Sunday, October 30, 2016

Hotel

By Brewt.Blacklist

October 2016

ANYTHING GOOD on tonight?

No, nothing yet.

Well, god damn it, I want to see some action. Who do we have?

Hmmm; I think these guys are on a business trip for some cheap-ass company that wouldn’t even spring for separate rooms.

Let’s see. Jesus Christ, look at that.

What?

Do you honestly believe either one of them really doesn’t sleep in the buff back at the house?

Probably not.

So, fix it.

What for?

It would be entertaining.

I don’t know that I want to.

So? How does that matter? Do it. Do it!

Ow! Fine. Whatever. Naked.

Naked. That’s better. Look at the looks on their faces. That is fucking priceless.

It is pretty amusing.

So shall we impress upon them what comes next?

“Next?”

You know what I mean.

Oh, do I? Am I correct in assuming that you’re really just wanting to see a couple of nice guys express their innermost feelings that they’ve had to keep hidden and suppressed their entire lives, and take a chance and end up holding each other, shedding a couple of tears as they experiment with a little naughty touching?

Not quite, no.

So, what, then? Accidental circle jerk, or something? Maybe we have a porno they could watch that they can’t see back home.

No, what I really want to see is a couple of obviously homophobic straight guys fuck each other’s brains out, who have to go home and encounter each other every day from now on, looking each other directly in the eye with all the chagrin in the world, haunted beyond the shadow of a doubt as to what happened here between them.

What makes you think they’re straight?

Wedding rings are still a reasonably good indicator, aren’t they?

I suppose. And homophobic?

The fact that they aren’t laughing at their sudden nudity; the weird mix of contempt and fascination that is catching their breaths.

Ah, you mean the way they’re trying to cover themselves back up—which, granted, is a little strange, the way they’re using just their fingers—as well as all the surreptitious glances and sneers at each other, both towards the faces and the crotches?

All the while pretending they’re not looking. You’re right; I wonder why they aren’t just crawling back under the covers. Listen, do you really care about these guys, their integrities, their holier-than-thou dignities?

I suppose not.

So let’s have some fun. Say “boners.”

Why?

Because it’ll embarrass the shit out of them. Indulge me.

It would, wouldn’t it? Boners.

There we go. Look at those blushes. No explanations: say that, too.

What, you don’t want them to talk about their special emotions?

Blech; do you want our sojourners here to prattle on all god damn night about their childhoods, or how uncomfortable they are with themselves deep down, or making up lies about how they are really thinking about fucking their wives, and never get around to doing anything good? Speak.

You’re right. No explanations.

That’s the way. And there it is. The spark of recognition. Inevitability. Look. Look! Move the hands away—yes! They are panting like racehorses.

They don’t even seem all that spooked, do they? Are we done? Shall we just let nature take its course?

I don’t think so; this is just getting interesting. Maybe they should rub their wee-wees for each other, demonstrating just how they pleasure themselves in ways that they wouldn’t dare show their better halves, blurring their little hands on their wangs, and bring them right up to the brink for some denial and edging for a while. Get their lusts built up to something monumental.

You’re really kind of evil, you know that, right?

What’s your point?

I probably don’t have one.

As many surprise lesbian shows that you’ve insisted had to happen, no, you don’t. Pronounce the words: masturbate and watch; don’t cum from it yet.

Do I have to stay for this part?

That’s the only way it works and you know it. Now say it. Say it!

Ow! Shit, what was tha—Ow! Okay, okay. Masturbate and watch. You happy? God.

Hey, aren’t we going to make them edge?

Not interested.

Spoil sport.

You know this doesn’t do that much for me.

Oh, boo hoo. You’re not secure enough in your own heterosexuality to be able to put up with a little viewing of men touching cocks? How do you think it makes me feel when you make me watch two hot babes fucking each other blind?

I sincerely didn’t think you minded that too terribly much. In fact, I sort of had the idea that you may have even gotten something ou—

—Shut up. Gawd. Tell me something.

What?

Are you so insecure in my heterosexuality to think that I don’t just love the bejesus out of them?

Love who?

Not who. Penises. Much better than vaginas. Long hard hot erect pulsing throbbing pounding rampant and needy single-minded penises? That’s the stuff of dreams.

It is amazing just how thoroughly that statement you just made turned me completely off. Do you want to change the channel?

No. I want to see these two guys get it on with each other like they had to. Know why?

No clue.

The only thing more glorious than one sumptuous raging hardon fucking away to beat the band—for a twisted dyed-in-the-wool heterosexual cunt like myself—is two. Please? Pretty please?

Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I give in. As you fucking wish. Fuck and suck each other.

Until the cock crows.

Good god, woman. Really?

Yes. Really. Now say it, you selfish inconsiderate bastard, who doesn’t want to give the woman he loves what little she wants.

Ow! Until the cock crows. Quit hitting me.

You’ll live. Fuck and suck each other until the cock crows.

Can we see what else is on? Our work here is done. They’ll be fine.

Hang on; look at that. Change of plan.

Now what?

One of them isn’t circumcised.

So? You only just now noticed that?

Holy shit, do you know what I really want to see?

Uh oh.

As in, right god damn now?

Oh, like my saying “no” to whatever insane notion you’re cooking up is going to shut you up.

Fuck off.

Wait; is that an offer?

God damn it, stop it. Let go.

No, I mean it. What do you say if we just finish up a couple chores and turn all this crap off tonight and pay some attention to each other for once? Let these poor people get some sleep?

Like that works. Especially around here.

I would like to make love to you.

Not a chance in heaven. I’m on a mission. From god.

Christ. What’s the whole point of this place if we ourselves don’t get off in the process?

You can jerk off all you want; you do anyway. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Of course I know.

You know what I mean.

That’s not going to happen; I’m still mad at you.

Oh? Do we need to talk?

Don’t you even try to cop a feel here. Je-he-sus. Get your mind out from between your own legs and put it to some fucking good use: between someone else’s. Now look. Circumcised boy is sucking non-circumcised boy like it was important.

Gad; yeah? So?

Well, I want him to cum.

Which one?

The guy getting hoovered, duh.

Oh, aren’t you the gracious one: the god damn voyeuristic orgasmic bliss fairy doling out her favors like it wasn’t inescapably destined to happen anyway. Why?

You know, you’d think boys would be inherently, innately good at sucking cock, but, apparently, this is not the case. Help me out here. Say “orgasm.”

Cool your jets. They’ll get to it in their own good time. Besides, you still haven’t told me why-for all the all-fired hurry.

Because, I want him—the circumcised dude—to have the crazy-ass idea that what he really wants in this life, is to get his cock actually worked in under the foreskin of his friend-and-now-lover, so that he is all the way inside the other guy’s dick, not to mention how much I want his lover-and-friend-to-the-end to think that is the best idea he has ever heard. And I’m pretty sure that for that to work, the dude getting so poorly blown is going to need to be limp. Which at the moment, ain’t happenin’.

Jesus, you’re sick.

No, come on. Wouldn’t that be cool? See a guy getting fucked in his cock instead of his ass? For once? Oh…ah. There we go. As you say: male orgasm is inevitable. The first batch of jizz for the night, despite obvious shortcomings in the whole cocksucking department. Splendid. Now go ahead, swallow it like the considerate fag we all know you are; attaboy. How about that? Didn’t even need your kind assistance.

He’s going to barf, you know.

I don’t care.

You will if you have to be the one that cleans their room tomorrow.

Motherfucker. Keep it down.

Might teach you a lesson.

Not if I go out of my way to make sure you’re the one who’s going to clean that room. You know I can do that, right? Feminine wiles and all?

Fuckermother. Keep it down.

Hmph; good call. That was close.

Then we would have really had to fuck up their desires and aberrations and enthusiasms. If, you know, you wanted to see them keep going.

Ew.

Hey, you’re the one that started us down this vile and abominable path tonight. Just saying.

Aw, they’re cuddling. Isn’t that sweet? Let’s do it. Move them on along to the next obscene-beyond-the-telling-of-it step.

I’m not sure I’m on board with this. Might not be good for them.

Oh, get off your creepy peeping little high-horse. How many times have you insisted on ogling some good old fashioned fist fucking, or asserted that what was really important here was nothing less than a little relentless cock worshipping by veritable harems of women, or even contended for the tying of some helpless little martyr, comma, female, to the bed to have her forced to orgasm until all she could do was screech her lungs out? Jesus fucking Christ.

I don’t think that’s the same.

Puh-lease. One quaint little perversion is as good as another.

Bullshit. Some of it you don’t come back from; not the same as you were when you went in. Er, came in. Got here. However that works.

What, you don’t think any of the little bitches you’ve had take on the role of rape victim here or bukakke target or fucktoy to a bunch of fat inept losers with mommy issues hasn’t needed years of therapy to get over the peculiar mushing up of her sensibilities that washed over her that one fucking night of fucking that she stumbled into this depth of hell we call home?

Yeah, well—

—So don’t you even try to tell me anything about the damage we “might” do to the delicate psyches of a couple of good ol’ boys. Pretty sure they can take whatever we can throw at them without deciding it would be better to opt out, if you know what I mean. Besides. Think about it. When they’re standing next to each other at the urinals at work, sporting fresh irrepressible hardons, they can fess up to how they’re chafing themselves raw after their beloveds go to sleep because they can’t stop thinking about what it felt like to have one of them up to his balls in the other’s cock, and the unfathomable joy they experienced in having ejaculate surge out of one pisshole right down into the other. They’ll do it again, right there, at the office, over and over until they are completely addicted to it, and have to spread the cut-boy’s urethra out incurably wide with sounds and spreaders so the gentile boy can see what it’s all about, and they’ll end up doing it to each other so often that they get caught and have to try to explain to their wives or their bosses just what exactly they are doing under each other’s desks or behind the shed at a barbecue.

And that’ll all work out so well for them.

It’ll be good for society. Put them in the position to have to advocate for gay rights or some shit.

Right. So you want to see two guys fucking each other in the actual cock for the sake of social consciousness.

Made you smile.

You’re so fucking funny.

Aren’t I though? Now say it.

You aren’t going to let me—or them—out of this, are you.

Not a fucking chance. Tell you what. When we’re done here? I’ll hold your penis. In bed. Like I used to.

Promises, promises.

I mean it.

I’d rather you sucked it.

Lord; uhh…I’ll kiss it instead, then. But that’s as far as I’ll go.

That’s it? No generous offer to bang the gong slowly?

No, I’m still pissed at you. But I will kneel down before you—tonight—and let you feel like a hero with a solemn and dutiful smooch planted on the head of your precious pecker that you can improvise on about the next time you rub one out.

Would you stay for that?

Why, so you can paint your partner-in-crime white? Ugh. I don’t think so.

Had to ask.

Do we have a deal?

No scorning, or scoffing; no snarky remarks.

No, of course not.

A slow kiss.

S-sure.

Every night for a week.

Don’t press your luck, bucko.

Take it or leave it. I can change the channel; no skin off my nose.

Fuck. Done.

I truly don’t know why I let you talk me into some of this shit. Fuck him in the cock.

Same reason I let you do the same for me: we like to watch. Fuck him in the cock.

Holy Christ.

Will you look at that?

I’ll be go to hell. I would not have thought that was even possible.

It’s a thing of beauty, isn’t it? Just look at the way their eyes are rolling around in their heads. Both of them. Who knew?

You know, I’m much more geared to be attracted to the sight of how women’s eyes roll around in their heads when they get themselves spun up into this kind of euphoria, not to mention the wonderful sounds you all make in the throes. That’s an evolutionary response, you know. Goes back to the caves.

Golly; who cares? Oh. Oh, yeah. Now we’re getting somewhere: just look at all the ecstasy.

This—this is the real reason for a bris.

What is?

So young men don’t learn to fuck by fucking each other’s ding dongs.

Yeah, yeah. So, what do you think? When uncut boy here has his next orgasm, will he be cumming with his own or his boyfriend’s sperm?

