She needs pain because it is the only answer that makes sense to all the unanswerable questions. A crack of the belt against her ass, a firm hand across her face, a strong grip around her throat: it silences this critic that sits on her shoulder. He screams – of course, the critic is a he – he screams “You aren’t good enough. You’ve never been good enough. And guess what, you’ll never be good enough.”
It’s so easy to circle the drain of self-loathing. It’s been a good week, a good month? Maybe, but that can’t kill the critic. He’s lurking and waiting for a slip-up so he can pull her back into the muck. Reason doesn’t beat him. If it did he would have been vanquished a long time ago. Facts don’t matter either. She’s a great person? She has people who love her? She has a rich full life? The critic doesn’t care.
Critic meet rope. Meet my flog. Meet the crack of my hand across soft flesh. Critic, meet the power of subspace. His voice doesn’t exist here because nothing exists here. Subspace is the void. It’s the place where she comes to run and be free. He sees an ugly worthless person and all I see is beauty. Look at the way she suffers. Look at the way she hurts. She does it on her terms. Not the critic’s. With each new bruise, he has less power. With every hour that goes by where she’s tied up, the Critic gets pushed further away. This isn’t a play session. It’s a war. We’re beating that voice back with every strike. The harder I choke her the harder I choke him.
When we’re in the midst of it, and she feels that warm blanket cover her let my words replace his. I’ll whisper them or I’ll scream them. I’ll write them in blood if need be. “You are valuable. You are worth more than the sum of your parts. I see the beauty that lies behind your eyes. I dream of seeing more of you. I strip you bare so I can love you as you are, not as you’d wish to be, or worse, as others would wish you to be. I’ll never destroy your critic but I can be his counterweight. When he has a hold of you and he is pulling on your arms, look down. You’ll see me pulling on your feet. I’ll hold you and cuddle you. I’ll hurt you. I’ll fuck you like I hate you. I’ll make love to you like I need you to survive.” None of that will be enough to kill the critic but it will be enough to muzzle him long enough for her to catch her breath.
The Cerebral Sir 