One

By Brewt.Blacklist

December 2014

ONE.

What?

One.

One what?

You know.

I’m pretty sure I don’t.

Sure you do. We’ve talked about it. You’ve always said no. In no uncertain terms.

I…

And so I’ve decided. I want one.

One.

Yes. One.

You want me to give—

—No, I want to give you one.

Oh, no you don’t.

Why not?

Because I don’t want to!

Oh, come on. It’s only one.

I don’t care.

One and done. Less than a second.

For Christ’s sakes. Why?

Hmm?

You heard me.

Well, to be honest, precisely because of what you just said. You don’t want to.

And what, now, suddenly out of the blue, you can’t respect that? Why?

As you have just noticed: I have been. All this time.

This doesn’t make any sense. I’m not interested. And you can just continue to leave it at that.

I see. So. You don’t have the strength, the fortitude, the love to do one thing you don’t like for someone you say you love. Not even once.

What? No. That’s not true.

Sure it is. You just said so. You cannot do even one.

That’s not—

—Yes, it is.

I…

Forget it.

Oh, god, now you’re mad.

No, no.

Yes, you are. I can see it.

Uh, no. It’s disappointment.

Well, that’s worse.

Oh, well.

Oh, god. Really? This means that much to you? Why?

It’s symbolic. It affirms what you tell me about how you feel about me. That you’d go the distance for me. That you willingly would tolerate an unpleasantry—however minor—for me and my sake. It’s a demonstration of that which you say.

It’s just stupid.

Yes, it is. But by the same token, your absolute refusal to allow for even one is a demonstration of something else.

Of what?

Of how you really feel about me. About what you think I’m here for.

Well, that doesn’t make me feel the least bit better. Do you think I’m an awful person?

Not at all.

So what’s the big deal here?

I wouldn’t think this would be a very big deal at all. But as is most obvious: it’s your call.

Jesus. I don’t like what you’re doing here. It’s blackmail.

No it isn’t.

What do you call it?

It’s a gift. Look, you either can or cannot give me a simple stupid little symbolic representation of how you really feel about me. And so now we know what it’s going to come to some day, when something serious is in fact called for.

Are you expecting something bad to happen?

Not at all. But I think I now know how it will go if and when it does.

This isn’t fair.

Doesn’t matter. Forget it.

I feel like you’re totally manipulating me. It’s evil.

Why? Because I’ve asked you for the tiniest of indulgences and you’ve stalwartly refused?

The way you put it makes me sound like a monster.

You’re not a monster. Your pride just can’t allow for even one.

Oh, for Pete’s sake.

It is what it is.

Fine.

Hmm?

You heard me.

Are you saying—

—Yes. I’m saying yes.

Really?

Just one, right?

Yes. One. Are you sure? One?

Yes. One.

Thank you…god, thank you. This means a lot. More than I can say.

Shut up; just get it over with. Before I change my mind.

Say it with me. One.

One. God.

###

ONE.

What?

You heard me.

You’re hilarious. We’ve already done it.

Yes. And that was then.

Yeah. No.

I see. So you can do one one time once, but no more.

You said one. Just one.

Right.

Which we did. Which I allowed for.

Which was glorious, didn’t you think so?

No.

But, it is over and done with. And so now I want one.

Moron; no. That’s not one. That’s more than one. That’s two.

In a way, I suppose you could look at it that way.

What other way is there to look at it? No.

Got it. You can only tell someone you love them once, you can only assure them of how you feel one time, and no more, because anything beyond that is just too much for you. More than you can do. Beyond your ability. You have no seconds left for me.

Oh, for Christ’s sakes.

Let me show you.

What?

I don’t like it any more than you do. Go ahead.

Absolutely not.

Why not?

Because I don’t need that. Sit down.

How do you know?

Because I just do.

Uh huh. Walls, lines, limits, the ends of things with you are all quite solidly battened down at one. You’ve made your allowance for one one time once, and now, on no other day, at no other time ever can you allow for even so much as one. Now and forever, amen.

You want one? Fine. Come here.

Of course.

And just like you said, say it with me. One.

One.

God. There. Was it good for you?

See? Am I so much worse for the wear? Do it again.

This is weird. I don’t like it.

Neither do I. Do it again.

