I received the comment below and I found it so affecting I had to make it into a blog post.
The theme is I think identical to that in my post of January 2018 but Lady Jessica and I arrive at the same outcome via somewhat different psychological techniques. I do note that in order to succeed Lady Jessica’s technique requires a continuing regime of very harsh endurances for her skivvy , but there is nothing wrong with that!
Dear Mistress Scarlet
I am so pleased you managed to retrieve my previous message and I am flattered to honoured to see it featured on your wonderful blog. I do hope that whatever male (or “male”) creature was responsible for its deletion was soundly thrashed. Even if BB was nowhere near your computer at the time, his sin of omission in failing to prevent you from deleting it was surely a grave one. It is always a male’s fault, I find, don’t you?
Your latest post made me think, as so many of them do. I would like to put in a few words in favour of a somewhat neglected trait I believe a domme should display: the willingness to be merciful. Kindness, my dear Mistress Scarlet, is under-rated in the world of female domination.
I myself occasionally take pity on my little skivvy and I show him the true quality of my mercy, with an act of kindness. On my way up to bed, I might, for example, pop into the study where he is hunched over his desk, writing lines in a task that he knows will keep him up until 3am at the earliest (with chores to do from 5.30 the next day, as every other). Asking him how many he has done, and observing his wretched face as he tells me he has not yet reached 200 of the 500 assigned, I might take pity and smilingly declare that he can reach the 200 and make an early night of it – or even just tell him, he can put his pencil down then and there. The relief, joy and gratitude on his face is a tonic, it truly is.
Or I might perhaps pause during a thrashing and ask the sobbing wreck strapped so tightly over the whipping bench, whether he is truly sorry. On being assured that he is, I might perhaps declare that I will let him off the remaining strokes, as he seems so sincerely contrite, and put the cane aside before loosening his straps and allowing the thankful skivvy to stagger off to resume his duties, stammering out his gratitude and his appreciation of his kind, merciful Mistress.
Why do I act in this soft-hearted fashion, Mistress Scarlet? Well, let me quote John Cleese’s character in the film Clockwise: “It’s not the despair, Laura. I can take the despair. It’s the hope I can’t stand.”
You see, Mistress Scarlet, there will be other occasions on which skivvy is sitting at his desk, facing a numbingly tedious written imposition stretching impossibly late into the night. Many, many other occasions. His hand aching, his buttocks numb from sitting on the hard stool, his mind a whirl with the humiliation of being unable to escape this mind-numbingly tedious and thoroughly pointless task. And he will hear me walk past the door of the study… perhaps I will come in. Or perhaps he will simply be listening intently, trying to decide whether I have already gone up to bed and left him to his task, or whether he still has hope. Because, thanks to my occasional acts of kindness, he does always have hope. And that hope, my dear, transforms what might be merely a tedious and unpleasant but inevitable night of discomfort into something quite unbearable. Into torment. Because he can never resign himself completely to the inevitable while hope remains.
Of course, that hope rests on the most slender thread imaginable. His heart may leap when I enter the room, only to fall into despair when I pick up some item or other and leave him to his fate. He knows in his heart of hearts that this is the most likely outcome. Perhaps, after asking how far he has got, I will casually double the lines he must write, or pick up the sheaf of scribbled papers and tear them up, instructing him to begin again in a colour more to my liking. These are both much more likely than an act of mercy on my part – and he knows it. But while he still has hope, there is always a chance for him to pray for silently, and the crushing of that hope when I dash it, Mistress Scarlet, more than makes up for those rare occasions when I have to act against my nature and extend the little swine any mercy.
Consider the skivvy strapped across the whipping bench, receiving a good dose of the cane. I ask if he is truly sorry. If I am simply to carry on regardless of his answer, then some formulaic sobbed “I’m so sorry Mistress” might be as good a response as any other. But he knows I can be merciful, he knows I can be kind. And oh! – how desperately he pleads, how he shrieks for that mercy he knows I can so very easily bestow, remembering those vanishingly rare occasions on which the flogging ceased as a result! How much more he screams when the whipping simply resumes after his desperate begging, or is doubled or tripled at a whim. And yet, later in the punishment, his breathing hoarse as he has little left from screaming, I might ask him again and his heart will leap anew at the thought that I might yet let him off even the few remaining slashes from that dreadful cane and he will beg and plead for me again.
Of course, he knows the chance is always vanishingly small. He must tell himself repeatedly not to get his hopes up: that silently wishing and praying for mercy is almost certain to be ineffective against my stern resolve to enforce my regime. But he can’t help himself, can he? Try as might, he cannot help thinking that this latest unbearable slash of fire across his throbbing backside will be the last, that the remaining strokes that he can hardly imagine ‘taking’ might not have to be taken at all. Please? And then the whirr of the cane through the air and the crack of the latest outrage on his poor abused flesh and the scream that follows a thousand shrieking nerves reporting pain receptors ablaze across his rump. And then, once again, as the pause before the next one lengthens: that unbearable glimmer of hope.
Hopes dashed, Mistress Scarlet – so much more unpleasant than hopes never entertained at all. Don’t you agree? Daily, I inflict pain and suffering on skivvy’s body, of course, but the greatest pleasure of all is to crush a soul, to break his spirit. And hope is like a drop from the fountain of youth: it rejuvenates and restores his spirit, enabling me to crush it once more. To crush it, break it, annihilate it… and yet it comes back for more pain and humiliation (and more there will always be), thanks to hope.
Without hope, I believe, I would have a shambling zombie of a servant to abuse – shambling from chore to punishment and back again in a constant state of degradation and defeat. With it, I have a human being: beaten and subjugated, to be sure, not much of a human being, but as there is always that glimmer of spirit, there is a spark of humanity there. A human being longing and praying that things might turn out not to be as bad as his fears… and vulnerable to the misery when those fears are realised. To be plunged into despair: again and again and again and again. Delightful!
They say sometimes one must be cruel to be kind, my dear Mistress Scarlet. But only the sadist knows that to be cruel – to be truly cruel – one must just occasionally be kind.
Yours in sincere sisterhood