A Love Letter To Sadists From A Masochist Who CRAVES Their Painful Touch

Dear sadist,

At night, you dream of screaming girls and quivering legs, of red marks and wet c*nts. When you’re alone in bed, giving yourself pleasure, you see the whip in your hand tearing into your victim’s flesh.

When you daydream, you imagine tying her to a tree in that wood behind your house and flogging her until she cries, only to drag her back to the house by her hair and f*ck her senseless.

Dear sadist: your cruelty is your love.

When you see her, you imagine her clothes torn apart by your hands, her skin soiled from the dirt on the ground, her mascara running down her cheeks.

In her laugh, you can hear her squeaks and moans, her cries and screams, from the last time you had her strung up at the whipping post and had free run of her body.

In her eyes, you can see her devotion, her submission to your will, her desire to please you.

Dear sadist: your cruelty is your love.

When you reach for her neck, you also slide your hand through her hair. When you slap her face, you press your palm against her throbbing clit.

When you bend her over the bed and spread her legs with your knees, you whisper “good girl” in her ear.

When the flogger makes contact with her skin, you feel your sheer awe of her for willingly offering her body up to you.

Dear sadist: your cruelty is your love.

When she starts bucking and resisting, you tell her that she needs it, that she can’t escape from it.

In her eyes, you can see her say, “F*ck you,” even though she remains as still as she can. You continue, slow and steady, unrelenting, until she gives in to you again, the last of her resistance draining away in the rhythm of the paddle against her ass. You pause for a moment, stroke her cheek softly, wipe a tear away.

“Good girl. Take ten more for me.”

Dear sadist: your cruelty is your love.

When her body is covered in sweat, her c*nt soaked and filling the room with its scent, her throat raw with screaming, her knees buckling more and more often, when you know she is about as far as you can take her, you push her just a little bit more — not for you, but to show her just how strong and resilient she is.

You give her another “good girl” as you run your hands over her reddened skin, telling her that it’s all over, that she’s done well, that you’re proud of her.

Dear sadist: your cruelty is your love.

And when you take her bindings off and bring her back down to earth, when she is at her most open and vulnerable, you cradle her in your arms and wrap your love around her, your love that comes from the beauty of her pain, from the strength of her mind, from the offering of her body.

You can see in her eyes the gratitude and joy she feels for having been your instrument, a catalyst for your darkness and cruelty.

She, the masochist, knows that giving her pain is a gift, that striking her skin is a kiss from your shadow self, that your cruelty to her is a sign of your utter trust in and love for her.

Dear sadist: your cruelty is your love.