God.

Can’t, huh.

Fine. There.

Again.

Shit. God.

Again.

Fuck you.

See? Nothing to it.

Do you feel better?

I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me. But the truth is, you could have, and it would have been alright. And, just so you understand, not just this one time once. You want it, you call. You mean that kind of much to me.

That’s sick. You’re just sick.

No, I’m determined. I am ready, willing, and able to prove to you what you are not willing to even consider proving to me.

How did my feelings for you turn into…this? Can’t you just take my word for it?

I kind of need some proof.

Proof? Of what?

Of how you feel about me. Of what you’d do for me. Of what you’d allow.

Why? I don’t need proof of how you feel.

Yes, you do.

No, I don’t. I have faith.

You positively feed on proof. You demand it all the time.

No, I don’t.

Sure you do. Your needs for assurances and compliments are nearly constant. You have to have an uninterrupted affirmation that I am attracted to you, that I think you’re not merely pretty, but all that I would ever hope for in a woman, as is, and that I want so stay with you above all other women, and take care of you like I would no other. You think you deserve, no, need flowers—and not just cheap-ass ones, really nice ones, in arrangements that would count as works of art—and being taken out to dinner, and being seen as being with me in public. You want to be called pet names. You insist that my doing little chores is evidence of how I feel about you.

But those are all nice things.

Yes. For you. If there’s something I want to do, and you have any kind of different idea whatsoever, we do what you want: period. We don’t negotiate; you dictate. You restrict what I can say. I have to have utter and perfect respect and adoration for you in everything I say and do all the time. If so much as one word slips out of place, or if you even catch a passing glimpse of some hint of a facial expression you don’t like—even if it isn’t about you—you scold me and punish me and hold me accountable, and file it away to bring up again some other day, to use against me to get your way on something you think I’m not doing right, or doing fast enough to suit you.

Are you saying you don’t want things to be nice? That you don’t respect me? That you don’t really love me, or…or feel the way you say you do about me? Are you wanting to leave me?

Not at all. But your demands for the perfections of my attitudes toward you are not casual or gentle or easy. Being with you is not inconsequential: it is a costly affair. And I don’t mean money. You hold me hostage to how you feel about me. I have to watch myself all the time. And know what? I am glad to go through all of your desires and stipulations; I am okay that we do things on your schedule. It makes it better for…well…especially…you know.

And there we are. Back to making me the monster.

You’re not a monster. But neither am I. You have needs that I am totally willing to play into and fulfill. But I just so happen to have a need you’re making exceptionally clear that you’re not willing to have anything more to do with.

It’s an awful need. Dreadful. Immature. Silly. Nothing like what I ask of you.

Hey, look. Calling upon me to show you how I feel about you isn’t awful; aren’t you gratified by how willing I am to demonstrate how I care for you and love you, even to extreme lengths? But it looks like having it go the other way around is unheard of. You seem to think you have no obligations to me or my needs or feelings, which you—quite frankly—seem to hold in some pretty deep contempt. No chance for even for a second for me. Got it.

I don’t like this.

I understand. I’ve worn out my welcome. It’s just something I’ll have to go elsewhere for.

Good luck with that.

Which I’m sure you understand means that I will go elsewhere. Period.

What? No. Don’t you dare!

So…what? You want me to just do without?

Are we really talking about this? Christ. I mean, can’t you give this crazy notion up? For me?

And what could you do without?

I could do without the flowers.

I see. You don’t care about them.

Don’t get me wrong. They’re nice. But I don’t really need them.

So you’re willing to give up a little nicety that you really don’t care about, if I would give up on something that settles my fears, my doubts, that gives me a sense of belonging, of peace that is like no other.

My anguish over this gives you peace?

You don’t know what it’s like to feel this way.

I most certainly don’t.

It’s the idea of being accepted that eases me: all of me. The good and the bad. There are times I feel so alone.

I’m right here.

But you’re not really here for me.

That’s not true.

Sure it is. You’re here for what I can do for you. Not what you can do for me.

That is completely untrue. And unfair. I just…I just don’t want us to do this. I don’t want us to be this way. Please? We’re better than that.

You think we’re better than needing. Rather, you think I should be better than needing.