Obviously, for scientific reasons, this isn’t the only time this is going to happen, is it.

Most obviously. All night long. And every day from now on, ever after.

All night long.

Don’t you let me down.

Ow! Sheesh. And every day, happily, ever after. Might as well make sure they like it, eh?

You old softie. Happily, ever after, then.

Don’t forget: you owe me.

Uh huh, right. You’ll be lucky if I don’t slip and accidently bite it.

That makes me feel so much better; thanks.

###

SO WHO else do we have?

There’s a couple who staggered in from the bar across the street.

Well, we’re probably not going to have to do too much for them, are we?

Doesn’t look like it, no.

Wow. Even I’m impressed. He’s huge.

I must say, we don’t get that many real live monster cocks in here. Look at him go. Like a fucking jackrabbit.

That’s the kind of fucking that can take any girl’s breath away. What’s that in her purse?

A hard core rampaging sexual intercourse before you that puts porn stars to shame, that is risking one of our good bedframes with dire collapse, and you care about a fucking purse.

What is it?

I can’t tell.

Well, I want to know. Make him cum, so she has an excuse to go to the bathroom.

Really? Now?

Yes, really.

Alright. Like a geyser.

What, again? Is that all you ever want to see?

Absolutely. You think all this outstanding effort on his part should just be for a little spurt? Like a fucking geyser.

Makes me wonder about your stalwart heterosexuality.

Say it, or he’s going fuck her to death.

Geeze; like a fucking geyser. I swear, I do not understand your interest in seeing the little sluts getting inundated and overwhelmed by semen. It’s not that pleasant a sensation, you know. It’s revolting. Disgusting. Disgraceful.

It’s a dominance thing. Besides, she’s still trying to impress him, so, he could firehose her and it would be alright. See? Giggles. Of delight, I might add. Oh, and will you look at that? That, my dear, is a sincere attempt to demonstrate her respect for him and her concern for his rapture with some outright adoration, straight up from the very depths of her soul, imbued with all the submission and devotion she can present him with, through unadulterated reverent licking.

You’re such a pompous ass. But it is as sexy as fuck, I’ll give you that. You don’t think she looks stupid with all the drooling?

Not at all. We are beholden to pure idolatry. Pay attention: there might be a test.

Har de-fucking har har. We’re going to have to wash those sheets in extra hot water.

Bleach. Your job.

Yuck. There’s advantages to not knowing what goes on in these rooms, you know.

I think you’ll survive.

Ach, the romance I have to put up with around here; be still my beating heart. Now, quit slobbering, princess; get up. Go to the bathroom. Don’t forget your purse…that’s it. God damn it, moron, quit trying to talk to the little cocksucker. She’s already impressed. Fuck, she’s not going. Let’s push things along; give me a hand. Before he tells her some stupid joke she’ll have to laugh at.

Still impatient?

Why, yes I am. There might be some real television on tonight I’m interested in.

I don’t know, what else are you willing to offer?

Nothing. Release me, you cad.

Ow! Stop that! Can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?

Oh, for Pete’s sake, stop trying to make this about you. Don’t let them get carried away into some ridiculous conversation that ends up with them caring about each other and getting married or some other genuine horror like that.

You aren’t this demanding on your birthday. Go to the bathroom, lady.

You think that’s a lady?

Be nice. God, she is a mess now, isn’t she?

Girl certainly has to freshen up after something like that little splashing, put on a good face for the next act. Now take it out, whore…ahem. Quit rolling your eyes.

Ow! What did I say about hitting me? Take it out.

I knew it. Do you fucking see that?

Mother of god, it’s bigger than he is.

Is that what you call that? “Bigger?”

Okay, yeah, more like dwarfs him down to miniscule. Wonder what she was thinking, packing that colossus along to go out to the bars with.

Jesus; she’s showing that-that thing more affection than she showed him.

It seems to mean something to her.

Seems to mean a lot to her.

What’s our little man doing?

Panting. Stretching his schlong out, trying to achieve erection again. Playing with his balls. Nothing important.

I want to see her swallow it.

Him or her toy?

Both, of course. But yeah. The artificial infidel.

Her gargantuan piece of plastic will kill her if she does that.

Sorry; that’s the last thing we need around here.

I hate to say it, but I want to see that, too.

Are we agreed?

Yes. Deep throat yourself with the dildo.

Deep throat yourself with the dildo.

Christ almighty; she’s done this before.

Holy fuck, and not just once or twice. Practice makes fucking perfect.

I would have sworn that was impossible; she’s such a cute little thing. Not even flinching. All the god damn way in.

Whoa, look at the way it bulges her throat out. Slow down, darling.

Shit-yeah, slow down; way down. Make sure you really fucking feel it.

Crimeny. She-she’s ravishing herself.

Did you make her do that?

No, I did not.

Wish I’d thought of it. I want to see her cum.

Oh, yeah. I want to see her cum now, too. Hard.

Yes. Hard. With that freakish atrocity choking her.

With that freakish atrocity choking her.

Now that is a woman in the presence of god.

Sure as fuck is. This is almost like church, isn’t it?

You could say that. Er, no, wait, not really.

So what do you think? Is she going to do up all the straps and fuck him like he fucked her? And do we get to help him accept such a splendid fate?

Nah; let’s turn it around.

What?

Let’s have her give it to him to put on, and fuck her with it.

Isn’t that going to deflate his precious ego, what with how he simply must have so god damn much of it wrapped up into his still rather magnificent willy? That despite all the odds, he somehow isn’t enough for her?

Not if he can double fuck her.

Huh?

Sure. She can—obviously—suck him back to rampaging and hard again in nothing flat, then give him the strapon to wear so he can fuck both her pussy and ass at the same time.

You are so fucking perverted.

Oh, and you’re not. It’ll do them both some good. Give them an unbelievable story to brag about, if nothing else.

I suppose it would, wouldn’t it?

Maybe not one for the grandkids.

Or, maybe, yes. Just that kind of story. That’d be fun, wouldn’t it?

I thought you didn’t want to condemn her to such a wretched dreary wedded life, full of drudgery and laundry and shit.

To have a size queen like her hitched to such a nice big boy? It’ll be fine. So let it be done. Brag to the grandkids. Hell, everyone.

If you say so. So let it be done. Brag to the grandkids; everyone. Hell, show them all.

You’re kidding.

No. Say that.

I don’t think so.

Mind me! Do it!

Ow! Show them all. Gah. You fiend. Barbarian. Hitting your defenseless bride.

That’s my girl. Give these nice folks a splendid future, in, say, the pornography industry. See? We’re not completely amoral…made you smile.

Oh, Sacred Heart of Jesus. I think we have made her a happy woman. I thought she came hard before.

We’re going to need a new mattress in there.

###

ANYONE ELSE?

Well, there’s a couple with their daughter in the adjoining roo—

—Oh, no you don’t.

…Oh, “no-I-don’t” what?

No sir. Not again.

What the hell are you talking about?

Are you kidding me? How can you not remember this?

Remember what?

What you did? Of all the things you’ve ever done here, that was by the far the worst. Ever.

Wait, are you saying we did something actually bad?

Not me, shitwipe. You.

No, whatever the fuck-god-hell we’re doing here constitutes a “we,” dear. It’s always a “we.” This doesn’t work if we don’t agree.

I know. But somehow, you had to have made me go along with it. I just don’t know how.

Like I have the slightest skill at making you do anything. And go along with what?

Fuck you.

Absolutely. I’m all for that. ‘Bout god damn time, if you ask me. Let’s go.

Unhand me. Why do you keep turning every-fucking-thing around here back into that?

Excuse me?

No.

No? No what?

No. You are I are not going to go trip the light fantastic, and we are not ruining this family.

I’m really not understa—oh. Great. A fresh pout and a frump, and, I would presume, more silent treatment. Like there isn’t enough of that going on around here.

Respect my fucking wishes here, would you? For once?

What wishes? How do I not pamper your every whim?

I don’t want to play any more tonight.

I beg your pardon? And just who was it that just got done getting her jollies from seeing a couple of nice straight clean respectful husbands fuck each other senseless in a way that makes Sodom and Gomorrah into a fucking joke, with the full confidence and knowledge that they will go out of their fucking way to do it—fuck—just like that for the rest of their miserable little lives? Not to mention how delicious you thought it would be to saddle a tiny woman with a horse cock so they could impress their children’s children with tales of how much and how fucking hard they fucking fucked throughout their whole for-better-or-worse, with full video record of their exploits out there for everyone in the world to see?

This isn’t the same. And, for the record, the public scrutiny of their communions was not my idea.

Unbelievable. You know, this isn’t even the first time you have made me—me—squeamish with the depths of your abhorrent sexual deviancies.

I want to go to bed now. Don’t I owe you a nice good night kiss?

Oh, listen to this. Don’t you even want to look in on our guests? You know that bad things—really bad things—happen if we don’t…diffuse things.

I’ll take my chances.

You mean you’ll take their chances. Do you really want to have to go through having the police come by again? To once again have to clean up the kind of mess that makes headlines? We have to do this.

Leave me the fuck alone.

No. Sit down. You’ve been so…I don’t even know how to describe it. And I don’t get it. Why don’t you explain it to me? Use small words.

Fuck Jesus Christ Himself in the Ass on the Cross. Haven’t you even noticed?

Obviously, I haven’t.

You can’t be this kind of oblivious. You just can’t be.

I…I’m lost.

I do not fucking believe this. You and I haven’t been—oh, gee, what’s a good word here, intimate?—intimate since the last time we had a family get irrevocably corrupted in our hallowed halls.

Back up a second here. Are you saying you’ve been punishing me?

Oooh, ding ding ding, we have a winner, folks, give the boy a cigar. No fuckee, no suckee, no nothing. Took you long enough, shithead.

For the love of god, why?

Because what we—we—did was wrong, douchebag. It was an entire family we fucked up.

What, you’ve suddenly developed a conscience about what we do here, and now—now—you’re concerned that the people we’ve gotten to lower their ludicrous judgmental defenses against each other so they can finally fucking fuck or perform whatever-the-godsfuck-ever sin of the flesh we coaxed them into, that maybe, just maybe they had some kind of prior familial connection before they checked in and got a room? Give me a fucking break.

Oh, if it was only that. Some poor little girl getting to work out some daddy issues with her actual daddy? Who the fuck cares? If it was just a little incest, that would be awesome. Adorable.

Uh huh. But?

I have no idea how you did it without me, but you made him torture the shit out of her—literally. You want to talk about a god damn mess? Yeah; it was everywhere. And he did it in front of her mother. And then he fucked her bowlegged, front and back and no, he didn’t miss out on the opportunity to plunge her throat raw, no. And he made his fucking wife help him slide his cock into their daughter, time after time after fucking time, and when he got tired he made the woman he swore a fucking troth to help him make their little girl howl and bawl herself hoarse when he got to be limp and useless for fucking until he could be long enough and hard enough to get right back on in there. And then. Then he ordered the bride of his youth to get down on her knees and lick everything up afterwards, and spit it into their child’s mouth.

Yeah, but here was I?

I-I don’t know. I watched it all happen; I wanted to vomit. The next morning? They both used her as a toilet, and slapped her without end, calling her the most atrocious names you can think of. And on top of all that, you somehow left them with the idea that this is how they shall then live.

First of all, I have no recollection of any of whatever the hellshit you’re babbling on about here. Second, I couldn’t have made any of that happen without your help. And third, why the every-loving-fuck have you been punishing me for something I can’t remember that you would have had to agree with? Jesus!

Keep your god damn hands off me!

You haven’t exactly been a model of innocence and purity here, you know. The boys tonight? Not to mention all the endless “fucking slampigs”—your words—that you have totally gotten off on seeing getting the shit pounded out of them, let alone the shit pounded into them? How many nights have the rafters been shaken from all the blood-curdling screaming because you wanted to see some girl you said was prettier than you get anally gangbanged?

