Darling Amanda (don't Thin the Fi...

I have you a bit more to myself now, haven't I? I've seen off those other men: kind, nice men, chatting you up at parties. You were so safe with them, with those kind, nice men, weren't you? So safe with the old familiar routine: a chat up, a snog, a screw, meet again, do it all again. And you? Something missing, so not alive, so not... what is it that you were not Amanda, that you were without?

When you sensed my gaze on you, glanced up to find stranger's eyes locked on yours, in that instant, as our looks collided, suddenly nothing was missing. You knew that didn't you? Knew it as well as me. (Yes, you're right, that should be 'I', Amanda. Careful now, don't be cheeky.) Some mechanism within you triggered, the rabbit sensing the fox, smelling fear, smelling blood. Oh yes, feels good for the man. Good for his cock, the blood flowing there now, the male aroused, alert and predatory; working to isolate you from the herd, taking pleasure from your agitation, your sense of deepening vulnerability, the mounting tension. But for you? What is suddenly no longer missing for you? The danger of life? The danger of being you, of encountering yourself at last, deeply? For, most wonderful of mysteries, you, too, are strangely excited by your predicament, adrenalin rising. For you, too, the blood flows.

Seeing your growing alarm, observing you sense the target-seeking radar detecting you, homing tightly in on your long dormant submission, watching as you register the threat of an unknown ruthlessness, my sadism mounts. Deep in the hot, dark engine-room of my soul, the boilers fire up, powering my male sexual desire, my birth right. Lovely, wonderful Amanda, clear in my sights now, a prize to be won by sadists, by men who live for that rare and special genre of female arousal, who revel in deepening it to fear, driving it on through tears towards terror, as the erotic prize offers herself, falling as though spell bound, towards suffering, humiliation and glorious exploitation.

Do you know that you make me powerful? For the sadist is fuelled with power from his prize as she offers herself. He invests it for both, in his iron-hard cock, the rod of manhood, the man I am. I will play you with that rod Amanda, rule and punish you with that rod. I will teach you the excitement of fearing and respecting that rod.

Yes, you are cruelly hooked, sharp steel through the tender lips of female yearning. Painfully, (I hope, for oh, how much I love to inflict pain) hooked for my sport. Wondrous miracle, the more you struggle, and you cannot help but struggle, the further the hook penetrates. I consider carefully, in loving detail, how I will play you as you struggle, as I wind you to me, slowly closer, so close, so intimate, your helpless soul thrashing, twisting, turning, impaling herself, (for you are deeply female), ever deeper as I draw you ever closer.

I note with pride that I am calmly and exclusively focused on my fill of pleasure, on orgasmic desire. (I am a sadist.) There is no trace of guilt, no hint of unease, no concern for the cost to you. (I am a sadist.) The higher the price for you, the greater my reward. That is the exchange. (I am a sadist.)

I anticipate how I will prepare you for pleasure. I will toy with you, I will tease you, requiring first a little performance. Your panties girl! You look shocked, but you are an actress. I ask you, oh how I am amused by the idea of asking, I ask you to display your panties. You are surprised, relieved, delighted, to flaunt yourself. Perhaps you have misjudged the danger: a little striptease, is that all? This is familiar ground for you, Amanda, isn't it? Flaunting stockings, suspenders and your prettily pantied behind has won you many a boy's heart, hasn't it, Amanda? Yes you will give this disturbingly powerful man what he asks. You gather up your party dress, over stocking tops and black suspenders, (no this is not a Betjamin poem Amanda), straining the shiny material over your hips, turning as you do so to flex your spine coquettishly and offer your curves, the curves of a prettily pantied, female bottom. Your courage returning, the party's alcohol giving you what you innocently believe to be abandon, you look me in the eye.

You think me captivated by those curves, my ambition perhaps a mere spanking of your gentle slopes, a playful paddling of the babbling brook between. I am indeed captivated, but my ambition, dear sweet Amanda, runs a little deeper than that. My intention is that those curves will know the whip. But not to-night, I have other plans to-night. It is the precious moistness of your babbling brook, hidden still by mossy banks, that captivates me tonight. Let us explore where the magic flows.

Oh, what is this icy shock of harshness, this cold steel of sadism, back in my voice now Amanda, as I instruct, with callous detachment and complete certainty, that your vagina be displayed unadorned, the well spring of life made open by you to your master's attentions? How I am made powerful by your startled, distraught hesitation as, actress no longer, fear wrenches you harshly back into her electrifying hold. Fear at the sound of my clinical use of that beautiful word. I watch, the smug pleasure of my smile masking near uncontrollable excitement at your approaching ordeal. I rejoice at the confusion within you as your deep, female desire to be commanded by a man, to obey the male, contemplates the humiliating degradation of such pure, raw exposure. The look in my eye, (yes it is our sacred, silent pact,) the look in my eye, (more powerful even than the whip you have yet to taste my darling, my poor, poor darling Amanda,) the look in my eye helps you find the courage to choose the path you need, towards fearful compliance. How I will tease and torment you; slowly, so slowly, open you, expose you, play with you sadistically and emotionally. I will make you cry for hours, for days, for years, forever; pleading with me to spare you, to release you, to allow you to go free. Never!

Oh, but it is love alone which binds you is it not Amanda? The most powerful bond we know. To plead, to weep, to suffer and to know that each soaring flight of torment tightens the sadist's hold.

To glide scarily, exhilaratingly, free; so to fly into the securest embrace, wherein lies still deeper freedom. Not more trustingly does the circus acrobat, high above the audience, cast herself into the void, arms outstretched for her partner's embrace. Pleas of the powerful! Prison of the free! If there's a heaven Amanda, it is so to be held, and so to hold.

Yes, you will come to know me by my answer, Amanda. Each time, every time, the same answer: I will be there. I will catch you. I will hold you. I will savour, with ever more excitement, your suffering. You will come to know that the softness of your cunt, obediently, submissively offered, is not for cock alone. (You have other, maybe sweeter, places for him Amanda.) Oh no, your cunt is for the sadist's fist Amanda, to accept the harsh, sadistic pleasure levied on her helpless, wet, tender, pinkness. Practice brings perfection closer, each encounter deepening her bruising, each thrust stretching you tauter, as I spur you with sadistic passion towards your limits. Carefully, deliberately, so lovingly, I take you on and beyond, until you break, body and soul, to my lust. Your heart will scream with your flesh, as both are lacerated, torn, trampled and debased for my pleasure, until in triumph and in ecstasy I enter your body, your heart and your soul, to the sound of your screams; for I play you to hear you scream Amanda, I play you as every beautiful instrument must be played, to offer up the music of her soul for the heart's delight. You are my instrument of pleasure Amanda: the musician requires his instrument.

Do you understand now my girl? Do you understand that I play you for your music? For the music we make together.

Open your thighs still wider my girl, my Amanda, that I may conduct once more the music of your submission. Such art requires that you suffer. Don't look so shocked. It is your master's birth-right Amanda. You know it is. Yield your cunt Amanda. Give your pain, surrender the lusting torment of your body that you may find at last your peace and your freedom within the music of your soul. That is all I ask of you, darling Amanda, all I desire of my instrument, my whole world. My Amanda.

Stormy waters, but you will not drown.