nature of his displeasure.
He didn’t like that I was so dependent on him, no longer took pleasure in my subservience, and willingness to please. He wanted me to be selfish, to be cruel and rebellious. Might as well have been Severin and Wanda in Venus in Furs.
“I could do that.” I said half to him, half to myself. I would be cruel and despotic. I knew of the grand cold streak of character in me, because I’d made use of it previous times before.
Before there was any intimacy between us, I’d had to resort to that kind of cruelty. Only frigidness and neglect could bring him to me, crawling and groveling for his improper behavior so that he’d lavish all the more attention on me, and truly cherish those few, selective embraces I granted him every now and then.
So long this lasted, that my features seem to be forever fixed by default in that same cold expression-- eyes narrowed, mouth a bit of a scowl. I truly was his mistress then. But I also hated him. Hated him in a very superficial way, only to have him walking on eggshells for me, but deep within, though I loved him, I really did resent him.
It’s so terribly exhausting to continuously hate someone. It’s positively draining. Now that I’ve grown out of it, now that I’m able to love him wholeheartedly and without any resentment, I understand why people prefer feeling this. It’s not empty the way contempt is, it’s not utterly unsatisfying.
Being aware of my potential for cruelty, and having grown used to the more easy, fulfilling sentiment of truly giving one’s self into love, you will understand my reluctance to revert into that darker side of my personality.
However, though I have indeed grown very spoiled by his affections, and instead of rejecting them to keep him making more of an effort, I receive them and reciprocate them generously, I can’t help but feel vulgar and very irritated at myself for being so terribly weak. Even in my role as the submissive one, I had full control over him, because it was I who decided when or when not to neglect him and leave him starving for my attention. Though not blatantly the dominant party, he was in a way my slave, and I his mistress, and that is the reason he was more pleased with me before, as compared to now when he doesn’t have to win an embrace, when I can simply grant him the gift willingly and effortlessly.
This is merely the psychological side of things, you see. What my little experiment sought to do, was explore that more dark and sadistic side of my personality, but in a purely physical and sensuous manner.
Though I am very much a prude, and have only recently (a few months, perhaps?) been introduced to the voluptuousness and ecstasy brought on by achieving this wholly new degree physical intimacy with another, I’ve attained an interest into the world of Lace and Leather, if only for Michael’s sake.
He truly is a masochist, and though I can fulfill only a certain amount of his needs, his need for overpowering and purely physical torment (psychological is my speciality, which is a brand he doesn’t particularly enjoy, so it’s not like I can make any use of it) is a little too much for me to handle. Why I would willingly abuse and bruise someone I adore because I adore them, is something I can’t understand.
Juliana can do it. It’s the only reason they even got together in the first place. She can be cruel and loving in bed both at the same time in a way I simply cannot. And I hate her for it, of course. I hate her, because she’s a better partner to him than I am.
Out of curiosity, I inquired as to the nature of sado-masochism, and she was kind enough to ‘tutor’ me in the very basics of it. Still, I was reluctant to partake in any of it, though I was utterly seduced by the exquisitely exotic paraphernalia, all those black corsets and leather collars.
So the source of my little experiment sprung out from my dissatisfaction of having dissatisfied Michael, and the irritation of the wholly submissive and utterly powerless thing I’d become (mind you, this is a war of two clashing sides of my personality-- the completely fulfilled, utterly content side of my freely loving Michael, and the proud, arrogantly resentful side that can’t stand being so powerless). Fueled by the likes of Lolita Haze and Lux Lisbon, two purely sexual, purely manipulative youths, I decided to give the role a try.
Once again, being aware of my potential for cruelty, and the latent darker side of me, I refused to fully adopt this new persona onto myself. If I was going to behave this new way, it had to be a form of play acting. It had to be like a sort of fantasy I could come out of any time I wanted. If things got in too deep, I could simply step back, and say to myself ‘It’s not you. It was never you. It was only acting.’