No, I’m…god…

Honestly, from what I can tell, your anguish is so severe—over just one—that you’re willing to let someone else give this to me. And all that it means for me to have to get what I need elsewhere.

What? No. That’s not right. You’re…twisting everything around here.

So? What does it matter how I feel? Or think? Or what I do?

…God damn it. Fine. Have your fun.

Are you sure?

What do you think? Is this good enough for you? Am I where I’m supposed to be for this?

That’s the way. I knew you could.

Shut up. Just get it over with.

Say it with me. One—

—Fuck you.

Oh, come on. One…

…One. God.

###

TWO.

Imagine my surprise. No.

Are we going you go through all this again? How you can do one, but not two?

When is it going to be enough?

Enough? Enough?

Yes. Enough. When are you going to be satisfied?

When do you get enough sleep? Enough to eat? Enough of what I do for you?

Stop it.

Well?

Fine. Every day.

And then you need it all again the next.

This isn’t the same.

It most certainly is. I need. I need you. I need you to do this, to allow for it.

I don’t like it.

Which I also need. It means so much more if you don’t like it. This is working completely out for me.

Well, whup-de-fucking-do for you.

You’re being sarcastic about how I feel here; I’m sure you understand that. Which, need I remind you, you wouldn’t tolerate from me.

Here we go. Will it ever end?

Yes. It can end. You know how.

I don’t—God damn it all, I don’t want to end it. Us. Not like that. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.

Is what I ask really so much? We’re talking seconds. Compared to my undivided attention and devotion for all the rest of our time together. I want mere seconds in which you overcome yourself for me. That’s all.

Okay, when you put it that way, no, you’re not asking a lot.

So you’re still willing to give.

I—yes. Fuck me all to hell, but yes. I can’t believe I’m going to do this again. I still don’t like it.

Wonderful. So, with two, we need to do this another way.

What do you mean?

I think you know. It’s traditional for this sort of thing. Surely you’ve heard of it. Come on.

What? No! Absolutely not.

Why not?

It’s embarrassing, you jackass!

Yes. I know.

So, no.

No?

Not just no: hell no.

I see.

I don’t like the expression on your face.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Look, what you’re asking for doesn’t make this nonsense the same or a little bit worse: that makes it worlds worse. That is altogether different. It makes this crap completely intolerable.

This is just between you and me, you know.

Doesn’t no mean no? No.

Tell you what. I will, too.

You’ll what?

I’ll be the same way.

That doesn’t make it any better.

Are you sure? I think you’ll see something.

What? I’ve seen it before.

Yes, but you haven’t seen the effect of what we’re doing here has on me.

You need help.

Which I am happy to have. From you. Like this.

No, you need professional help. This is out of my league.

Do you think I haven’t tried that? That I haven’t beaten myself up over this for longer than I’ve known you? I am just coming to terms with it, and I am being honest here about it with someone I care about for the first time in my life.

I can’t have anything more to do with this.

So here we go again. You’re willing to have me be everything you need all the time, catering to all your wishes and needs and whims, but you cannot allow for something in me that you don’t think you like, that has an effect on me I can’t help. Do you honestly think I want to need this? Never mind that; fuck you. Fuck me, fuck everything. I can’t tell you how it makes me feel to know that you won’t have anything to do with a part of me you think is disgusting or awful because you can’t be soiled by anything like that. So thanks a lot.

So there you are, back to being mad at me.

Yes. Now I am mad. But not at you.

Oh?

No, I’m mad at myself.

I don’t understand.

I was under the impression you cared about me, what I needed, how I felt. My mistake. I should have known better.

Don’t do that.

Do what?

Don’t put me in the position of being the god damn bad guy! I hate that!

I don’t know what you’re complaining about. You’re getting your way. Isn’t that what’s important to you here? You’re getting to disavow me and how I feel and what I need all for the sake of you not allowing yourself to being put in the position of having to cater to me or how I feel. You can keep your fucking hands snow white and clean. I hope…I can’t even say it.

Please…don’t…

I’m sure, that when you get asked, you can be proud of how you preserved your innocence and integrity and how you could keep your nose in the air against the creepy old pervert. You see, you have made it clear that I am the bad guy. Because I need something you don’t like, that you don’t think you should have to stoop to provide or live with or put up with or even be made aware of.

