Page 9 of Interview with a Sadist
“I’ve never felt a pain that was pleasurable,” I say, and Nolan raises an eyebrow.
“You’ve never been with someone who could show you what you’re missing out on,” he says, making my muscles instantly rigid. “Being closed-minded doesn’t protect you the way you think it does, Bree. It merely prevents you from experiencing pleasures that require you to be outside of your comfort zone. There’s an entire world of happiness and pleasure out there, but in order to reach it, you’ll have to leave the safety of your closed mind. You don’t even know how satisfied you could be.”
The two of us stare at each other without blinking. Tension forms and builds in the space between us as thick as smog, and my thoughts continue to run away from me. While I want to stay offended and upset by a man admitting that he likes to hurt women, there’s something beneath the surface of my ire that keeps poking its head up. I know it’s wrong, and know for a fact that my friends would’ve walked out of this interview already, but my curiosity continues to make its presence known.
What pleasure could Nolan possibly be talking about? I’m not some prude who has never done anything before. I’ve masturbated. I’ve had plenty of sex, and I’ve had great orgasms. With all of that, how could I be missing something? Nolan said I don’t even know how satisfied I could be. Is that really possible?
I’ve never been afraid to admit that my upbringing has made me a certain way, and I don’t blame my parents for being conservative and shielding me from things they thought were dangerous. I’m not resentful for the teachings they gave me, but maybe Nolan is right about me being closed-minded. I’ve never experienced anything anywhere near the realm of BDSM. My brain just associates pain with something Idon’twant. Pain is pain, not pleasure. Anybody who wants to hurt me is a psychopath or sociopath. It has always been that simple for me, and yet I can’t deny the fact that I’ve felt like I want something more. Is this it?
“Sometimes people just know they’re missing something without actually knowing what it is they’re missing.”
After a moment of intense silence, I place my notepad on the table next to my recorder and let out a long exhale. When I sit back, I try to recenter myself and get back to my usual calm and careful diligence.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Nolan, whose face never changes. “I’m not sure why I went so far off track. I’ve never done that during an interview before, and I apologize for being so unprofessional.”
“No need for apologies,” Nolan replies. “Like I said in the beginning, I’m doing this to educate people. So, as long as you’re willing to chip away at some of the barriers you have up, I’d love to continue. So, what’s next?”
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate your patience. As far as what’s next—that’s a great question.”
I try to force myself to pick up the notepad and get back to the questions I have written down. The questions are my guide, and I know it’d be a mistake to ignore them. However, I just can’t shake the growing need to know about this—about him and his experiences. I want to understand and be shown something that could convince me that there is more out there than what I’ve experienced. Maybe I really don’t know what I’ve been missing, and I want to find out.
After a final exhale that blows out the voice in my head telling me not to do this, I leave the notepad on the table and sit back.
“Okay, I have a favor to ask you,” I begin, to which Nolan nods his silent agreement. “I want you to tell me about it.”
“Tell you about it. Tell you aboutwhat?”
“Your sadism,” I answer. “Can you give me an example of what the experience is like from your perspective?”
“You mean a BDSM experience? A sexual experience?”
I clear my throat. “Umm, yes.”
Even though he’s already leaning back on the couch, Nolan somehow manages to sit back further and relax even more. I can see the thoughts dancing around in his mind as he eyes me carefully, again waiting for me to take it back, but I won’t. Once he sees that I’m not backing out, he smiles and sits up.
“It’d be my pleasure.”
ChapterSeven
~ NOLAN ~
“It’d be my pleasure,” I tell the judgy little journalist from the Philly Inquirer. Excitement creeps up my body, radiating through me with each pulse of my heart as I think about where all of this began for me. This interview is bringing it all back, and I relish the idea of talking about it, especially to Bree Barrett.
Considering she has no idea what the lifestyle is all about, there’s something about Bree that intrigues me. It’s not the way she attempts being combative about a topic of which she is completely uninformed, but it’s the way she says what she says. Her words speak one thing, while her voice says something else. Maybe I’m reading it wrong, but as much as Bree tries to convince me she’s appalled by the idea of sadism, I think she’s more intrigued by it than she’d like me to know.
I’ve never been one to get caught up on what a woman looks like. No, I leave the shallow methods of finding a woman to lesser men. For me, the focus has always been something much more visceral and innate. I’m looking for something deeper, something that speaks to me much more than words can, something primal. It’s difficult to fit this into a one-word definition, but regardless of how it’s labeled, Bree Barrett possesses it. I saw it the very first moment our eyes met, and I felt it when we shook hands—imagine static electricity making the hair on your arms stand. Bree doesn’t look at me like a woman wanting sex. She looks at me like a woman who wants to learn. Instead of being turned off by her fear and wanting to run from it, she’s intrigued by it, and that fascination pours from her eyes and seeps into her body language. So, while I hear what she says, it’s her body language I’m listening to.
On the other hand, I’d be lying if I said Bree isn’t stunning. She looks positively delectable in her burgundy skirt and matching belt. Her long-sleeved plaid top is perfectly in sync with the bottom, with black, white, gray, and burgundy stripes crisscrossing all over it, and her dark brown hair is gorgeous, coming down in waves just past her shoulders. She’s around five-foot-six, but carries herself like she’s six-feet tall, and her roughly one-hundred-eighty pounds is perfectly placed on her frame, giving her all the curves lesser men are afraid to navigate. She’s a beautiful woman with porcelain-pale skin, and round blue eyes that mesmerize me every time I look into them. She’s angelic, and the longer I’m in her presence, the more I want to do devilish things to her … but I digress.
“Where would you like me to begin, Miss Barrett?” I ask. I have my own ideas of where to start, but I want to know what interests Bree.
“Umm, I don’t know,” she says. “You choose. You said you were here to educate. Well, consider me here to learn. Start wherever you’d like, with whichever story you’d like. The floor is yours.”
“Well,” I say, fighting back a smile. “As I stated earlier, I’ve always known there was something different about me. My fascination with sex went beyond the usual in-and-out of it, and I found that the color red made my heart race more than anything else.”
Bree frowns and tilts her head. “The color red?”
“Yes,” I answer. “Particularly, the way a woman’s skin turns red when you touch it in just the right way, and I don't mean flushing red out of embarrassment or because it’s warm in the room. I’m referring to how the skin streaks after it's whipped or slapped.” Bree flinches, pinching her lips together, which only motivates me to continue. “Watching a woman’s skin react to my touch sends me into a frenzy. If you're looking for something more specific for your readers, I could add much more detail of what I experience when I’m in a scene.”
