The Masochist’s Sadist I don’t have to be rough to have control. Any thug can ha

The Masochist’s Sadist I don’t have to be rough to have control. Any thug can harness a muscle, but to create an atmosphere, a culture of power, is something else entirely. That’s something to be cultivated, coerced, gently persuaded into existence. It comes from confidence and mischief, a security in ones self that you can advertise as if to be sold and bartered. As if you could borrow it, at least for a little while, so long as you do exactly what I say.  A finger against your cheek can do as much as a slap across your face, that touch holding just as much disapproval without nearly as much bruising. More than that, it’s just about the difference between the obvious and the subtle, understatement and yelling from the rooftops. I don’t need to shout to be heard, because I know how to project.  And the sadist in me enjoys it, it really does. It revels, because you want the opposite so very much. You’d like a thumb against your windpipe, squeezing the breath from your lungs. You’d like the sting of my palm across your cheek, the heavy throb of my hand against your rear. You want to be washed with pain, so that you can be reborn into sensation. You want, and I tease. I tantalise and titillate, and give you contact without force, so very close and so very far. It’s enough to make you squirm. But what this all boils down to, what this always boils down to, is peaks and troughs, crescendos and lulls. It’s the quiet bits that make the loud parts so much better, and when I can be so very loud, I need to know how to be extra quiet. Diversity and range, because if you don’t know how soft I can be, how can you appreciate it when I make you really hurt? -- source link

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