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All Through The Night (An Emotional Sadism tale...)


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Timing is everything.


It’s late. The end of another day. Work has been put aside, the remains of a meal downstairs in the kitchen, the washing up left to greet us in the morning as we sit together, drinking coffee, waking up, wondering what the day will bring.


My fingers are still gently but firmly moving up and down your back, thumb kneading close to your spine, the other first two fingers mirroring the circular motions as I move the tense muscles beneath your skin. This isn’t kinky, it’s not even sexual… intimate, sure, but loving, even protective, maybe smacking a little of possession… but all of those things feeling equal, my massaging your back relaxes me even as it relaxes you.


I listen to your breathing. I wonder if anyone else pays as much attention to those seemingly small things like I do. I suppose they must, but I still feel unique. I can smile in the darkness at my own moment of arrogance. How I love paradoxes… I’m gentle but dominant, caring but sadistic, I like to spoil, but my mean side is always waiting for a chance… I wonder briefly at how you see me. Some things we can never be sure of, eh! This is what happens in the darkness at the end of the day. Thoughts bubble, inner voices burble, a stream of consciousness rambles on, making no sense, and then, occasionally, a flash of insight, or a new thought, a revelation will surface… but not tonight. Tonight is already planned.


I listen to your breathing.


You used to be such a good girl. Back in the day, when everything was new and shiny, every experience was an adventure, every emotion a high, each discovery a sexual thrill, and the depths to which you were pushed were a discovery for us both.


Lately you’re not so good, are you Princess?

Nothing stays the same. I’m quoting my own mantra, and it makes me smile in the dark. So be it.


Timing is everything. You’re on the cusp between drifting and sleep, not conscious enough to realise I’m talking, not gone so far you can’t hear me… and so I speak to you, the deeper you, the girl deep inside.


“Hello princess. Hey baby girl…”


Your breathing pauses then continues as before.


“I’ve got something to tell you baby. I try not to too often, but you need to know. It’s a shame, Princess, when I look at you I see such beauty in you. You know Daddy loves you. You know that you’re mine… but baby, Daddy needs to tell you too that… you’re a big failure.”


I pause. So does your breathing. There’s a catch in the regularity of your breath, and I know that somewhere I’ve hit home. That’s all it needs…


I knead my fingers into your back a little harder, and you wince in your sleep. That’s fine... these things are subtle, you need to be kept in the zone, on the border between sleep and wakefulness. I smile, thinking that of course I could tell you this when you’re wide awake, knowing that you’d understand the tone in my voice, even welcome it! But then what would happen? You’d get wet, that’s what. My words would trigger that self-loathing, you’d feel the throb between your legs knowing I was about to tell you how worthless and ugly you were – and that’s different. That’s sex and emotion and thrusting and need and desire – and not the experience I’ve designed for you tonight. Not at all. Tonight there’ll be no gathering storm as my fingers thrust in and out of your shamefully soaking cunt. No physical and emotional high as I let the paradox of sex and disgust for you work its conflicting magic spell on your fucked-up psychological and sexual need.


My fingers relax once more to a gentle rhythmical pattern on your back. My sentences are short, direct. You won’t process concepts in the place where your consciousness hovers. Short direct information is what will affect you.


“You’re mine.” I whisper, “You belong to me. Fucked-up little slut”


That catch in your breath again. But I’m enjoying this. This is meaner, this telling you without the accompanying sexual thrill that you get off on…


“I wish you were different. Ugly, skinny slut. Maybe I should call it quits and just get rid of you. Don’t get me wrong – you’re a useful fuck, but baby – you’re not as good as you used to be, are you!”


My fingers pinch your skin as I allow a moment of physical pleasure – mine, not yours – punctuate my words.


“You’re mine.” I say. “You’re a fucked-up little failure”. Repetition is good. It acts like certainty.


“Daddy’s little fuckpig”


You hate that! I smile in the dark. I allow myself a fleeting moment to see me as you’d see me if you woke right now. Maybe I’d seem ridiculous, whispering in the dark. That’s OK. Any plan needs a degree of risk.


And that’s what this is. A plan.


I mean, one night of mean ole Daddy telling you what a fucking failure you are? One night of suggestive sniping at your emotions, whilst – frankly- I deny both of us the sexual thrill of you wetting the bedsheets with your lust and gushing orgasms? Who’d want to deny those!


This is… an experiment. This is a small sadistic private adventure. This is me doing something- for me.


And so… what we have here are Thirty days of Daddy in the dark. Rather, Thirty dark nights of the deeper, meaner private me. This is me doing something for myself. Screw me making you ‘all that you can be’. Let’s see how you feel after a month of sniping and undermining you.


Maybe it’ll work. Maybe it’ll be a waste of time. Well, not entirely. You’ll absorb something. And I like subtleties. I’m pretty sure after even a week of this, the sex will be amazing. When I tell you how fucking useless you are, how ugly, and let my fingers join in, and my hard cock pound your dripping cunt as I play on your emotions, I’m pretty sure the bed will be soaked even more than usual. So who loses? No-one.


Hey! Maybe I’m really fucked-up too!


As my fingers continue massaging, and I listen for the clues in your breathing, I wonder fleetingly if there’ll be tears in your sleep one of these nights. Could be a result.


I take a breath. I open my mouth…


““You’re mine.” I whisper,

“You belong to me. Ugly little slut. “You’re a fucked-up little failure”.


Twenty-nine nights to go …

  • 1 month later...

I probably shouldn’t but I really do love this writing and the images it evokes. 

The part re massaging relaxing both giver and receiver is especially close to my own thought processes. 

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