Looking back over my writing from the past 5 years I am astounded at some of the things I articulated. Some of them hold true, even now, though I'm no longer depressed enough to write poetry like I used to. There are snippets I can smile at, here and there, and I just think "oh, yes..."

Things like "for I have no mercy to offer you ".

It was like that two nights ago. I was tipsy, which is generally not the place where I start a scene but I was feeling in the groove and I had my safety scissors on me so I felt comfortable that I could take care of things. Which is ultimately a long way of saying "I wanted to do it anyway, so I did".

I had savored a drink called the "Special Agent Cooper", a mix of espresso and cherry liquor that made me both awake and slow, a predatory combination. In the restaurant I kept wanting to reach across the table and slap his face for no reason. Just because it was mine to do with what I wanted, and isn't that reason enough, really? I had been masturbating to the thought of what I wanted to do for a couple of days so I felt prepared, mostly. I had brought cuffs, and a flogger, and a paddle, and some rope, along with a bit gag. I anticipated he might want to make some noise.

We went to Harmony to pick up some new smut for me; I dragged it out a bit to take the edge off the alcohol so I wouldn't have to wait when we got back to his. I got a book of vintage lesbian erotica on the premise that it was less tame, generally, back then- I prefer Anais Nin to most of the current "women's erotica" out there today. I like my smut filthy, preferably with a lot of dirty talk, and I was bored with what I had. Not that I had been using those books for a few days...

He had told me a few days before that he felt he could take some pain for me. This is what I thought about when my fingers slipped into my panties on any given day... his face, tear stained, a gag in his mouth, his ass red and burning. The "for me" was the part I really liked- that he wasn't into it, but he would take it because I wanted him to. That I found it erotic and therefore he would let me.

That wasn't enough, though, ultimately. I wanted to play with his ass, too. I wanted to tie him up and yank him around, beat him and cover him in hot wax and kiss his lips as they clenched around a bit. I wanted him trussed up in leather. He was beautiful, that way, though he's very pretty anyway.

I ended up marking him, accidentally, when I bit the chest ropes and got his flesh entangled. I apologized but couldn't help myself caressing the reddened bruise. He saw the delight in my eyes and slapped me, playfully, but also warningly- his hands were free at that point, an hour or so later. The bed was covered in wax, and I was wetter than I had ever been.

If I had ever felt unsure about whether or not I was a sadist, the fact that he could slip his fist inside me with minimal struggle after maybe 10 minutes of fingering should indicate that. I couldn't tell if the pain when he pushed in was bad or good, which usually means good. I felt like I had exploded into a sticky, bloody, leathery, waxy mess, and I was puddling on the floor. It was incredible.

Mercy. Who wants mercy in bed? Suffering tastes so, so good.