Monsters and Puppets
from 
JoeUser Forums
JoeUser Forums
Did you know that the sweat produced by pain tastes fundamentally different to any other kind of sweat? It does. It has an acid quality. Painsweat, I call it. Tears taste different too. I've licked the sweat and tears of pain from more than one body wracked by quivering and sobbing, and I know. I am a sexual sadist of considerable experience and no small talent and I am, for want of any better word, a monster.
Some one reading those words will have felt a peculiar cold chill go through her as she read, a kind of momentary vertigo. Some thing in her, something barely recognised, will have turned over in its sleep. I have a term for the women (and men) who experience that sensation: puppet.
It's not meant to be derogatory. It isn't a term of contempt. Over the years I've had nothing but respect (the kind of respect that's shown by making hair thin cuts, over and over, from the shoulder to the elbow, or in a nipple) for those I've tormented to a point where they literally could net tell the difference between orgasm and... one... more... cut. Puppets are not weak. Puppets are not stupid (most submissives, and all true Masochists, are of above average intelligence and often very successful in their chosen fields. Not all of course, but many).
No, 'puppet' is not a term of abuse. It's a term describing helpless entanglement in the strings of desire, strings that only draw tighter, cut deeper into the meat, as desire is fed. Once you find this in yourself, there's no escaping it. No therapy that can overcome or 'cure' it. No redemption that can cover or blot out whatever human stain it is that drives desire in the first place.
Once you taste this, it belongs to you and you belong to it - forever.
And we know each other, we recognise each other, we monsters and puppets. We are drawn together somehow, we find each other in the dark. And when we do we make it darker still. Every encounter I've had since I began my first tentative explorations has been marked by a sense of complete inevitability. I can say of all of them that something in me knew I would find them, just as they knew they would find me, and that each successive encounter has been more cruel than the last, like black waters risig to drown the light of unbelief in the eyes of the women who've bucked and sobbed, moaned and screamed and wept under my hands.
Unbelief in what? Not unbelief that anyone could do such things. All they had to do was look in my eyes to know that I could and would. No. Unbelief in unspeakable levels of pleasure. Just as many of the screams I've elicited have been driven by orgasm as by pain.
They've kissed the whip I've beaten them with, after. Some even did so voluntarily.
We're all of us in love with our sickness, our monstrosity, and none of us care. The disease is better than health and much, much, fiercer.
How did I learn to love what I am, to take delight in it? By being it, honestly. By doing it, and contemplating it, and learning from it, and then doing it some more, to a greater degree, with greater precision and control, by letting the lust for it and the frenzy it breeds (in me its cold, the inside of my head feels like its a block of ice in there and if I were to weep I'd weep icicles) drive me some place beyond the furthest horizon that anyone reading this is likely to know, somewhere else, on the other side of everything.
You might ask why I'm telling you this. In part because of something foreverserenity wrote (Link), because it started me thinking. In part because I've always liked having an audience. In part because, as in that Old Time Religion, I'm sometimes possessed by the urge to testify.
Somewhere, a puppet is reading this and feeling... something... shift and stir.
Sweet dreams, puppet.
Some one reading those words will have felt a peculiar cold chill go through her as she read, a kind of momentary vertigo. Some thing in her, something barely recognised, will have turned over in its sleep. I have a term for the women (and men) who experience that sensation: puppet.
It's not meant to be derogatory. It isn't a term of contempt. Over the years I've had nothing but respect (the kind of respect that's shown by making hair thin cuts, over and over, from the shoulder to the elbow, or in a nipple) for those I've tormented to a point where they literally could net tell the difference between orgasm and... one... more... cut. Puppets are not weak. Puppets are not stupid (most submissives, and all true Masochists, are of above average intelligence and often very successful in their chosen fields. Not all of course, but many).
No, 'puppet' is not a term of abuse. It's a term describing helpless entanglement in the strings of desire, strings that only draw tighter, cut deeper into the meat, as desire is fed. Once you find this in yourself, there's no escaping it. No therapy that can overcome or 'cure' it. No redemption that can cover or blot out whatever human stain it is that drives desire in the first place.
Once you taste this, it belongs to you and you belong to it - forever.
And we know each other, we recognise each other, we monsters and puppets. We are drawn together somehow, we find each other in the dark. And when we do we make it darker still. Every encounter I've had since I began my first tentative explorations has been marked by a sense of complete inevitability. I can say of all of them that something in me knew I would find them, just as they knew they would find me, and that each successive encounter has been more cruel than the last, like black waters risig to drown the light of unbelief in the eyes of the women who've bucked and sobbed, moaned and screamed and wept under my hands.
Unbelief in what? Not unbelief that anyone could do such things. All they had to do was look in my eyes to know that I could and would. No. Unbelief in unspeakable levels of pleasure. Just as many of the screams I've elicited have been driven by orgasm as by pain.
They've kissed the whip I've beaten them with, after. Some even did so voluntarily.
We're all of us in love with our sickness, our monstrosity, and none of us care. The disease is better than health and much, much, fiercer.
How did I learn to love what I am, to take delight in it? By being it, honestly. By doing it, and contemplating it, and learning from it, and then doing it some more, to a greater degree, with greater precision and control, by letting the lust for it and the frenzy it breeds (in me its cold, the inside of my head feels like its a block of ice in there and if I were to weep I'd weep icicles) drive me some place beyond the furthest horizon that anyone reading this is likely to know, somewhere else, on the other side of everything.
You might ask why I'm telling you this. In part because of something foreverserenity wrote (Link), because it started me thinking. In part because I've always liked having an audience. In part because, as in that Old Time Religion, I'm sometimes possessed by the urge to testify.
Somewhere, a puppet is reading this and feeling... something... shift and stir.
Sweet dreams, puppet.