And so I dyed my hair blonde, because it was the color those two characters had in common in those movies, and I sought to explore that different realm of possibility.
I cannot stress enough the amount of fear in me at the time. The idea that I didn’t want to know what I was capable of; the idea that I was so happy now, and this was just a prideful, selfish whim, and if I opened the door to the whirlwind, I would become overpowered by it, and would not be able to go back.
I gave the role a try. I became more and more comfortable being openly sexual, I even grew close to being comfortable in using sex as a weapon a la Lolita Haze. I gave the whip the try, I gave the bindings a try, and I grew more and more accustomed to all of it.
I thoroughly enjoyed kicking Michael into the ground, pressing a heel to his back to keep him down, the stiletto almost rupturing the flesh. I enjoyed tying him up and gagging him, and took a very special perverse pleasure in whipping him. It excited me to see the skin rupture, and the blood flow.
The scratches, the bruises, the bites-- I enjoyed every minute of it. And it was the two sides simultaneously coming to an agreement. This fed the sadist in me; the proud, resentful powerless thing that craved control and craved this dominance, and the loving side of me that tormented him because it knew it was what he wanted, it knew it was what he liked.
It was all going fine, up to the point where this sadistic behavior, this thirst for power crossed over from the boudoir, to my everyday life. I began to grow ever more cruel and domineering, and even though Michael is a masochist, he doesn’t enjoy the loss of control twenty-four hours a day. He only enjoys being a slave on his own terms, and when he sees fit. His temperament is much more dominant, and so here is where our two personalities clashed-- when no one gave in and fell in line to balance things out.
I refused to give in, and so did he. This resulted in a terrible fight, which he tried to solve through seducing me. Knowing just how to overpower me and make me submit to his every whim, he attempted to seduce me. That made me think. He was using sex as a weapon, and so could I.
And so I played to his weakness. I let him think he was winning, then was terribly cruel, and left him in bed, tied and tormented, thinking to myself how sorry he would be in the morning, and how he’d be groveling for my forgiveness.
Suffice to say, he was not. I think I really pissed him off, doing what I did-- I’d not only let my sadistic behavior cross over to every-day life, but I’d also incorporated a psychological element to it, which I blatantly knew he’d detest, yet went ahead with it, simply to teach him a lesson.
I knew he would try to retaliate. I made a point of it to set my foot down, and show him I was serious about not backing down. He tried his usual approach, pinning me down against the wall and trying to render me helpless by playing to my triggers, letting my body’s instinctive reactions do half the job of overpowering, and consequently ‘winning’.
Well, I would not let that happen. The previous night I’d left in the middle of it despite the agonizing craving and the terrible need simply to make a point-- a small sacrifice surely, the way resisting now in light of this new predicament would be a small sacrifice.
“Are you going to force me? Because if you haven’t noticed, I refuse to cooperate” I’d said.
And then he’d stepped back-- wounded. I saw real hurt in him. Not playful hurt, but real, deep hurt. At that moment, I knew I’d taken it too far. Taken it too far, the way I’d done last night. This was two times already. And I’d been aware of it. Part of me kept saying ‘This is what he wants-- he wants to be overpowered. He wants to be forced into submission’, but I knew it was just some excuse the sadist in me was saying to avoid feeling guilty.
“I need you to make up your mind right now. What is it you want from me?”
Again, that misery in his eyes. And it was at that exact moment that the act dropped. The fantasy had faded, and my eyes opened wide at the realization of how much I’d hurt him.
I wanted to say “See? This is what I was afraid of! This is what I was afraid would happen. I never wanted to hurt you, I never wanted too--” but I didn’t. I couldn’t stand myself. I couldn’t stand seeing him torn like than. I felt a shot through the heart when I realized I’d pushed him right into one of his moods.

I’d like to say the experiment was a success.
I’d like to say it was worth it.
But with a price this high?

Never.