I’m…I’m really not like that, am I? Do you think so?

Oh, grow up. Who cares what I think?

God, I just…I don’t…will this be the end of it?

What do you think?

Please don’t make me do this.

You’ve made it clear that I can’t make you do anything. Not even two. Forget it.

Jesus Christ. This is going to come between us, isn’t it.

Yes. You can’t do this little bit, and you expect me to give you everything.

…I can’t believe I’m going to let you do this.

Oh, no you don’t. You don’t get to say I forced you into this. I’ve asked, and you will either go along with it or you won’t.

And if I don’t?

You know the answer to that.

You’ll go somewhere else.

It’s your call.

This isn’t what I thought things would be like with us. When did you turn into this?

I’ve always been like this. I’m just now getting to where I thought I could trust you with it.

Ignorance is bliss.

Yeah, well, my mistake to let this cat out of the bag. I suppose I should just shut up and only speak when spoken to.

Please don’t say that. I’m sorry. That’s not what I want. I want us to be good together.

Don’t you get it? That that’s what I want, too?

This is hard for me. I just…I just don’t understand any of this.

Honest to god, neither do I. I’m not sure it can be understood. The important question is whether or not it can be accepted.

I’m trying. I really am.

Don’t get too carried away with that whole accepting thi—

—Yeah, yeah, I know. I have to not like it—which I can tell you, I have that part down cold—but somehow find it within myself to let you do it anyway. It’s weird.

You know, we spend way more time arguing about this than it would take to just do it. So. What’s it going to be?

Do I really have to do it like…you know…that?

Yes. But you won’t be alone. I’ll be that way, too.

You are never going to breathe a word of this to anyone, ever.

Never. On pain of torture.

Very fucking funny. Let’s get this over with. I didn’t exactly dress for this occasion. God damn it…stupid…there.

Beautiful. You know I think you’re beautiful, don’t you?

Do I have to like this part of it, too? Is that what you expect?

No, of course not. Under no circumstances would I expect that from you.

Just…hurry up. Get on with it.

Hang on…there. Now we’re both the same way.

Not quite.

God, I love that you’re blushing.

That doesn’t help. Can’t you hate all…this for me? Enough to maybe not do it?

Don’t be silly. This is important. Come here. Say it with me. One—

—Fuck you.

Say it. One.

Ow! I don’t want to.

One.

Hey, that’s three!

No, that was one. You have to say it with me. One.

Fuck! Not so hard!

One.

God! One!

Two.

Two! Two! Two! Shit!

Thank you. This means the world to me. Kiss me.

Absolutely not. No.

Come on, kiss me.

God, no, please don’t make that part of this!

See what it does for me?

Oh, god, no, that’s…that’s awful. Disgusting.

Don’t say that. I love you. I love you.

No, please, no—

—Don’t you love me?

Oh, fuck, this is what I was afraid of.

I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing to be afraid of. The worst is over, and I love you, and I want to make love to you.

No, not now.

Oh, yes. Right here, right now. Can’t you see? I may not be able to stop myself.

Shit, please. Please, I’m begging you.

And it’s marvelous. Better than I imagined. Kiss me. Kiss me. You know I’m going to make it good for you.

Oh god. God. God. I hate you.

No, you love me. I can prove it.

Please don’t. Not now.

Another time, then. Kiss me.

God have mercy on me.

Oh. Oh. I love you.

I really want us to forget all this. Promise me.

Shhh. Kiss me. Let me touch you…there.

Oh shit. Oh god. No…oh fuck. Fuck. Okay, you win. Of all things to wish you weren’t any good at.

Part of learning about each other.

Please make me feel good.

Of course. That’s what this is all about.

Fuck you. Fuck me.

That’s the plan.

###

SEVENTEEN.

What happened to three?

Three is meaningless. Seventeen.

What? Do you know how that makes me feel?

Sorry?

To have you say that everything I’ve gone through so far is meaningless? Hurts all my tender little feelings.

Oh, no, I wasn’t trying to infer that at all. What you’ve done so far means the world to me. It really does.

I am so glad for you. We should stop now, while we’re ahead.

Oh, now don’t be bitter about this. You should be proud.