Don’t you even—

—Don’t you even “don’t-you-even” me. Fuck. God. In the god damn ass.

I hate you.

No, you don’t.

Watch me.

Alright. You don’t want anything profane to happen with this nice blameless little clan? And just you never-the-fuck-never mind about what we both know can happen if we don’t play along here and come to some kind of consensus about the endless sex-crazed-weasel-sex for our habitués? Fine. We’ll just look in on them, wish them a pleasant night’s sleep filled with wet dreams for everyone, and call it a fucking day.

Will that work?

I have no idea. Flip this channel over…there…yeah, I’m not picking up on any kind of dungeon scene happening. See? Everything is just swell. Happy?

Oh no.

“Oh no” what?

It-it’s them.

What? Who?

It’s the same family. Dearest god on high have mercy.

Huh?

They-they’re back.

I have no—I don’t recognize them. Never seen them before in my life.

Liar. Jesus. It’s still happening.

What are you blathering on about?

There’s—it—the blowjob. Don’t you see?

Well, god save us all from a little fellatio. We have nothing to do with this; we only just now tuned in. A respectful spouse is giving her husband head. No big deal; happens all the time. In, you know, good marriages and shit.

Knock it off. Don’t you see the rubber?

Yeah, so?

That was the first part. After she gets him to blow a load, she’ll tie off the condom and keep it in her mouth. Then they’re going to go into the girl’s room and…oh fuck.

Hmmm?

She’s playing with herself.

Who is?

The girl. According to plan.

That, she is. Once again, not our doing. This isn’t so bad, is it? She isn’t even as young as you made her out to be. Right pretty little thing, though, isn’t she?

Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.

What do you think you want to see happen to her, to, you know, make up for the audacity of having that little shortcoming of appearance, your majesty?

God damn you. Fix it. Change them back.

How? Change them back to what? I don’t think it works that way. Not when we don’t have anything to do with how depraved they are to start with. Our job is to take what they are, and make them even more debauched. Them’s the rules.

C’mon, girl, take your hands off yourself, stop. Stop. Stop! God damn it, this is all your fault! Tell her to stop! Please!

I can say “stop” all you want; it’s not going to make any difference. See?

I’m begging you. I…I’ll fuck you. I’ll fuck you every day for the rest of your god damn life!

Tempting, but there’s nothing going on that we can do anything about from here.

Oh shit. Oh fuck. I will get on my god damn knees and suck your stupid cock all fucking night! Stop them!

Now, hold your fucking horses here. Aren’t you the one who’s been complaining for weeks about how none of this maybe isn’t any of our business? And then you turn right back around to see just how far you can push people in the dead of night when the itch grabs you by the short and curlies? Know what? Screw the lovemaking. We’ll call a counselor in the morning. Work some shit out. Live with a few consequences. Let’s just turn all this shit off and retire for the evening.

Wait; she’s masturbating to a picture of her parents.

Yeah, right.

No, I mean it. Look. How many girls have you ever seen frantically tearing at their pussies on top of the covers, stark naked, with their legs spread and pointed to the door of their parent’s room, gazing lovingly at a photo of mom and dad? God damn it, I think she’s edging.

I think you’re blowing things way the hell out of proportion here. Have you been drinking again?

You have to believe me. They are going to come through that door like they do every night, and tie her up, and her own mother is going paint her lips and her nipples and her clit with her daddy’s sperm, squirting it into her nose and dabbing it into the back of her throat and on her teeth and under her tongue, putting some in her ears, on all her fingertips and toes, her eyelids, before the god damn relentless vicious caning begins, and goes on and on and fucking on no matter how hard she shrieks, and when the sadistic sonofabitch can get it up again, he’s going to slam his cock into her ass, her pussy, and her throat, cumming hard and long into her everywhere, brutalizing her and fucking her over and over until he at last cums on her face, and her mommy will lick it all up and cumswap with her, and they are going to leave her there, bound and aching and fucked…until they come back in the morning and piss on her…oh, god…and she’ll suck his cock and lick her pussy all god damn day long…murmuring how much she loves them…like a fucking slave…like a fucking masochist, wanting them to hurt her and humiliate her even more…forever…

…And you’re saying we told them to do all this. And that they’ve been doing it ever since the last time they were here, whenever that was.

I’m not doing this any more—I’m out. I’m done.

What are you say—Hey! Where are you going?

I’m leaving you!

Why?

Because, asshole. My fucking father and fucking mother used to do all that shit to me, and I will not be a part of spreading this god-forsaken disease to anyone else. Fuck off and die.

###

…AND WHEN the echo of the door slam stopped reverberating, the innkeeper shook his head and sat down before the monitors. The beautiful young girl on the bed raised her eyes, and looked expectantly into a wall. The “right” wall.

“She’s gone.”

The young lady exhaled, and blinked relief.

“Want to come up? Maybe we can see what we can do about getting our parents to do something…interesting.”

The naked girl lit up, and ran out of the room.

###

 

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

The Moment

By Brewt.Blacklist

October 2016

SOME DAYS, everything just works out, and the entirety of desire comes about the way it all should.

All at once.

The hysterical paroxysm he has been so ferociously driving her towards with the vibrators attacking her clit and her g-spot as hard as they can hits her like a ton of bricks whether the stupid little slut wants it to or not at the exact same second the gargantuan dildo he has had pounded into her asshole for hours by an uncompromising unstoppable fucking machine with the sole intent of breaking down and wearing out her sphincter control finally triumphs in its unsavory chore, and the dumb little bitch forcibly expels the enormous hot enema of milk, molasses and lemon juice which has been making her sweat like a pig while her insides were wrenched up into overwhelming hideous life-changing cramps at the very same time the adamant unforgiving whipping machine that has been out for her blood succeeds in its grueling tasks by effectively shredding her ass or her back or her stomach or her legs or her feet or her tits or her pussy with a carbon fiber painstick or stinging nettles or an electrified chain all god damn day—or, who knows, maybe some interesting vicious combination of any or all of the above—and it tears a shriek out of her that the naive little masochist can do absolutely nothing whatsoever any more to prevent or even make herself calm down enough to stop screeching on and on and on about once that infernal racket starts at the precise instant the ipecac syrup conquers her dignity with its unholy effect and demands that the laughable little toilet-slave vomits the veritable gallons of piss he has been pouring in through her mouth and her nose all morning right on up and out of her throat that he has been so ruthlessly slamming his cock into, balls-deep, relishing the uncanny power he has over her by yanking her head around by her hair as the foolish little cocksucker gags without struggling, retches and gasps and drools and nearly spins into unconsciousness from the lack of oxygen from all the choking, just in time for him to pull back and spray her beautiful and bruised-up face he has been slapping continuously that the ludicrous little paintoy kept turning her other cheek for like the brainless little whore is so motherfuckingly expected to, and when he drenches her with more sperm than the idiotic little fucktoy has ever had the privilege to see leave his body at once, a grateful tear rolls out of her eye to drip off her nose-hook, just as the gullible little slampig collapses from the exertion and strain he has been so mercilessly inflicting on her with endlessly inventive predicament bondage, relentlessly draining her strength until full and total muscle exhaustion sets in for real, sending the dimwitted little victim hurtling toward the ground in a Galilean race with whatever precious and heinous bodily fluids that come out of her and off her, perfectly crashing and splashing onto Mother Earth in a glorious concert of astonishing timing, leaving her in bone-shattering agony, suffering through utterly soul-crushing humiliation, screaming her lungs out, bleeding profusely, scarred for life, squirting, yielding to the most powerful fucking orgasm of her miserable worthless existence as the camera continues to flash, sending her defiled images out to be there forever on the internet outside of her consent to be leered at by sadistic perverts everywhere, who have all been waiting in breathless anticipation for the amazing things that happen to her in the privacies of their bedrooms without their pants on, their hands blurring on their erections, masturbating frantically, participating in a massive coincidental transcontinental bukakke, ruining all their screens simultaneously with their ejaculate, hoping that somehow, they themselves are more important to her than anyone else as they scramble to take everything they can from her before their windows onto her give out and go dark.

On a good day.

On a bad day, synchronicity fails and time itself interferes, causing some integral or miniscule detail of the grand convergence to fall out of place, and he ends up having to punish her rather brutally, long into the night, for ruining the moment, with the tired and forlorn assurance that they will try again tomorrow: “Won’t we, cunt?”

“Yes, sir.”

After, of course, the priceless little princess cleans all this shit up. With her tongue. All of which also happens on a good day, too, and that’s part of the point. Except, on those hallowed occasions, he tortures her until dawn with every cruel, painful, and embarrassing thing he’s ever done to her out of congratulations, in awe, as a joyous celebration of their love. It’s all the difference in the world; it’s what keeps her going, when she isn’t praying with dogged faith for another opportunity to impress him, to endear herself to him, to be of some meager use to him, so very concerned as she is with his ecstasy.

 

Thursday, September 8, 2016

Version

By Brewt.Blacklist

September 2016

GOD DAMN it.

I am so mad at you.

Don’t give me that; you know god damn good and well why.

Oh; “innocent.” That’s a laugh.

Don’t talk to me.

What did I just say? Hmm?

Really? You want to play it that way? Fine. It was the pictures.

Yes. Jerkwad. I warned you. Did you listen to me? No.

Why is this hard? Every. Body. We. Know.

They all have them.

Didn’t you hear what I just said? “Them.” Not “one,” or “some.” “Them.” As in “all of them.”

That’s right.

Now they know. They all know what I look like under my clothes. Naked. My legs spread, my mouth laid open with that horrible gleeful slut-expression on my face.

With a fucking cock in my mouth.

With a fucking cock in my ass.

No, they can see my ugly mug in that one, too, with my eyes clenched shut and my mouth stretched open in either pain or pleasure. It’s impossible to tell the difference.

Jesus.

Sperm in my hair, running down my face. Here at home. Out in public.

Oh, guess. Go on, guess.

Uh huh. Yup.

And if that weren’t enough: me playing with myself.

Prancing about with-with…things sticking out of me.

I have no more secrets. They are all out there. For everyone to see, to gossip about, to twist about in their perverted dreams. Obscene pictures of me.

Fuck you.

I swear.

If it was only pictures.

Moron. What do you think?

Me standing out in the hall, taking off my clothes until I am god damn naked with the delivery guy, telling him that it’s okay to look, that it would be alright—really—that he could just go ahead and put his hands on my tits and squeeze them if he wants, sure, play with my nipples, make them stiff and hard, letting him see that he’s having have an effect on me, making my breath catch, letting him hear me moan, and then, then showing him my pussy, asking him if he liked how it felt, if I had shaved it up right, asking him if I’m wet and gee, wouldn’t he like to do something about that, and here, while we’re at it, see, this is my asshole. Kneeling down, licking my lips, opening his pants, asking him if I could please-please-please do this, opening my mouth, sticking my tongue out, licking him, kissing him, making yummy sounds as though I liked him, making him hard, taking him all the way into the back of my throat, gagging for him, sucking his cock until he can’t help himself any more, and he is overcome, and he fucking defiles me. In living color. High fucking definition video.

Don’t give me that. Pretty sure you had a hand in there somewhere.

Do you have any idea how it’s going to feel, now and forever, whenever our friends—our fucking families—look at me? All they will ever see is a slampig; all they will ever see is me sucking and fucking and offering silly words of encouragement, of love, of acceptance, suggesting filthy things. How they are going to hear, replaying in their deviant little minds, over and over, how much I wanted to be pissed on. How they are going to watch me swallow, all dreamy-eyed.

Recorded for all posterity to see. To jerk off to.

Fuck. Me.

I’m going to get to live with glancing across whatever room I am in—at a party, or at church, or at fucking work—knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that whoever is there is going to be staring at me, judging me, and the worst of it? They are all going to be wishing and hoping and convincing themselves that I should do all that shit for them, too.

