‘Tis hard to find those alike. Women who are truly sadistic in everyday life. Not the theatrical villains, not the ones molded for the pleasure of men, but those who delight in suffering for its own sake.
Men, of course, come equipped with it by default. You see it in the news—husbands who slaughter their wives and children, men who thrill in bruising soft skin, those who hate the feminine simply because it exists. It is not uncommon. If anything, it is expected. It can be sad, yes. But it is human nature. I cannot blame them for being what they are.
That being said, I could never truly harm one—at least, not women or children. My desires exist in a careful balance, a dance between sexual sadism and the art of pain. A name that lingers on my lips, whispered in the dead of night—Elizabeth Báthory.
A woman who did not need power nor lust to torture. She did so for pleasure alone. No desperate hunger for a man, no vengeance against her own kind—only amusement. And that is what keeps me smiling. Poor girls, yes. I know. But still, wasn’t she divine?
A rod, glowing red, pressed between trembling thighs. A girl, stripped bare and thrown into the snow, skin turning ice-blue under a winter moon. Soft hands, forced to touch themselves, only to feel the bite of needles slipping under skin.
And what do we find, time and again? A sadistic woman with no sexual drive—or one who submits her cruelty to men, to a husband, to some pathetic cause. It is always one or the other.
But my dream is more… particular. A sexual sadist, maternal in her madness. One who would snatch you up, strip you bare, beat you until your cries were hoarse—and then, with hands that once tore you apart, kiss the wounds she carved into you, whispering sweetness as she laid you to bed.
A cane that paints welts like brushstrokes. A whip so loud, the sound alone could break you. Fingers so tight around your throat that death teeters just at the edge of her mercy.
I can write forever. Flashes of her face burn behind my eyes, but words fail to capture the hunger. They do not brush even the edge of what lingers in my soul. And perhaps they never will.