The aftermath sometimes furnishes the mind with more insight than experiencing in the moment provides;distance revealing the puzzle piece missing from the in-time equation.


As I, with intrigue, replayed the afternoon on a looped reel of silent movie images, my mind skipped a scene cloaked by a meaning I did not understand, depth of more obvious emotion complicit in that concealment.
I played, and replayed, wearing the film thin, impatience my motivator as I sought to entice clarity into the open.

I wrap His sadism around me, icy pitch-black edges overlapping my masochist self, and in memory of
pain endured
too much, too much
and tears cried,
please, no, no more
I bask.

I do so love what He does to me.

Yet, frustration interrupts,
I don’t understand the point I’m missing.

I mind map my thoughts.

And on the last point the spool snags, film kinked by faint shadow, as yet without discernible form.

To my mind map I return, and from Need the branches grow.

I record His needs, and mine, defined by experience
He looks down on me, head cocked
“Oh, it hurts, please stop, no, no….”
Voice, cold, glee and no sympathy reflected in His dark eyes as he,
through mockery,
documents my pain.
most recently shared.

Memory triggered….
“….be a good girl and sort that out”
His words.
Part jest, part demand.
Task completed, tears flow as He gently strokes my hair.

Here the scene stops,
a juddering halt.

This is my point.
The point I was missing.
Or rather, this is where I needed to stay.
Physically, in the moment,
metaphorically, as recollection I held close.

I wanted to linger there, defeated.

Gut reaction as to why.
I wanted to revel in the pain as it surrounded me;I’m at home in the dark.

My tears spur Him on, my pain makes Him hard.
My cries falling on deaf ears as a sardonic grin adorns His face.

I need to be allowed to carry on feeling the pain, and/or the emotions that get thrown up a while longer. Then afterwards I need to feel small, I need that submissive headspace to continue, but now in a quiet, unforced way.
I want to look at the scene as I hold it to the light, and see all facets reflected within, to feel those things as I sit,


My head lays, bowed, on His stomach, eyes closed.
Above was force
context, consensual
Below, submission,
the distinction the point my mind was trying to make.

I want to experience His sadism in it’s entirety, I want the pain to bleed into the aftermath, not via reckless jugular severance, but by carefully regulated blood letting where my masochism can drink it’s fill.


My eyes flick back up to the screen and I stare at the scene, halted, before me.
I remember, I wanted to remain curled, I wanted to remain beneath.

I watch His lips silently move, hear His voice in my head.
“….be a good girl and sort that out”
and I do.
I did.

I gave myself to Him, right there, at the end.
That was the point we both missed.


Addendum;reading this back, it perhaps sounds like the end note was out of key, that a negative blights my recollection and subsequent telling.
It doesn’t.
The whole experience was sublime.
But it is only with hindsight that we can see with perfect clarity why it is that something, some small detail, draws us back and causes us to examine our feelings and thoughts with emotions fully unveiled.
He gave me something new, something staggeringly cold, a different side to Him which made the masochist in me play a tune I wasn’t familiar with, so really it’s only logical that that would trigger a reaction neither of us could predict.


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