The men are all going to think that they should just have the god-given right to get them some of that kind of action, let me tell you. Every last fucking one of them. And at least some of them are going to try. You know that, right?

And the women? They are going to always have it in the back of their minds that I am just a cunt, and every last god damn one of those bitches is going to be plotting on how to hurt me in ways I can’t even imagine if they ever-oh-ever even so much as think that their men has been in my mouth, my pussy, my ass, wreaking holy vengeance on me if they convince themselves that the little bastards have so much as just considered it.

I don’t know why you would do this to me: give me a cellphone that takes pictures, that takes movies. “Have fun.” Motherfucker.

Why couldn’t you see this coming?

Oh, shut up. Shut the fuck up.

Christ.

There’s only one thing for it, then.

Take your belt off. Give it to me; let me see it. Just do it; geeze.

Excellent. It is soft. Here. It will stripe me the least, and prolong my agony in producing the quality of mark necessary the longest.

You know what I mean. You know exactly what I mean.

Oh, man up.

Everywhere. Everywhere you can lay that fucking thing down on me. Back, ass, legs, feet, tits, stomach, inner thighs, pussy. My face. The only thing I ask is that you let me see that I am being beaten.

No. There’s no way out of this. You know that.

Now listen to me: when we do this—which we are about to—we can’t fuck around here. We have to do it and we have to do it for real. None of this fake shit, none of this easy or gentle play shit. We are to where we need some real live honest and true sadomasochistic action. The time has fucking come.

Don’t be stupid. You need this as much as I do.

I’ve always known. Why else do you think I even talk to you?

You have to promise me you won’t back down here.

I need you to fucking commit. Now pull your hand back.

Pansy. Do it again.

Do I have to say “harder” here? Harder.

Come on. Get my attention.

Why am I—the god damn fucking masochist—the one who is having to take charge here? That’s your fucking job. Now fucking do it.

Aw, poor baby. Now hit me.

You call that a hit? God.

This isn’t a question of nice.

If I wanted nice, I’d go fuck someone in the choir at church. One of the shy losers at work.

Look, there’s no two ways about this. This is all well and good that you’re trying to be careful, but we have got to move beyond the pleasure stage. You must make the tears flow, and you may cease your efforts only when your clear judgment of the size and color of the welts you raise declares them to be sufficient for your sadistic pleasures today.

It’s supposed to make your cock hard. Erect. Ready and needy to fuck. If it doesn’t, I am just going to have to suck your dick enough while you strap the shit out of me that you learn that I will accept that about you, and will encourage that in you.

No, it has to do with what that old French whore said.

Because these marks make it impossible for me to cheat and immediately proclaim, from the moment they are seen, that anything goes, as far as I am concerned.

For to know this is one thing, but to see the proof of it, and to see the proof constantly renewed—which I am counting on you for—is quite another.

What the fuck makes you think this is about me?

I will grow accustomed to being whipped.

But don’t hold back; don’t let me like this. That’s no good, either.

Better. Make me docile. Make me question my choice to let you in. Get me to offer to betray the whole world to get the torture to stop so I may be happy to have gone through it, happier still if it had been especially brutal and prolonged.

You have to be strong enough to be unmoved by my pointless exaggerated sufferings and frantic writhings, giving me ample time to struggle and scream and cry, pleading for mercy that should only give you cause to redouble your cruelty.

Because that’s how this works. It is how we shall then live.

In the evidence we will send out to everyone we know today, and then tomorrow, and then again the day after that, be sure that you order me to tell you that I love you, so I may fulfill that, too, as I don’t know how else to say it, but under decree.

Let’s show them. Let them see how we are concerned with each other’s ecstasies.

When you have finished punishing me, command me to caress your insolence with my lips, so that I will finally come to understand that there resides my lord, my master whom I serve, to whom I am destined, dictating that my eyes will look there and nowhere else for all time, being available always to its whims and reliefs and rampages.

I expect you to savagely abuse me and mistreat me with enough chains and whips to teach me obedience, yielding, and submission. I am yours: no longer free—thank god!—but forever doomed to happiness.

Dominate me. You can discover the unbridled joy you can have at prostituting me; it shall be greater than you hope.

 

Friday, February 5, 2016

Trial

By Brewt.Blacklist

February 2016

THE QUESTION does not have to do with what we are unwilling to sustain but with what we are. Are we willing to have all be nice and pleasant and happy and whatnot? But of course. Are we in agreement with the idea of having our needs met and to being comfortable in the process, able to somehow rise above ourselves whilst being assured-constantly-assured that we are loved and adored and accepted as a matter of fact? Whyforever not? And as the fair and docile would deem most important, are we on board with the plan to have everyone around us, everyone we know and love and care for to live their lives in the very same bliss and joy and ease that we are predisposed to let them lavish upon us? How could we but not?

No, the dilemma comes down to what miles are we willing to go for these precious someone elses to give them the satisfactions and fulfillments that are so denied to them by mysterious others we perhaps do not know so very well, not to mention what laws and rules and proprieties are we even able to consider to violate for their sakes, and how deeply are we ready to let these very loved ones go out of their own ways to demonstrate their own hoggish values and vain desires and miserly needs to themselves upon us in ways that perhaps do not profit us ourselves.

It all is a matter of worth.

The woman at hand has found herself in a vile predicament, one in which she needs to make life and death decisions over her educations, her upbringings, her own moral codes and beliefs, and the deaths and lives that are at stake do not include her own. She grew up hearing the words of The Prophet John in regards to friends and greatnesses, and had been repeatedly assured that such a hefty price had indeed been paid for her own salvation by our Lord and Savior, and that she need not fear death, for the everlasting arms would be there for her to lean upon when her own burdens are put down in the end.

But The Prophet John had little to say about the travails of her own peculiar life, and whatever far-flung comforts he spoke of are of little use to her here, this day, before us all.

She kneels before the consortium now as she everforth shall: naked, trembling, modest and open before god and man, awaiting for the spirit to move and the call to come for her to demonstrate her love yet again, to endure the cost reckoned for without hesitation, to give all she has without the blessed generosity of sweet death to release her from her torments, her trials, her humiliations.

She has been here before, she shall be here again tomorrow and everafter, and yea, she is but here today, under the same pretexts and conditions and taunts as she always is: to have her faith laid bare.

The decision is made and the players are brought forth for her to deliver and spare from the ravages of the inquisition and the grave, so they may go on about their meager days knowing that she has sacrificed something of note for them that perhaps they themselves would not give up for their very own lives—let alone anyone else’s—and that she will pay for someone else tomorrow, and will grant a clemency for yet another the day after that, for as long as it is that she draws breath. The couple rushes to her and cries out for mercy, falling down before her to put their arms around her and ask her if she is alright, and tears are shared with rejoicings that all are still among the living, with shared affirmations that they will get out of this for sure, and that the woman will be well-taken care of and relieved of whatever prodigal burden she may have had before this reunion, for all is forgiven.

The woman thanks the couple with kisses, and, wrapping her arms around them, assures them that the mercy that is available is but hers to dispense, and that she does so willingly, without reservation, that she is filled with gladness to do what little is asked of her to release them from their bondages, their captivities, and send them forth from this place of mortification. It is her lot, her hardship, her ark to build and maintain.

She turns to the marshalls and asks what is required of her this day, to extend the lives of these poor wretches, proposing in all humility and meekness that she is but in need of commandment to bring about a happy resolution, so that all may be appeased.

A vessel is brought forth and opened, its content laid out before the petitioner. The design of the object placed in her grasp is obvious and singular in its uses, and the prisoner—with a well-practiced sigh of acknowledgement—asks how she should then be expected to use it, as there are some variations of placement and duration that she dare not hazard to guess, at risk of causing further offense.

“Thou shalt use it upon thyself, there whereupon a man is expected to know a maiden upon her wedding night, even unto thine own cries of joy and rapture.”

“Forgiveness, my lords.”

“Pray, for what, dear child?”

“For mine own confusion.”

“Surely thou knowest of what we speak.”

“Indeed, my sovereigns, I do. I am well acquainted with the actions required; I have performed them often for the amusements and follies of the courts.”

“Why dost thou then hesitate?”

“It seems so simple a task, compared to all I hath done before.”

“Foolish girl. Thou hast not asked the right question.”

The woman lifts her eyes up to the magistrates, and peers around the chambers at all in leering attendance, and does not yet comprehend. “Amnesty, dear counselors. It is not for stubbornness or delay of thy holy will, but I am but slow of heart and of mind, and am at a loss as to what to ask. It appeareth to be of import, yet I canst discern it not.”

“It is not a question of what thou shouldst ask, slave, but whom thou shouldst ask it of. Entreat thou the woman whose fate is in thy feeble hands to indoctrinate thee of the wickedness thou holdest and its hallowed magnitudes.”

She turns to the couple who are huddled, shaking, hardly able to speak.

“Dearest mother, I beg for thy absolution at the abhorrence I am about to perform with this…this obscenity, which I only do for thine own reparation and the delights of the powerful kings before you, but the authorities hint that thou holdest the key to its significance and meaning. Willst thou enlighten me?”

“D-dearest daughter, the blasphemous club in thy gentle fingers, that so approximates a man—a particular man—is mine.”

“Truly?”

“I must confess to my shame that I have used it often as thou art about to.”

“Praise be, I understand now, with thy blessings. Fear not, dearest mother, I can endure this. It would be my glory to beguile the magnates with that which hast affordeth thee thine happinesses and reliefs from sorrow.”

“Perhaps not, dearest daughter. For I have used it not only for mine own selfishnesses.”

A silence hung in the room.

“Speak boldly, dearest mother. Judgment is not upon thee in this arena, but upon me. Whatever the doom, I am inclined to accept it for thine own sakes and thy husband’s redemptions.”

“I…have also defiled thy dearest father with it. Yea, even unto the very evening before this very day, before we were brought forth. I bound him, and I ravished him with it until he wept. It gratified us both. Profoundly. It is—to our disgrace—a common occurrence.”

The woman turned to the panel.

“Wardens, I do accept thy justice with glee. I shall plunge this corrupted leviathan within me to the verymost depths it can reach to contaminate me completely with all its histories, and I swear I shall seek its profane prosperities and transgressions for as long as my vigor holds.”

The conciliator spake. “As thou reacheth the heavens, whore, clean thou thy father’s own infidel with thy lips, as well. For he hath known thy mother as he would a man, performing an abomination with her this very day behind the baptistery, believing their deeds were hidden, as they waited upon the summoning call before this humble congregation, and is as yet unwashed. And be ye prepared to also comfort thou thy mother with thy mouth where he hath been within her when the saints call upon thee in thy continued duty to behold the face of thy God.”

“I do so with honor, assessor.”

And so the woman so lowers herself, doing all she has sworn, doing all she has been beseeched while singing unfathomable psalms to The Lord, offering, too, to allow her parents to water her with their own foul waters, and to make her in all ways unclean with whatever filth they can produce, in speech and in body and in shameful forbidden acts, and yea, even more, affording the ecstasies of the entire assemblage with all the wellsprings of her body and her well-wrought skills of reverence and worship, searing the host to the very depths of their very hardened hearts until they soften, placing rods and staffs in the hands of the parish to further correct her on beyond to where she could speak but in tongues, scourging her unto bleeding and breakages so they could but pour out all their sins upon her until redress is exhausted for all the disciples in attendance, and she is carried to her cell, left with her chains, where she laments long into the night, weeping and gnashing her teeth amongst the ashes of yet another pillar of her hauteur and rank, well-shattered under her persecutions, until the angels come to wipe away her tears and comfort her with her mother’s graven image and idol of her father’s infidelic member until her strength indeed gives out, and she slumbers well at last with the peace of knowing of her parents’ release and the rhapsodic communions of the multitudes at the mere tax of her derision and discomfort and dishonor, until the morrow, when she will be taken, humming with light at the prospects of what shall be demanded of her soul on this day, the lord’s day, back into the tribunal and put to the question again.

