The Dance of Power: How a Masochist’s Smile Changed My Sadism
A Journey of Connection, Ego, and Humility
By Paul Meyers • 6 min read • ENGLISH
Let me tell you the story of how I unlocked my sadistic side. And yes, it has everything to do with a very special woman who’s close to my heart. But before I dive into that, let me give you some context about my past.
I grew up in what you’d call an upper-middle-class family. On the outside, everything looked shiny, but underneath, it was seriously fucked up. Maybe one day I’ll write more about that, but for now, all you need to know is that I have an older brother. And he bullied me when we were kids. Stronger than me, he’d throw his weight around, trying to establish his dominance.
I fought back. Every time. But not with fists—I was too small for that. Instead, I outsmarted him, luring him into traps, locking him up, tying him down, restraining him in whatever way I could. And in those moments when I had the upper hand, I savoured it. I played with my prey, stretched out his suffering just long enough to taste the power of control. Sure, I paid the price afterward—he always made sure of that—but I learned something about myself in those early moments. Looking back, I think that’s when the roots of my sadistic side took hold. It was all playful in a way, but there was something more beneath it—an early taste of power dynamics.
Fast forward 40 years, and all those childhood memories were tucked away, buried deep where they couldn’t touch me. I mean, Sadism? There’s no place for that in our Western society. I went through life without even thinking about it again.
Until I met her.
She’s smart, beautiful, empathetic. But what really drew me in was her masochism. She craved suffering, begged for it, thrived on the pain. And it didn’t take her long to coax my sadist out. I resisted. It felt too raw, too close to something I had left behind. But she persisted, gently, patiently, letting me explore this side of myself without judgment. And when the dam broke, when I finally let it out, the rush was undeniable. Joy, playfulness, a flood of sensations I hadn’t felt in years.
And just like that, bruises became our love language. She wore them with pride, like long-lasting blushes. But there was still one lesson she had to teach me—a lesson in humility and gratefulness.
“It’s not about how long you can hold your breath—it’s about the last 10 seconds.”
The Scene That Changed Everything
Let me take you to an intense BDSM scene. But before we go there, you need to understand something: Sadism isn’t about how much suffering or pain you can inflict. Ren Yagami, a famous Japanese rope master, once told me, “It’s like holding your breath. It’s not about how long you can hold it, it’s about the last 10 seconds. They are the same for everyone.” It’s all about playing on the edge, pushing just enough to dance along that razor-thin line of what someone can take.
So here’s how that night went.
We met at SPNKD just before she was leaving for a holiday. Bikini weather and kids around, so bruising was an absolute no-go. But for a creative Sadist, that’s never a problem. I had her kneel naked in front of the bath while I filled it with cold water, and I explained the rules of our little game. “Hold your hands out in front of you, palms up. I’ll hit them with a cane. If you pull back when I hit you, you must immediately hold them up again for the next strike. If not, I’ll dunk your head under water for as long as I want. If you hold still, we’ll continue.” Simple enough, right?
She knelt there, poised, elegant, and completely exposed. I took a moment to just look at her, to connect with her energy before I started. Then came the first hit—hard enough to show her I wasn’t playing around. Her hands trembled slightly, but she held them up. With every strike, we built the intensity, moving together into a trance, flowing with the rhythm of pain and control. I could feel her struggles, and I enjoyed every part of it.
Every time she pulled back, I held her head under the cold water, watching her body tense, her breath catching in her throat as she fought the urge to resist. The more she struggled, the more powerful I felt. It was intoxicating, this dance of dominance. Each hit, each gasp for air, each flinch of her body only fuelled my desire to push her further.
And then, the moment came. She was crawling on the floor, wet, trembling, struggling to get back on her knees. I grabbed her hair, pulling her back into position, feeling the surge of power course through me. She was at my mercy. Ready to hit her again, I raised my hand, prepared to push her beyond her limits. But then, she looked up at me.
Our eyes met, and in that moment, she smiled.
Not a smile of defeat, but one filled with love, with warmth, with something deeper than submission. It hit me like a wave, crashing over me, knocking me off my pedestal. She wasn’t going to break. Not tonight. And in that split second, my ego tumbled from its throne.
Of course, I ramped up the intensity, hitting harder, pushing further. But we both knew the truth now. It wasn’t because I had power over her. It was because she allowed me to. She was giving me her submission, offering it like a gift. And in that realisation, I was humbled.
“In a D/s dynamic, sometimes the submissive is the stronger one.”
Afterward, we sat on the couch, her head resting on my lap, our bodies still humming from the intensity of what we had just shared. As I stroked her hair, I understood something I hadn’t fully grasped before. Submission is strength. Real, undeniable strength. The kind that commands respect, the kind that leaves you feeling small in the face of its power.
In that quiet moment, I realised the full depth of the D/s dynamic. It’s never one-way. It’s a constant flow, a give-and-take, a balance of power that shifts back and forth. Sometimes, the Dominant is in control. But other times, it’s the submissive who holds all the cards.
And in that, I found gratitude. Because the Sadist can only live by the grace of the Masochist. It’s her trust, her willingness to push her limits, and her enjoyment of the experience that gives my role its true meaning. Without that, it’s just ego and bravado—no substance. And she had given me everything.
And sometimes, she still looks up at me and smiles. Not a big grin, but a small, knowing smile that says everything. It’s in those moments that I realise why I do this. Those moments—when she’s still smiling at me—are the best. That’s when I know I’ve done it right.
