I Want To Fuck You Up
Not all sadistic Tops are created equal. Some enjoy the banter, the back and forth, the mutual enjoyment of a scene. Some get off on making someone squeal with delight, or giving them predicaments they can't win.
There are those that say they want to make you cry so that they can cuddle you back to happiness. Others want to destroy you to put you back together. Some enjoy watching marks bloom.
And then, there are the others: the ones that don't seek what they can't imagine finding. The ones with the Anti-Lonely Hearts Ad.
I'm one of them.
Because it's 'if', not 'when'.
I’m the kind of Top that sees you if I want to, not when you want me to. I need the disconnect. I need to not be involved emotionally. Why? Because I’m an emotional sadist, and not a very respectful one.
Emotional sadism is a difficult place to play. You have to really know what it is that you're getting yourself and the other person into. If anything, I'd say I’m emotionally suicidal on the right side of the slash, and an emotional rapist on the left.
Beating your ass is one thing, fucking with your squishy heartstrings is another. I’d really rather not mix the two, for both our sakes.
There are no feelings, no romantic notions, and no exceptions. We are not dating. We are not partners. We are not involved in anything more than you getting your arse handed to you on a somewhat regular(ish) basis. When I decide. How I decide.
Because I am not a Correctional Facility.
I’m not here to command you. I’m not here to train you. I’m not here to correct your behaviour. I don’t want a brat, I don’t want a giggler, and I don’t want someone who’ll try to goad me. It’s too dangerous, it’s not remotely enjoyable, and it’s not what I’m here for.
You want someone to call you a “good girl/boy/pet/thing”? I’m not that person. I’m a heavy Top; not a brat tamer, not a Dom, and not a bit of slap and tickle. I don’t enjoy pain; I don’t expect you to, either.
But if I don’t enjoy someone getting off on pain, why do I want to cause it?
Well, just because I don’t like absorbing pain - and so don’t want you to enjoy it - doesn’t mean I don’t get off on dishing it out in various forms, some more than others.
Thuddy? Not for me. I don’t like the noise, I don’t like the association of enjoyment so many people have with ‘thuddy pain’.
Stingy? Oh yes. That sharp sound, the flexibility and flair one can add. There’s theatricality to whips and canes and crops and tailed implements. These are where I focus.
I don’t expect, need, or want you to enjoy the pain - I want you to endure it for me. There’s something glorious about the willingness to suffer for somebody. It's not the act of pain itself. I want pain to bring you no pleasure whatsoever. I want you to fucking hate it, and me, at the same time. Yet, you choose to endure it.
Because it'll hurt you more than it'll hurt me.
I enjoy inflicting real, lasting pain. The kind of pain that people shy away from; not your floggers and paddles and such.
I want to break skin.
I want the edge.
I want you to bleed.
I’m not averse to lasting marks - in an ideal world, that would be the end goal. I love the hands-on approach - lips have a tendency to split beautifully under knuckles, and watching a black eye form is a better high than cocaine.
My weapons of choice will always be belts, canes, crops, whips, blades, needles, razors, sutures, scalpels, hot metal, fire, fists and such.
But good things come to those who wait.
I’m not going to brand you in our first session. I’m not going to draw blood until I know how you’ll react, when, and how I can exploit that trepidation in the most delicious of ways.
You might say that’s difficult without my emotions and feelings involved, but is it? I know what I want from you, and I can play the slow game to ensure I get exactly that. I will learn what trips your fear switch, what your body language and subtext are telling me.
And then, it’s game on.
I’ll tell you that you only have to endure six strikes of a cane, but you’re going to feel like your bones are shattering under the force of each and every one. I want you to see stars.
I don't want a drawn-out warm up. I don't want to turn your skin pink to red and then hit you with something. I’m balls to the wall, gonna-fucking-die right from the first strike.
I want you to suffer. I want you to fucking scream for me. And I want you to feel pride afterwards that you survived that test of endurance.
Because your pleasure is not my concern.
But that's the rub - I don’t care if you enjoy it at the time.
I’m here to get my kicks out of beating the shit out of you. I’m not interested in your sexual pleasure - I’m not here to grant or deny you an orgasm; I’m here purely to hurt you.
Of course, if reiterating that your sexual pleasure is the lowest score on my list of fucks to give brings more anguish to the table, then I might toy with it. And then, I walk away.
Begging won’t win favour.
Your arousal won’t win favour.
I’m here to fuck up your body, and maybe your mind, but not to fuck you. Whether or not you get yourself off in a mad frenzy later is of absolutely no interest to me. I don’t and won’t care.
Because nobody likes broken toys.
Now, one thing I do care about is your health. I want you to feel like you’re going to die. I don’t want you to actually die. At least not the first few times. I kid. Mostly.
Before anything, you’re going to ensure you have water, you’re going to ensure you have protein bars or sugary treats, or a triple club sandwich - whatever it is you need post-scene is your responsibility to provide. I bring what I need, and it’s only fair you do the same.
I’ll be sure you're prepared - you have the means to rehydrate, have something to eat, have the blanket that brings you safely back to reality.
Aftercare is an important aspect of that reality check - I’m not going to deny you that. But what I’m willing to give in terms of aftercare isn’t overly negotiable.
I will make sure you’re alive; I’ll check your wounds are taken care of, and I’ll ensure you know both before and after what kind of care you’re going to need to take during the healing process.
I’m going to check in with you a couple of times; later that day, maybe the next morning, maybe a couple of days after. You won’t wake up with me; but I will make sure you wake up, at least.
I’m going to be available if you need to talk about the comedown; but I’m not going to be your agony aunt about life in general.
I’m going to walk away, and I’m going to be a memory that may or may not haunt you in all the right ways until your endurance is something I need to test again.
Nothing more.
If you need snuggles and smooches and whispers of sweet nothings, I’m not the person for you.
And I can't stress this enough:
I’m not the girl to fall in love with.
I am the girl that will test how far your body can go before it breaks, hold you there a moment longer than is comfortable, and then disappear into the night with a smirk.
Just like any other. Maybe.
About the Author: DiavalDiablo is a mental auralist with a love of sharp things, including wit, and is considered an "antisocial butterfly".