Perhaps this is the day she shall serve to spare her brother from annihilation, no doubt at the toll of her crucifying her virtue to him and his lechery and lust. Or a crippled old man, blind from birth, who has never known the affections of a submissive woman toward his most hideous suppressed yearnings that are against all governances, of God and man, of which no one may even mutter about in the dark. Or a prostitute, long bored with both men and women, with whom she must perform sacraments with beasts therewith. Or a fisher of men, not given to the rapine of women, whom she must force, against her own convictions of consent and acquiescence. Or even Iscariot himself, whom she had true affection for—that he stole and hoarded and in fact still possesses—that villain who committed adultery against her with a silly woman who hates her, who calls on her to sell herself, for so as to donate to them all the pittances and alms she thus earns, supporting them in their greeds and sloths and gluttonies, whom she must act as bedchambermaid for, witnessing and aiding them in their efforts to no longer be two but one, time after time, nigh unto forever, that tears her asunder with envy and mourning every damnable day.

She would save them all, with the grace of God.

As The Prophet John spaketh: “Whosoever hath ears, let them hear.”

 

Thursday, January 28, 2016

Request

By Brewt.Blacklist

January 2016

“HURT ME.”

But of course, sweetest lover. You need but ask.

I had to be extolled not to do this—what I propose—in days gone by, because, as it turns out, subsequent women didn’t like what the first woman I slept with did, but, I always suspected you would. I’ve been waiting. Expectantly, at that.

Usually, for this, you’re on top, so your magnificent breasts, your boobs, your tits hang down and sway as you rock and bear down on me to increase the shear between your legs where we fit so nicely together: conjoined, secret, personal.

As you rasp out what you just asked for—and the word is “please,” darling, along with such appropriate calls as can be made to some fool deity out there who listens to these sorts of prayers, peppered with oh-so-insistent profanities that are best pronounced with a low desperate husk—my hands come up off the bed, to the sides of your attractive udders, with my fingers curling slightly, to give me just a hair of leverage, a smidge of grip as I roll your boobs in the frictions of my palms for some moments or twos until your eyes close with how you wander off from presence into relish as to what I might do to you.

My thumbs press skyward onto your nipples, right in on the middles, upwarding and inverting them from pebble-like erections that extends their reaches from disinterests and chastities into invitations and lures of thrills and delights as you dangle your upper half over me with your hands safely behind your head, unobtrusive and benign, in your singular-meaning gyrations, and you moan and wiggle your shoulders a little, beaming in the dark, exhaling through your nose your contentments at these sort of treatments as the pressure increases on beyond paltry ripplings and foldings of your surfaces to where I am denting you, gouging your whore-tits in further than they are supposed to be handled—were we engaged in modest, decent, subdued lovingkindnesses that would be approved by the church—firing spirits and generating heats in you that you reflect back onto me with hot exhales, and I don’t let go: I push you steady, persistent, relentless.

Up, in, prodding, manipulating, I look for something, in beyond pliant tissues and milk sacs and lymph nodes, to the thin layer of muscle that covers your ribs, ah, there it is, and I begin to move my thumbs around in circumferences and meridians and orbits, mapping constellations over your skeleton in minuet-tempos, spending considerable spans and junctures digging around in and excavating your sensitivities and responsivenesses through the troughs and grooves of the good solid cage of your heart and soul.

The reason most women don’t like being subjected to these ministrations and embraces is because the coy thews of my focus here are ordinarily only used to breathe, and the little miracles of such subtle and necessary oscillations for life don’t earn much otherwise brave communication with men’s horrid passions, as they are deep, and fortressed, protected with sensuous distractions of curves and skins and temptations of moistures and movements and the alluring mesmerizing sounds that human females have taught themselves to make in the midsts of depraved and shocking lust, over eons to maintain mankind’s kinder interests in gentlewomen that we fall for in every era without fail—which isn’t such a heretical doctrine, not in and of itself; not historically—as proofs positives that the lechers and rakes need not wander further down affection’s darker hedgerows to obtain the coveted results and rewards, but I have a plan, a goal, an objective to live up to to fulfill your humble petition, and I am committed. At first I present you with just a near-bashful risqué message, written on some tender sinews you didn’t know you had, rubbing over the bones of your chest through your bosom, except the undercurrents and subtexts of my dispatch eventually bring to the fore the askanced notion that I’m not trying to get these rarely-contacted fleshes to merely relax.

I’m trying to bruise them. Slowly. Severely. Gently. With ungodly force and yes, my treasure, my most beloved, it is going to hurt. It does hurt. It hurts. Your surprise at this bows you upwards to get some relief, to catch your breath to no avail, because what I’m doing effects your persistent respiratory mechanism in a way you have never had happen to you before: it’s a constriction choke, thwarting your ability to inhale. Lo, how I have made the room, the chamber spin for you.

You throw yourself toward the buttresses and struggle to ascend off the mattress, to get away from my fetters and outrageous guidances into the rafters, making wordless shallow micro-inhalant noises as you arch your back and throw your hair around, and I’m not having any of that escape nonsense. I follow you up, and growl at you to lie the fuck back down, to assume the position of whores, whore, to spread your whore-legs, wider, god damn it—the linguistics of which does your libidinous humor no end of good; praise be—and I roll over onto you as you are wheezing and grasping at air whilst I plunge my cock, my club, my yard back into your sopping invitation to men without warning or waiting for your ridiculous and superfluous say-so of readiness, and I slam my hands right back to where they were, where they belong, to pick right back up where I left off with the worrying, the distressing, the damaging, only now, the bed prevents your retreat, and there’s nowhere for you to go but into my infamous clutches. Your choices and strengths to resist me and what I’m doing to you diminish and falter away as you accept what I donate and deliver unto you; your eyelids flutter polyphonically as you narrow down and rivet your attentions onto that which is erotic and imminent to you, hollowing yourself out to drool and ultimately offer up what you came here for: to let me have my unholy way with you, regardless of what it does to you as a result, so help you, god.

I get my entire weight onto my thumbs, suspending myself up off you through your nipples, boring into you with the sheer force of irresistible planetary body-potential urgently beckoning me down toward the iron core through you and your pitiful and weak earthly form, propelling the dynamics of creation’s energies and lay lines and magnetospheres to condense into lightning strikes of pain onto delicate tendons and fibers that are already sore. I bounce a little in cadence to the geared differential apparatus of rapines and conquerings below my waist with the glees of dominances, authorities, and privileges, threatening to make a forbidden crack ring out that would be difficult to explain at the monastic infirmary to the alchemists and physicians, never mind being indentured to endure the tragedy of living with the fact that they can’t do anything about your suffering and doom, you submissive fuckable cunt, and you cannot facilitate oxygen exchange, or maneuver into any form of reprieve from my onslaught, or countervail the dogged impelling of my tillering us and our navigations toward our mission, toward our cliff, toward the edge of the fucking world, and I fuck you and I fuck you and I fucking fuck you until I cum at god damn fucking last which takes a lengthy while on whatever clock you may point to, because I’ve already sinned and jerked off this day, and let’s face it, I am not a young man any more. Not virile, or witless, or full of haste at all.

You panic and attempt to fulfill the natural canon of “thou shalt scream” when gifted with such bedeviled pangs—or at least strive to, what with your breathing restrictions and thrashings—when I finally fucking expend, sweating, gasping, rolling off you, muttering “good fffucking bitch,” admonishing you to shut the fuck up in response to your pathetic groanings and recriminations of what the fuck did I just do to you before I slap some sense back into you and pull your head down between my legs for the rest of the night to give you the opportunity to express your due appreciations towards my living up to your dreams, your desires, your wishes. As you yield to this wisdom and apply your unsettled adorations and reverences of incantational murmurings and soft lips and the fiery gift of tongues to my vain and fragile manhoods, not to mention my frivolous and filthy childhoods, the gravity of the ache in your heaving bosom proves that it abateth not, it instead amplifies, because I did in fact bruise you, hard, underneath your breasts. It gets worse and then becomes dreadful fierce as it overwhelms you and keeps you awake to remind you to be diligent in your whore-duty that I fancy rejoicing to wake up to in your deliberate and capacitating gaggings around my nobled member in the postliminary mornings by kicking you onto and then across the grounds, compelling you to lap up whatever foulness I dribble, so you may greet me with a thrilled and blithe visage crossing your demeanor, as this, too, is your dirty idea to reinforce your status and standing to me that you crave for all to see as you so willingly enslave yourself to me, to crawl naked on my command, to obey my every whim and law regardless of expenses and costs to you in your abject humiliations and unspeakable agonies forthwith.

In general, you hurt so long and so bad, you won’t be able to wear a corset as you are now obliged to bend over far into meeknesses and timidities when you sit at chores, to futilely stab at holding still in your scandalously loose and open dress that nearly reveals your shames to everyone you meet despite your best faux-aspirations to appear blushing and demure that only inspires me to ruminate on as to how we shall henceforth explore just how to expose you publically—perhaps offering your beleaguered form to be gazed upon and immortalized by artists, to demonstrate your duressed fealties to me forever in museums and parlors. Despite your prevailing self-centered paper-shynesses, your crescenting sensitivities drive you into madness and play more and more into your despondent concerns to get even the bare and feathery tensions of laces and habits off your exquisite boobs, your choicest of fruits that, at previous dances and fetes, always got you to have to remind so many awkward suitors, before I came along, as to where your eyes really were as if your unteared oculi were somehow important to their edifications and enlightenments and possibilities.

Not to me, of course. Quite the opposite.

They are brown, by the way. Full of spark and plead. True lights of beauty. And you, of all people, need to cry.

But starting now and ever after, when your teats shall then sway and creak and twinge, as you trudge and kneel and offer homage, worship, and service to that which is now holy to you, with your optics full of wetnesses and blurs, you must agree and conscript yourself to continually be reminded of what, yes, you asked for. Begged for, as I recall. Your wealths and royalties and revenues for your dire and self-conflagrationary ambitions are assured: the ways to make such hallowed occasions happen for you are without blessed number. Such is our covenant.

When you call on me after the liturgy to complain that it still hurts—naming me a vicious, heartless, and wonderful bastard—I am most delighted to smile across the brickwork and say “Why, yes, luv, I’m sure it does; do you want to come in? I’m thinking…well. I’ll be honest. I’d want to lie you out slut-flat, nude on my floor, facedown, your hands reaching around behind you to draw back and open an embarrassing and most-private portion of your anatomics that we have all been taught to revile first in our infantile lessons of civilization, as I ordain you to present and sacrifice the most intimate and profane way in to your whore-shapes and figures to me and my delirious raptures. I long to behold you trembling, quivering, waiting for me to hurl down all my mass onto you and into you, pillaging my way in all at once, knowing you as I would a man with vile and bellowing sodomy as had so often happened in days of old in condemned Gomorrah, crushing your poor tits onto the rugs, abrading and chafing their softnesses and smoothnesses into burnings and usage marks on top of everything else I intend to fist and pummel you with, sincerely endeavoring and exerting myself to get you to shriek out for all the angels to hear how you truly joyously feel about me for more than one reason this time as we once again pay divine homage to the heavens for the grand debauched joke we are such happy victims of…”

You, naturally, rebuke me with the words we began with, complaining that, despite my pedantic philosophies, I have not yet truly done as you charged me anywhere near enough to suit, that such silly games and reservations and timidities we have rehearsed so far simply will not suffice, beseeching me with a wink to please take this commission more seriously and that I should not fear holding back any effort any further toward its fulfillment. You casually ramble on about immediacy and then onto something perhaps important about breaking things within you of note and structure, as their jaggednesses and crags might prove occasionally useful in extracting the odd confession and litany and the like. Such wounds also make you easier to catch. I laugh and express my thankfulness for your patiences and indulgences of my meager chivalries and considerations, and we grin at each other in an over-lengthy silence, coming to understandings and peaces and troths as the setting sun again marks the passage of ages in henges everywhere, before tearing each other’s garments off as we race inside, where the harmonic feedback loop cycles again. And then again.

