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It's not the leather or the rubber or the heels or the outfit. It's the sense of physical menace. It's the feeling that She can overpower you. The look in her eye that says that you are only a misplaced word or glance away from a flash of fury, a bolt of pain. The smother that goes on too long, the whipping that won't stop when you are screaming for mercy, teetering on the brink of your safe word. The sense that at any moment She can lay hands on you, slap your face so that the tears prick your eyes in humiliation. You're the meat. You're the canvas. You're not Her plaything - you're Her prey.
You know that tonight you will nestle in Her arms, that She will speak soothingly, comfort you. You know that you are still Her lover. But the price is high. Her sadism is insatiable. It's what makes Her juices flow.
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