Coping with the pain…

January 21, 2018


January 14, 2018

There are those who frown on our promiscuity. So what? Love, physically and emotionally, is fine when each lover is seriously attentive to the needs and desires of the other. Nothing else matters –

Of course, promiscuity won’t necessarily provide happiness. Looking over my shoulder into the murky abyss of time, I see a coterie of ‘disciples’ and mistresses but little ‘happiness’. Ecstasy, yes. Pain, too, if I’m honest. But true happiness only came when we were first together.

Remember us in your bedroom? Happy times. Alone together in the small hours of morning, whispering to each other. I would kiss your lips, your body, holding you close. I would make you cum over and over. I was so merciless –

And then later, together in the shower…

excitement and dread

September 24, 2017

fetish fun

I visited her every third Wednesday of the month, that strange, hard woman who was my secret obsession. And I always experienced the same sense of excitement and dread as I walked from the bus stop to her home.

She would be there in her spiky high-heels and tight pin-stripe skirt, long legs enclosed in black fishnet, a waiting spider to my hesitant fly.

Why did I visit her? Was it the cruel suede whip? The humiliation? The feeling of warm, oiled, heavy chrome beads being inserted carefully, one at a time?

Or did I simply wish to explore the psychic territory of pain in search of an ultimate, mystical proof of “otherness” in life, at the outer edges of death? Pain, pleasure, delirium and reason – she provided it all. For a price…

Dirty Thoughts
James Claudel

…I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your undumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it should lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is really just a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any more by giving myself away like this — But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defenses. And I don’t really resent it.

Vita Sackville-West
Letter to Virginia Woolf 21st January 1927

feel so alive

May 7, 2017

I don’t do BDSM for the pain. I simply LOVE being controlled. When I’m tied up and at someone else’s mercy, I feel so alive. I feel like I’ve finally been set free.

Source Here

Gradually, I began to enjoy it (BDSM). When Frank was there, he would train me in doing whatever he wanted me to do, including cooking, cleaning the loft or servicing him sexually. When he wasn’t there, I was left instructions on what to do, like meditation or even just stretching exercises. Rapidly, I lost track of time and Frank insisted that this was his goal. He wanted me to fully rely on him for all information. I realized that sometimes, a Wednesday would follow a Thursday, but I was expected to just accept it and soon enough, I stopped asking or caring about which day it was.

Today, I realize he was almost brainwashing me, but I didn’t see any alternatives. I was warm, I was secure, I was loved and the few times I was hit I actually welcomed and enjoyed it as it was usually followed by some of the best sex I ever had.

Several times, he invited friends over and no, I was not allowed to dress. I remained nude. Most of the people were friends I knew from the dungeon, but I was usually expected to play a certain role, like remain silent for the evening and simply serve food for everyone or even just remain on all four and serve as a human footrest for the whole evening.

Only twice did someone else had sex with me, thought in one of the cases, I have no idea if it was really someone else as I was blindfolded.

Confession of a fulltime Bondage Slave
Marilyn X


Diary 3rd – 4th March

The night turns itself inside out. Dreams come: bizarre, yes – but so vivid they seem more real than waking life. Dreams of photographs and ciphers, spies and bloody murder. And in amongst this chaotic mayhem, Madame Lamson!

See her standing tall in a black corset, tattoos twining up her left arm. No panties, just that thick bush of rusty-red curls. Another, smaller tattoo on her right side just above the groin: this a simple wreath of wild flowers. Black fishnet stockings on her legs, and a riding crop held lightly in both hands.

Madame Lamson:

Sets such impossible tasks. Then punishes failure without a hint of compassion in her hard green eyes. She is the original switch bitch!

Long, lacquered red nails. And that smile on her face, the one that follows you everywhere; metamorphosing, ultimately, into an aristocratic smirk for the men and women groveling round her spiky high heels.

Madame Lamson holds the keys to the gates of hell. Her crop on your flesh leaves red patterns of pain, and eventually you grow drunk on this pain, which is like the sun coming out and making you dizzy, so that you feel your head will just float away to another, rarer place.

Her mouth is all curves and ripeness – like her body. Faint dusting of freckles on her cheeks, and her hair when the sunlight catches it from the window glows red. She is unforgiving and relentless. And her victims feel themselves sliding into a slow-motion loss of control – unable to apply the brakes.

She told you once that she loved candyfloss and carousels. Remember that? Her favorite film was ‘Four Weddings and a Funeral’! Your head tried to followed the trail of her words, remember? She spoke so softly, so sweetly, while mercilessly inserting a thumb nail into your urethra.

You almost cried out your safeword when she did that, didn’t you? It was almost too much. Her likes, you thought, were in-feckin’-credible, considering what a bad bitch she could be.

She also told you her favorite colour was pink…!


Our lives together are a song in which music and poetry have become a single, beautiful harmony.


The past is a splinter in my soul, a wound that turns slowly septic. Whatever happened, I wonder, to Gail La Mare?


At age ten I went to the cinema (the name of the film is unimportant) and fell in love with a young actress appearing in the main feature: thirteen or fourteen years of age, she travelled on a ferry across Hong Kong harbor, and I became besotted with her – with the fall of her hair, with her large, almond-shaped eyes, and with the sound of her voice.

At the end of that film, I experienced a most dreadful sense of loss…

I went to see the film again. And again. Every day for a week, I went to see my one true love, who remained so impossibly distant from me…and yet so near.

At night I dreamt about her. In my dreams she became my ‘girl’ and we kissed each other with an innocent passion.

I spent all my pocket money on seeing that film, and then stole cash from my mother’s ‘piggy-bank’ (the only time I’ve ever done such a thing) so that I could continue to go watch my ‘love’. I was like an addict in desperate need of a fix.

And all these years later, as an adult, I can still feel that poor child’s pain…


Each of us, it’s true, are capable of writing various, strikingly different autobiographies, according to the viewpoint chosen and our principle of selection.


Pain enters the body. It is sharp at first. Then awful. Then contradictory. Like nothing else. Nothing: and it’s when the pain becomes unbearable that it begins to go away, changes, becomes something good to moan at, scream at, takes over all of your body, your head, all of the strength in your body, your head, and in your totally defeated ability to think. This can’t be called pain anymore, it might be called death.

Marguerite Duras
The North China Lover: A Novel


It’s often said that cowards make the best torturers. Cowards have good imaginations, imaginations that torment them with all the worst stuff of nightmare, all the horrors that could befall them. This provides an excellent arsenal when it comes to inflicting misery on others. And their final qualification is that they understand the fears of their victim better than the victim does himself.

Mark Lawrence
Prince of Fools