And then yet still again, powering our vessel for this, our adventure, with a mythical perpetual motion engine scoffed at and belittled by the physicists and scorned and fretted over by the clergys. Fortunately, the stars are much more distant away from us than we think they are, and the mights and the courages and the currents of our connection do captain us greatly further than we think we can sail, on our voyage to offer our final courtesies and gratitudes in the end to some nitwit infinity out there for extending us a little defilable grace for us to sing about and chant over in the bleeding serrated languages of wreckages and blemishes and the rococo mean-tone hymns of screeches and whipstrokes that it deigns fit to be bespoken toward in the undeniable truths and beliefs of a savage and brutal providence—wrought from the hidden more blasphemous lyrics of scripture—that we so eagerly practice upon you, to grant you the pleasures and honors to act as such a beatific interpreter for such blisses and damnations, in lows and highs, forging obscene difference tones of inquisitions and bondages, creating a mysterious pitch out of nothing but each other’s good communion and cheer in the light of such glad and merry tribulations we put you through together, hand in hand, for the most righteous sake of our glorious fuck.

 

Monday, January 25, 2016

On death, and erotica

By Brewt.Blacklist

January 2016

THE PROBLEM, it seems, is with death.

When we first become self-aware, and have incorporated language so that communication and meaning can go beyond facial expressions and gestures, the possibilities of death begin to present themselves to us in ways that have definable expressions. It terrifies us, when the observation is made that someone we loved, we cared about, we liked, dies, and how that can also happen to us. No one around us has any good answers, not that satisfy the loss, the doom, the utter realization that we aren’t going to see our friend, our loved one any more, that we aren’t going to continue to enjoy their presence. Being selfish creatures, the connection is made that what happened to them, could happen to us.

Our parents, in their pities and concerns over how their beloved happy child is devastated by something we could not possibly be prepared for, tell us a story.

The motivation for the story is pure and simple and an honest attempt to offer comfort to someone who cannot possibly understand what has just happened. The story goes something like this: “They’ve gone on to a better place.”

This is the fundamental story we are told that has any real meaning for us. Whoever it is that left us, and won’t be back, have somehow had something survive from themselves that we will meet again someday, and that everything will be alright. The cleverness of this story is that it leads to the inevitable questions as to whether or not what happened to them can happen to us. The big shocker comes down from on high that yes, yes it can, and in fact will someday, but that it is alright. That whatever it was that survived from our loved one will survive in us, and we will meet them again, and we can then again be happy. The end.

The story fulfills its purpose, and it calms a despondent child. The story, though, does not end there. The child who accepts the story—which is difficult not to, considering the source—changes heaven and earth to make it fit in with everything the child sees and hears for the rest of his or her life. At least, until a better story comes along.

This is the story that is the basis of all religion, of all philosophy, of all moral code, and it leads to the corollaries that are so useful in maintaining discipline growing up, that there is another place we could go to after we die, that isn’t so happy, so pleasant. To make us less of an inconvenience to others. Eventually, there comes into play beings bigger and more powerful than everyone known or met, beings mightier than even death itself, who are in a constant fight over us and the parts of us that survive our deaths, and gods and demons end up being at war over our souls that somehow spills into our everyday lives. And so it is that the clumsy attempts of a parent to comfort a grieving child leads to immutable concepts of heaven, and hell, and judgment, and “knowing” right from wrong to the depths of our souls, where the spirits of gods and demons shout at us constantly as to what to do, what to think, what to believe, what to feel, and how our self-righteousnesses are better than someone else’s self-righteousnesses, and just who is of value and worth, with all the endless variations as to what any of those things specifically mean, with enormous heaven-and-hell complications and upshots attached to every possible answer and action.

Which is where we, as erotic writers, come in. For we, too, offer up stories, that are shamed and ridiculed as being bad or evil or worthless by various layer-upon-layer to the whole good/bad right/wrong heaven/hell schema that is a conclusion arrived at by the simplistic formula of “if this is bad, then that is bad” that builds through ridiculous ramifications, until it gets to us and what we write, and finds us wanting, as we do not fit in with the structures of worth and edifications of value.

Because we tell a story that predates the death story. We were sexual beings before we were self-aware, death-afraid creatures. We were sexualizing ourselves and those around us before we even understood there was a difference between ourselves and each other. At a time that all we could do was eat, sleep, shit, cry, and try to fuck, the first rules put down on us were not about how and when to shit, and when and where not to, even though that is much-touted as being so fundamental toward our developments. The truth is that in all societies, that pretty much takes care of itself, sooner or later, and it is only some groups that force it onto the young, earlier than they are ready for it. With consequence, of course, that is explained by various fixations and fetishes we end up having when we get older. But before then, before any of that could happen, when we would cry because we were hungry, we would get comforted and fed until we fell asleep in our parents’ happy arms on a daily basis. But when we made moves that could be construed as sexual, in trying to touch and feel genitals, to play with them, to achieve happy erections in boys over kissing and handling of ourselves and each other, and what passes for happy wetnesses in girls for the same sorts of activities, that was the first time we heard “no” that we understood as something coming about due to something we were doing from Mom and Dad, who were the biggest powers in existence, to us, until we heard the death story. They would scold us and put our hands away from ourselves or whoever got our attentions, maybe even spank us. Or maybe, we watched it happen to someone we were connecting with, with a strange mix of sadness and horror over what we were witnessing, and what it meant to us and our feelings, to see someone else punished for our affections. There is where we learned to not trust people with our emotions, where we learned not only that we were not accepted for how we felt playing with our friends, but that we should not accept others, either; this is where we learned to be embarrassed and to embarrass each other, in an effort to win the approval once again of the mighty, and, where we learned to deny and ridicule the only true weapon we have against death, where we can be involved with creating something that is part of ourselves, that will survive us.

And so our erotic stories are filled with acceptances of the sexual act, overcoming ourselves and each other, in defiance to our parents and everything they ever stood for and taught us. Which is why the truly erotic aspects of our writings come about in associating sex with pain and humiliation that we first learned was the result of such feelings, all eventually leading to an orgasm we do not understand and cannot control. Erotica is a form of time-travel. Back to the beginning.

All of which is why erotica in all its forms and the creators of such things are so reviled by the death-story-tellers, as they cannot answer the questions of death beyond what a child could understand, and how our stories fuck with their sense of happy endings in the sky in the future, and how these judges and condemners of all that disagree with them and their version of the death story cannot possibly accept the lessons we have to tell that tell us our parents were wrong about how we should play with each other, and about what we have to go through to get back to the cribs and cradles with our friends and those we love, to enjoy each other, and be happy. Hard and wet and fed and fucking and well-shit upon and pissed upon by each other, accepting everything even if it hurts, even if we hurt each other in the process, held in mighty arms until we fall asleep at last.

 

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Carrot

By Brewt.Blacklist

January 2016

IT IS extraordinarily dangerous to try to talk to another man’s property, but the truth is that he puts her out there for that exact reason, in the well-understood conventions that he uses her as bait to suckers like me so that she would entice them into making purchases. Exorbitant purchases of films and pictures of what he has done to her, in all kinds of pasts: recent and long-distant. She was there where I could find her for his economic reasons. And so, yes, I played along. Because I find what he does to her to be interesting.

“Interesting” probably isn’t the right word, but it serves as a rather ironic shorthand for what happens when I consider what it is he does do to her on—from what I can tell—a very regular basis. I stop dead in my tracks, I slouch, I quit breathing and my eyes dry out, and the part of my anatomy I have been taught my entire life to hide at all costs reminds me as to just why it is that I should do that.

Their recorded interactions are not gentle. Or quiet. He uses her body as a canvas, a living piece of art that would heal itself back to untarnished from whatever he did to her last time, so he could repaint her again and again, in bruises, and scars, and blood. He tortures her, and fools like me ordinarily pay him to see him do that, to see her endure that.

Except, of course, I don’t. Pay him. I have enough trouble making ends meet. I look at the temptations he has on the cover-pages of his website as enticements to do so, and I find I can resist pulling out my wallet. It’s enough for me, to see the little ads and collages that he puts up to indicate the abhorrent hints of what goes on on the inside of his private-pay-extravaganza, and I am content to let my imagination take over from there. It’s as much as I need to feed that nagging little down-deep something inside me that is dark, forbidden, and heinous that all of us fools and clods are required to disavow, and, as a rule, we generally do. At least until we are alone in our rooms at night, sitting before a flickering screen, surfing for porn with our pants off and our mouths dry and our hands busy, which we adamantly deny if anyone asks; a scenario we routinely rehearse our speeches about, with ever-more-inventive ways to make it clear—with little knowing nods that meld into shakes of our heads coinciding with accurately-timed pursings of lips and deliberate slowings of the cranial motions and disbelieving saucerings of eyes that we have to practice in front of mirrors to get just right—that we sincerely hold that the vile-most abominations that a man can do to a woman in the name of sex on the internet are nothing less than disgusting and awful, unbecoming of a gentleman, with a slight squint coming over our eyes and a brightening of our cheeks when we perceive that we have once again gotten away with our cover story, exhaling our tightly held breaths quietly through our noses, thinking instead of how soon it will be when we can witness it all again, sans trousers, and take appropriate actions against ourselves, to keep our own demons at bay.

She can’t do that—deny what happens to her—because it actually happens to her. Physically. The attacks, the out-and-out harm, the sickening degradations and humiliations all leave obscene visible evidences all over her body that continually remind her with aches and pangs of what he did to her this time, even when she is so barely recovered from last time. She also cannot refute how he then proceeds to sell her conquered and subjugated image for a fairly steep sticker-shock-inducing figure, complete with the assurances of her compliances and even zeal for that.

It’s probably as fake as the rest of the ‘net is, but there’s a video question-and-answer section on his site, where she answers the most inane inquiries on camera, kneeling, naked with her head bowed and her hands behind her head, replying with all due respect and supplication toward whatever illiterate blockheads think they need to know about her and how she feels and how she came to be the way she is that she never seems to have any good intelligible answers for: “It’s just the way I am” usually comes up, softly spoken in a low, far-away tone. She defers the irritatingly regular requests about whether or not she is available to anyone else, to do whatever idiotic thing they can come up with—after, of course, she refers to herself as “such a whore”—over to her master, who launches into his pitch to subscribe to his site to see what can really happen to her in the dead of night, when none of us are sleeping, that he punctuates with a smug wink. Whenever she gets asked as to why she would go along with any of this, her shoulders droop and her smile hints at how pretty she really is under the black eyes, the swollen cheeks, and the dank and dripping hair, and, well, her breathless answer is always the same: “Because he tells me to.” Which I have yet to understand, as to why a woman would do what a monster like him said and objectify herself into a commodity for his personal gain, never mind how she would allow him to do whatever unimaginable horror he comes up with to her today, and, on top of all that, go back for more later. And more again tomorrow. And still yet even more after that.

It’s been going on for years. In the seamy underbelly of the internet, this guy is quite famous for how he violates this woman, and gets away with it; it’s all—supposedly—quite consensual. And I guess it’s no big deal that he derides her the way he does, considering what all else he does to her, calling her a useless gash, a pain-gobbling slampig, a worthless fucking piece of fucking fuck-shit who gets exactly what she fucking deserves with him in all the eye-roll-worthy blurbs that go along with his chintzy marketing pieces, riddled with exclamation marks and an underlying sense of snicker at how stupid she is, how she is here to be taken advantage of, how this is all she is fucking good for.

