Dacryphilia: Turned On By Crying & Tears

Dacryphilia: Turned On By Crying & Tears

Let me help you understand my dacryphilia… how and why I’m turned on by crying & tears.

It’s when he gets close to tears that I feel the first physical stirrings of arousal, rather than merely mental pre-cursors. Knowing I’ve pushed his buttons so perfectly, driven him to that point, the brink, causes a hot rush of sensation which flows down my body finishing as a decidedly wet patch in my underwear.

I can tell he’s heading in the direction of tears long before those beautiful droplets well up in his eyes, blurring his vision further. There’s a tension in how he holds his body, as well as in the atmosphere between us. It crackles in the air silently, my careful rough handling and prodding moving him down the path while he attempts to resist.

He tries to hold himself together. Take deep, calming breaths. But my words come in a sadistic torrent. I don’t even need to raise my voice; the stream of targeted remarks is enough to erode his ego like the gentle bubbling of acid.

The defensive barrier behind his eyes yields. His rigid stance slackens as his body follows his mind’s submission. I’ve taken him there, where he wants… no, needs to go. A place where his usual arrogance isn’t invited, where he must leave his ego at the door. It’s difficult for him to disrobe his everyday regalia, they are worn habitually. My help is always required.

As the barrier crashes down within him, crumbling to reveal his true self, tears then finally begin to form. I see the subtlest glint and can’t help wetting my own lips with my tongue in anticipation –in between my incessant tirade, the code to unlock his complete submissive self.

I’ve demanded replies to sharply humiliating questions. Unlike others who don’t retain my interest, his replies are never the mindless, monotonous “yes, Mistress” or “no, Mistress” answers which lack sincerity, commitment and desire to connect. The words may be the same, yes, or no as appropriate, with my respectful title, or some other tidbit of information I’ve demanded. As the tirade continues, however, his voice begins to crack, the tone becomes higher, more fraught. It helps me understand how thin the ice is that I’m skating over. Where to press on, and where to circle around -unless I want us to instantly plummet into the freezing waters of his unleashed temper.

It is a skilled guidance, the path towards his delicious tears, even though it may not seem a controlled journey from the outside.

That is not to say I always get it right; even with experience mistakes are made, pressing too hard… or treading too softly where I should press my advantage, to his unspoken frustration. But when he is led to those tears at a perfect pace, guided down to deep submission one step at a time, the end result is spectacular and achingly beautiful.

The spark of tears is among the first signs we’re getting there, while he maintains the eye-contact with me that I’ve insisted upon. I need to read those eyes, to help me know where to take him next. As one shimmering droplet overflows and runs down his reddening face, he brings up a fist to scrub it away in embarrassment. A mistake, on his part.

Scolding follows. How dare he rub away that gift, that tangible sparkling gem of his submission, and without permission besides? Does he want to make me unhappy? Is he doing his best to displease me and to make me incredibly sad? Why would he block me from being able to enjoy his tears when he knows I love to see him cry?

The tears are falling properly now; guilt and fear and devotion almost suffocating the embarrassment to allow for choked sobs of responses. The façade of control over his actions, and his voice, is gone. Instead he stands there crying. Hot, fat tears splashing down which ignite my already awakened arousal.

He looks every inch the broken man, and I relish every detail while it lasts. He’s in disarray, verbally abused, face wet from crying, and he’s almost unable to answer even simple questions. We both know the truth, however. The barrier inside has fallen – been ripped down – enabling him to connect with his submissive self. Those tears help to lubricate the powerful orgasm I reach down to give myself – as he watches from subspace, noisy crying fading to the soothing balm of muffled, rhythmic sobs.

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