I don’t know how she does it. To my knowledge, I don’t know anybody even remotely like that, not in whatever pathetic excuse I have for a real life. Despite my stalwart education on the rather precise subject of how to treat and view and think about women, which has been strong and thorough and damn-near unassailable, about how they are to be handled kindly with honor and respect and sheer deference to their fairy-tale whims and selfish silly-little-girl wishes, it’s the sort of thing that, notwithstanding my best efforts to be good, I simply cannot look away from the jaw-dropping documentation of live-action misogynistic oppression that this asshole puts out there at her most-dear expense. These depictions of sadomasochism and sexual slavery, dominance and submission, bondage, discipline, the whole kinky spiel: I can’t get enough of it. In my own quiet privacies at night. It settles something for me, something desperate, while at the same time, stirs something depraved up that will not leave me in peace until I have done something messy and sinful that I endured countless appalling lectures against growing up. I have to see it and see it through to the end—pirating the movies and graphics and such when I can—from the first presentation of the woman, unsullied and intact and yes, naked and entirely vulnerable, held in place without bondage by an unseen force that is stronger than rope, submissive, demure, quivering from what is about to happen to her, all the way through until she is authentically screaming, not acting at all, from genuine pain that cannot possibly be faked. The marks that are put down on her pristine tissues are unmistakable, starting with a clean and unblemished expanse of skin, on through the strike of whatever vicious inquisition-grade implement of merciless punishment her executioner rifles through his toybox to find today, muttering and scowling how she is really going to fucking get it this time, uprighting himself with a lecherous leer on his lust-hardened face as he approaches her trembling supplicant form and applies the savage weapon or barbarous engine of affliction du jour to her innocent person, usually across her back or butt or thighs or taut stomach or sometimes over her ample chest or even between her legs, repeating his ferocious motions long enough and hard enough to where the observable slices and stripes happen, and the welts are raised, the bruises burst forth in all their hideously colorful glory, all without camera cuts or tricks. No makeup effects. It’s the real thing.

What’s more, he doesn’t stop with one or two little light and dainty love-taps like so many faux-torture pornstars endure, pretending it was so hard to get through being so gently tied down with fragile bows and slipknots they could so easily get out of and then, oh my god, swatted with a feather or a flyswatter—or something, gosh, worse, like a drinking straw—in the after-the-scene interviews that are put up to show that it really wasn’t rape when she so obviously faked an orgasm during their well-rehearsed intercourse that didn’t even muss her perfectly quaffed hair, that it really wasn’t so bad when the anonymized boner slid some small inch or two into her mouth without even smearing her perfect lipstick, and everyone titters and insists that they all had a really good time, that it was fun, and that they can’t wait to do it again. No, not this guy. He hits her long enough and hard enough to get through to her, on in underneath her beautiful sensuality and supple musculature and superb bone structure to where civilization has no bearing, no purchase, no meaning, to her very soul, to break down her inner-most pride, her own rather formidable determination to not give in to his uncompromising demands for her dignity today, and he keeps at it until, sooner or later, she lets go of decorum and lets him know, in no uncertain terms, that he is in fact hurting her, is wounding her, and is damaging her to the point that all she can do is screech, no longer able to even recriminate or swear, desperately wheezing and choking from all the labored sobbing and wailing that she can’t take time from to so much as breathe. He goes on beyond reason, beyond eroticism, to where he is simply beating her for the sake of beating her, and then, when he stops to catch his own foul breath from his profane exertions upon her ruined elegance and well-ravished charms, the miracle happens.

She thanks him. When she can compose herself enough to again form words and cobble together sentences, she does not condemn him or vow vengeance or even clam up, silently promising to herself with the daggers in her eyes shouting out to all who can see that she will simply never allow anything even remotely like this to ever happen to her again, so help her god. No, she melts and blesses him. Instead of a happy-go-lucky gee-this-was-fun interview, she spontaneously offers to suck his cock, to drink his piss, to lick his ass, to whore for him, and she assures him that she would do absolutely totally completely any-fucking-thing he wants her to, to repay him for making her suffer so god damn wonderfully, promising him yet again that she will be his filthy pain-slave, his dirty little fucktoy forever. And to prove it, to make it clear that this is what she came here for, that he did the right thing by her, she masturbates, and pleads with him to let her orgasm. Pathetically. Crying real tears, wiping them through what little there is of her unnecessary makeup, whimpering, immune to language again, but for a different reason this time. Sometimes he consents, and sometimes he doesn’t, going back to putting her through her paces some more, until she convulses and cums anyway, without permission, from being so fuck-all tortured. Which only gets more of the same thrown down on her, with him bellowing at her what a god damn fucking trashy cunt she is, and he pisses in her mouth, which she enthusiastically slurps down like it was a mimosa: it is apparent and clear that she loves it all. And especially him. No matter what he does to her. And if they do talk about anything afterwards, she will only say how much she wants him to feel free to make it fucking worse, and no, don’t bother with any aftercare, no petting or hugging or please-just-hold-me-bullshit is necessary because she’s a big girl and she can take it, there’s no real reason to treat her lacerations or contusions because she isn’t done experiencing them, and for god’s sakes, don’t even fucking dare try to come up with any foolish sentimental assurances of true loving feelings for her, because all of this—the agonizing and the bleeding and the enduring of torments and anguishes by herself, all a-fucking-lone—is what she so very-fucking deserves. In the end, this was all about him and his needs to make a god damn woman suffer, and she invariably says, when it looks like it’s just her there, talking quietly to herself, thinking out loud, that she hopes for and longs for the strength to be stronger next time, to accept even larger doses of his furies, to be of further use to him, to build him up even more.

That is what keeps me going back to this sort of thing, over and over again. It’s not the orgasm I so frantically masturbate myself through in my reveries as I stare at the impossibilities of outlandish deviant sexualized human practices at my computer, over and over again, it is the notion of the allegiance. The reverence. The fealty that these most incredible examples of women-kind that exist serve up to their master, their possessor, that even excruciating pain and abject humiliation are laughably inadequate to get them to run, to flee, to denounce and convict their so-called former boyfriend of committing the most distinguishable of crimes against them, that there is direct physical evidence of—see?—because there is something so much more god damn important going on here, and they beg their true god-on-earth to spare them nothing, to vent whatever rages he may have about anything any cunt has ever done to embarrass him and inconvenience him and make him doubt himself in the slightest against them, to feel free to put the little bitches through whatever fucking hell he can devise against them, to fucking break them, to ravage them to fucking death, to make them fucking prove that somewhere deep in the bottom of their very slut-selves that they can dredge out of the filth of their souls something of use to give him to show that they are maybe somehow, in some way, worthy of him, and that it’s not the other way around at all. What’s more, it all works out that this isn’t any kind of once-in-a-lifetime pageant for just this one time once, no, it’s that they should have to go through all the mayhem and insanity over and over again and again. They can’t possibly do enough for him, and so he should punish them severely for being so woefully insufficient as inferior fucktoys who are in dire need of holy correction, so they can continually work and slave their way towards learning to be pleasing, valuable, and meaningful. He should take everything from them and use them up, devour them, consume them until there’s nothing left and he shits them out, so they can resurrect their insignificant and barren selves to go through the process again.

And yet, down at the root of it all, all the martyrdom and misery somehow secretly settles the ever-hungry demons of the “victims” themselves: they can’t get e-fucking-nough of it.

It is the masochists I have such a soft spot for, the ones who want to suffer, who need to feel as much as their sadists can dish out to them to make them experience the grievings of the damned. Which I have such a difficult time admitting in myself, that I would most seriously want to be involved with any of this, to perform that sort of atrocity onto a woman, the kind of delicate flower I have had drilled and pounded into me that I am supposed to honor and cherish and hold up on a pedestal, as such exquisite angels are something precious and tender, and I should be prepared to gladly take on as many jobs as is necessary to take the utmost care of their graces, spoiling them, working myself to damn death and sacrificing all I have and am for whoever would deign to allow me such a privilege, as I have been so relentlessly taught. As I understand it, that all is categorically contrary to what these wretched preys of love want, what they burn to immolate themselves for. These self-defeating women who put themselves up to be ground down into the gutters and sewers beneath the heels of masters and cads, to be shit upon and pissed upon and used to masturbate with with no regard for their own feelings or needs or fancies outside of degradation, and pain, and torture, and fucking, are the most astonishing wonders of the universe. To put a paintoy like this into the position that they have their options and comforts and prestiges ripped away from them, until all they have left is to take the course they are forced into, in which they have no choice but to endure whatever injuries their monsters so generously heap on to them, and that they repeatedly and reliably go into that haunted dungeon so willingly, to demonstrate that they are worth to be kept alive, if for no other reason than by being little more than entertaining with their shrieks and their worshipings and their offerings of their mere and meager souls and whatever their feeble and cowardly bodies can sustain for the sake of the righteous work of a woman—the achievement of the very rapture of a man—well, that all is the inexpressible uncanny stuff of dreams to some loser like me.

It is the hole that is unfilled in my life. I’m not worth that to anybody.

“Here. Take it. Take it all. Please.” A line I will not live long enough to hear anyone pronounce towards me.

Women like this don’t exist. Not in my world. Every last one of them I have ever been exposed to expect it to work the other way around.

Until I came across her, for real. At least, as real as it was, as real as it could get, given…situations. Physical distances that were daunting and challenging, to say the least, never mind issues of practicality.

I recognized her as his, his slave, his woman that he abused for his own financial gain on his website. He put her out there, into the spheres of social media that I haunt where I could find her, layered and adorned with all the trappings of his unmistakable belief that I would cave in and give him what he wanted—my hard-earned money—just to have the opportunity to talk with such a creature, to find out about her, to try to discover what I needed in her, on the preposterous off-chance that I could maybe figure out how to see it in someone else, someone local to me, so that I could maybe begin to experience some small part of what he does, to know what it is like to have just a smidgen of that kind of unfathomable power over someone. In my own sad little life.

Scoffing at how shallow his ploy was, I took a chance and began to speak with her, fully expecting him to barge in and say that I had to pony up, which wasn’t what happened at all. Wonder of wonders, she spoke back. Well, texted, and it appeared for all practical purposes to be done freely. We texted each other across the internet, through computers and phones and the like, with all the seemly little etiquettes and politenesses of “hello” and “how are you” or “I saw what he did to you today on his site,” to which she would always respond appropriately, humbly, if—yes—tersely. But still respectfully. At least at first: she always called me “Sir,” just like that. With a capital “S”. Not that I minded that at all. It was a significant difference from how I was routinely addressed in my world, in my “real” world. I did not bother to correct her. We struck up a conversation that carried on into the night, that happened and then happened again until it was happening a few times a week, then every night, and it extended into the workday, as well. We talked about everything, it seemed. Funny thing is, that after a fairly short while, she began to reveal little snippets of her own “real” life to me, in private channels. Which surprised me, to find out about her children, her situation, her real name, even her location.

These are not the sorts of privacies one finds out about a woman across the internet, not at first—if ever—and yet, here she was, telling me things most women keep exceptionally quiet about when talking to would-be stalkers and creeps and fools. With good reason: can’t have some nasty dreadful suitor they casually flirted with on social media landing on doorsteps on some late rainy night, with arms flung wide and a big shit-eating grin, shouting “I’m here, honey; take me in,” saturated with a triumphant un-earned glee. Like that could go anywhere but disastrously wrong.

It took me a bit aback as she threw one of these cautions, and then another, and then yet another one after that, to the wind.

She opened up; she was human. She had a dayjob which she just lost, and housing concerns involving rats—she apparently didn’t even live with her master, which surprised me—and she had everyday mundane problems, just like the rest of us slobs and boobs have in such replete supply that no one is interested in. She talked about getting out of the lifestyle, of maybe not really wanting to be a mere financial pawn to someone who clearly doesn’t have her best interests in mind, of just waiting for him to tire of her and throw her out into the cold with nothing, of wishing to have something to look forward to other than how hard she would have it the next time she saw her “boss,” if he ever found out we were even talking.

I kept her secrets, and did what I could through the narrow confines of our communication channels. She never asked for money or help—which I had no idea how to even begin to offer—and I just let her talk. As corny as it sounds, I tried to support her, with what she was going through, acknowledging her and how she felt, which almost seemed…alien to her. She gushed her appreciation of being allowed to babble on, which I was happy to let her do, and we became friends, of all things. It went on for weeks, and then months. And the subject of what happened with her “owner” in regards to his website was not off limits. She actually seemed to like being able to talk about that part of her situation without having to be constantly reverent and courteous and servile, not that she ever actually complained about what happened there. It was just different. Very matter-of-fact, but without…submission.

What really got my attention, was that eventually, she began sending me pictures. Pictures of her in, well, “compromising positions” doesn’t even begin to cover it. Some of them I recognized as shots of her from her master’s site, part of the ad campaign, to get me to buy into his ridiculously over-priced video club membership. Others not so much, even though they were of the same kinds of subject matters. Pictures of her being tortured, sexually, that I hadn’t seen anything quite like before.

I asked her about them, and her first response was to retreat, asking forgiveness, that she had overstepped her bounds. I said no, she hadn’t, but that I didn’t know for sure what I was seeing.

“Silly, it’s me, of course. Is this alright? Do you…do you like them?”

Of course I did. The pictures were unlike the ones at her master’s site. They were closer, granier, taken in lots of locations, especially in what I understood to be in her bedroom, and it took me a while to understand that they were not taken by someone else. She had taken them herself, on her phone. To record what had been done to her.

To record what she had done to herself. She was showing me how she self-inflicted. She was demonstrating that whatever mind-erasing excruciation her master put down on her for his photoshoots and video sessions wasn’t anywhere near sufficient to satisfy her own self-defeat.

I couldn’t help myself: “Yes. Please. Show me more.”

And she did. Handfuls to dozens to hundreds of pictures of just how she tortured herself, how she set out to deliberately hurt herself, to get herself off. She would fill in details as I would ask for them. Where she was, what exactly she did; she spilled everything about it all. She was rather tickled that no one knew she did this to herself, not even her master. Apparently, she always kept needles and safety pins with her, to drive into her nipples and her pussy and her tongue whenever she could sneak off during the day to apply them. To satisfy the cravings. She wanted to ache constantly, and she had an enormous archive of how she had achieved that, not over weeks or months, but years. There were countless pictures of burn scars, of stainless steels piercing her intimately, repeatedly, and of the middle finger on her right hand in numerous and different splints that she explained was the one she used to actually masturbate with, to “jill off with”—her words—that she couldn’t keep herself from breaking. And even though there weren’t many that showed her face, in those that did, she glowed. She was ecstatic. Relieved to be feeling whatever pain she had put herself through, to tide herself over until she could get back into her master’s arms, his chains, his whips.

I tried once—exactly once—to ask her why she did that.

“Because it loves it.”

That was the moment that she truly objectified herself to me, that she abstracted herself to me, to make it clear that she wasn’t a woman, with feelings and obligations and social standing. She never used a personal pronoun self-referentially with me after that. She wasn’t a person; she was a thing. A thing to be played with, toyed with, fucked with, broken, not cared about.

Our entire connection transformed from me being there for her, to her being there for me. The whole point of this was not that I was talking to her but that she was talking to me, showing something confidential about herself and what she did to herself to me, not for her own mysterious purposes, but for my own gratifications and satisfactions. I have no doubt that she knew and understood and even approved of what I did to myself, looking at her pictures—both the ones she sent and the ones at her master’s site—late at night after we had quit talking. I also “got it” that if I wanted to continue to treat her like a human being, that was fine, but that she wasn’t terribly interested in that any more.

What she was really interested in was in appealing to the hidden corners in me, the dark recesses that secretly wanted to see a woman undergo discomforts and inconveniences and out-and-out throes and stabs for someone—for me—and come back for more for…to me, to assure me that it was alright if she hurt for me, and it was fine if I wanted to hurt her, even from all this actual distance we had between us away from each other. She could take care of that problem for me, for us, and hurt herself.

At my command.

“When did you last…do something to yourself?”

She replied with a picture. She was naked as she always was in her personal pictures. Her legs were spread wide, and there were rubber bands around her upper thighs. Attached to them were alligator clips, vicious-looking ones, which were biting hard into her pussy lips, spreading and pulling her intimate flesh cruelly out and away from her. Her clitoris was riddled with needles.

“Last night.”

“How long was all that on?” I didn’t type how I would have stuttered if I had said it aloud.

“About an hour. While you were talking to it. It was marvelous; it had fun.”

I had no idea. “How often do you do this?”

“Every chance it gets. Almost every day.”

I had to think a moment. Get caught up. “How should I address you? Refer to you?”

“Any way you want. Sir.”

I had to decide if I was going to objectify her the way she did. My upbringing wouldn’t let me do that. “And what have you been up to today?”

“Shopping.”

“Oh? What for?”

She proceeded to send me a series of pictures, starting with a piece of lumber. A one-by-six framing slat.

“Wonder what it could use that for,” she typed. She followed with a picture of a box of nails, immediately succeeded by a picture of a pair of clamps.

Huge, round, spring-loaded hose clamps. Big enough to put your fist through. The kinds that are used to secure fuel lines at oil rigs, that the force applied by was measured in dozens if not hundreds of pounds per square inch. That kind that one needed pliers to put on…and take off.

“Dom Depot is just the best.”

After that, nothing. Despite my continued pings and attempts to re-engage her, she simply stopped responding. For about an hour, then two hours. I gave up in there somewhere, and went back to unsuccessfully watching television, reading, doing dishes, anything to keep my mind off of what she had just shown me.

Until my phone chirped that I had a new message. Just a picture. From her. My hands shook as I opened it.

It was a picture of the clamps. Wrapped all the way around her most magnificent breasts. Squeezing them, compressing them, holding her tight and hard; her breasts, her tits were a dark and angry purple.

“It hurts more when it takes this shit off, you know. It’ll feel it real good by now.”

A minute later came the next picture. Of her breasts. Without the hose clamps. Her tits were indented deep where they had been clamped, and they were now bright red.

“It nearly screamed. Not enough for one day. But there’s something else it can do, if you wish, Sir. Make up for that…paltry insufficiency.”

The moment caught up with me before I finished reading her text.

“How many nails are you going to use?” I couldn’t type fast enough, and had to go back and correct what I had bumbled through twice before I pressed “send.”

“Two or three. In its lips.”

I had to sit down. Okay, sure, yes, I was already sitting down, but I slouched harder and had to adjust myself. My penis, my cock was pulsing, from my asshole to the tip. My breath got short, and I couldn’t stop blinking. I opened my zipper and put my hand in there, and I was hot. Throbbing. I jerked as I made contact with myself. I closed my eyes for just a moment before I picked the phone back up, and tapped on it.

“Forgive the lechery, but yes. Do. I want to see.”

“It’s thinking it will try to take a video. For you, Sir.”

“Sounds good.”

I was dizzy. This woman, this person I hardly actually knew outside of what really was only a smattering of words and some pictures, this masochistic personality complex sufferer was across the country, right now, and was setting out to hurt herself for my sake, at-at my behest, because somewhere in what little we had actually talked—so much effort I wasted on fucking courtesy—she had picked up that I would like that, that I wanted her to do that, and she…and she…

She was fine with that. Eager to do it, even. She was preparing to nail herself—her sex—to a board, for me. For my sake. And I was okay with her doing…that. Great with it, truth be told.

Surely she knew what I would do over what she was up to, what I would enact upon myself. She had somehow gleaned that she had done what I secretly wanted her to do with the clamps, she had known the first thing I thought of when I saw them, and that she had already felt something arduous and was about to feel something unspeakable for someone who wasn’t even there, and that I had not even dared suggest to anyone I knew that I was even remotely interested in anything like that at all. I bounced in the chair and nearly clapped my hands.

I slid my pants off, and I waited. I waited by the phone for a note from her, saying she had done it, she had pounded and affixed her own pussy to a plank, with proof attached, living proof of the sights and sounds of a hammer falling on metal, driving the drop-forged steel slivers through her own fuckmeat, into bare and splintery wood, with all the glorious sounds and cries that a woman would make when that sort of shit happens to her, throwing her head and her hair about as she worked, determined to do what she had said she would do, what she was told, until she had triumphed, looking up, panting and out of breath when she was done, the sides of her cheeks turning up, swallowing, hoping it was satisfactory, praying that I had liked it, swearing on her children’s lives that she would do it again for me whenever I wanted, and whatever else, too, using my name as she gasped, telling me directly that she liked doing this sort of shit for me, that she loved suffering for me, obeying me, and to prove that, she would masturbate for me, here, now, demonstrating that she is indeed a painslut, that she was my little bitch now, and that she would be happy to do it all again for me, at my slightest hint of command, and that I should just let her know when I was ready to have her do it—or something worse—again, and again, and again, until we could somehow actually get together and I could make her gag on my cock after it had been in her ass, and drown her in piss, exhausting my hardon of everything it could expel so that I could set in on torturing the absolute shit out of her without the needs of my stupid dick interfering with what I had to do, to her, for real, until I could get it up again and fuck her like the god damn fucking maso-fucking-chistic slampig she really is.

And I waited.

And I waited.

And I waited.

My erection rose and fell for what felt like hours until I couldn’t wait any longer, and I put my hand on my own cock, and pressed and rubbed and fantasized until I ejaculated. I came hard and strong, splashing semen all the way up onto my chest, nearly to my own face, full of the belief and faith that there was someone out there for me, willing to suffer for me, for the sake of my own macabre repulsive joy, happy to do so, doing it now, right now, right god damn now, so help me god.

I came again, and then yet again before I managed, somehow, to fall asleep, dreaming of her, here, on my side of the country, in my bed in my own room, sucking my cock until I was hard and pulsing and then soft and empty and then hard again, over and over and over, driving her tongue into my ass, murmuring incantations of devotion and adoration throughout the night. I lost track as to how many times I woke up to yet another orgasm happening, without the help of my own right hand.

The next day, I checked in with her, bedraggled, wishing her a good morning, and it took a while for her to get back to me, but she did, and she was humble and compliant and respectful, as she always was. Succinct. We shot the breeze a little about what the weather was like on each other’s side of the country, and how my work was going and how her job hunt was going, until I couldn’t stand it any more, and I asked her.

“So, uh, how did it go?”

Nothing.

“You know, last night?”

“Fine. Great, even.”

Long pause.

“Did you do it? The…nails?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. Thank you, Sir. Bless you.”

A change. A change in how she referred to herself.

“Was it what you were hoping for?” It was hard not to type the stammer.

I thought I lost her, with how long it took for her to reply.

“I loved it. It was glorious. I did five (!) of them. Ten penny nails: you saw the box. Two on each side of my wasted meaningless gash and one right down the middle, where it counts, at the very top of my greedy cunt. You know the spot. I shrieked for the whole god damn night, riding the narrow edge of the rough-hewn timber like a pony, pressing my entire fat-ass weight down on my iron-defiled cock-ditch, my tertiary fuckhole, my p-pussy, bouncing as hard as I could to make it hurt even worse. And I came like a fucking whore; I lost count.”

My hands shook. “Did you make the movie?”

“Yes.”

Another long pause.

“And?”

“Master says you have to pay Him to see it.”

My shoulders collapsed.

“You can see me do whatever slutty, painful, filthy, and humiliating thing to myself you want, on demand, any time, day or night.”

There was a long dark silence across the continent. I had no idea what to say.

“The subscription to my slavery is month-to-month, you know. You want the premium-plus package. Oh, and He’ll be happy to fill in to do ‘interesting’ things to your little bitch—me—for you if you decide you aren’t going to move out here to do them yourself. If you want. For a fee.”

“I—

“—Take it. Take it all. I’m begging you. Please. Own me. I need you to.” She used my name in there somewhere.

By the end of the day, he—or was it she?—had my credit card number. No matter. I was going to need a second job. To make ends meet. For all of us.