Right. Proud. Proud of feeding your perversion. Of laying myself down low.

No, proud of how you’ve been able to overcome yourself for me and my sake. That is rare and something special, let me tell you. I, for one, am absolutely floored by it. That you’d go through this for me. It’s…it’s humbling.

Yeah, tell me about it.

No, no, for me. Don’t you get it? I have to be worthy of it. I mean, I’ve really been going out of my way to help out and make things good around here; haven’t things been good?

Well, when you aren’t making your little demands, I suppose, yes, I can’t complain too much.

You’ve been astonishing. Worth everything I can do to express my appreciation. Have you liked the flowers?

They’re lovely. You know what you could really do to express that appreciation of yours properly, don’t you?

Which, I think you full well know, won’t work because that’ll just put us right back to the beginning. Do you really want to start over?

You mean, back to one?

Oh no. Not like that. We’d have to do something else entirely. Something I’m pretty sure you really wouldn’t like.

As opposed to this.

As opposed to this. I don’t want to use the word worse, but you might see it that way.

Something tells me I had better stay the course.

I think that’s smart.

So why not three?

Well, you really had to struggle with one, and two, two was nearly hell itself to get through.

No kidding.

But you can handle two now with such aplomb and ease that three wouldn’t be any kind of a stretch at all.

You call this aplomb? Are you saying you haven’t noticed me positively shaking? It would be nice to have things easy.

But what would that show? That you’re willing to do pleasant and dainty things, but nothing hard or serious? You’ve already done formidable things, overcoming everything you’ve ever been taught. And now—

—And now I’ve set a terrifying precedent. Fuck me.

Well…

Hang on; are you suggesting I can maybe fuck my way out of this? Fuck you. And stop smiling. Christ. So why seventeen? That’s a big jump. Does this count as abuse?

Are you going to call the authorities? Tell them how terrible you have it here?

Tempting.

I’m sure they’ll be very concerned about the one, not to mention the two you’ve had to suffer.

Seventeen might get their attention.

It might. Is that how you want to end things? Branding me a notorious criminal, sending me off to find my way through the labyrinths of incarceration, spending my days—not to mention my nights—with truly evil men in some vile and forgotten prison, as an abuser of women and all their grace and charms, someone who preys on the innocent and meek? You know what they do to men like that in the big house, don’t you?

There you go again, being so dramatic, blowing everything way out of proportion, making it all life and death.

Like you haven’t been.

Sweet Jesus. I’m not sure which is worse: your hideous desire, or your dreadful speeches.

There are, of course, the questions of consent that your friends in law enforcement are going to ask an awful lot of questions about. Put us both into quite the quandary as to what to say has been going on around here. So many dilemmas of honor, so little time.

Great. Just fucking great.

You’re the one who brought it up.

Shut up.

So, back to the matters at…hand.

I have no idea how I can keep a straight face around you. Will you do them hard?

You need to ask? Yes.

That’s the stretch you’re talking about here, isn’t it. I’m honestly a bit scared.

Don’t be; I’m right here. Nothing to be afraid of.

That’s what you think. So are you going to tell me what is so special about seventeen?

Well, we’re still not talking about a lot of time, even at seventeen. Certainly not compared to what is going to happen afterwards.

That part better go on all god damn night.

Overall, I think it’s a good next step.

So why not a hundred? Or a thousand?

Well, I really don’t think you’re ready to go quite that far yet. But if you think—

—No, no, seventeen is fine, if these are the choices. It’s just such a peculiar number to jump to. I mean, one, two, seventeen. I don’t get it.

I think it’s a significant number.

What?

To you.

I don’t…wait a minute. Exactly why did you pick that?

Like all of this, it’s symbolic.

…No. You son of a bitch. No. No, no, a thousand times no.

You just said—

—No! No no no no no no! God fucking damn you!

I think it’s important.

How can you do that to me? Why the god damn fucking fuck would you commemorate what those fucking bastards did to me when I was seventeen? How fucking dare you! Jesus fucking Christ!

No, no, that’s not what I’m pointing to here.

Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!

Don’t you see? It’s not about what they did to you, it’s about you: how you survived it. You overcame the worst day of your life. I am in so much awe of you, I cannot even begin to tell you.

No. Fuck no, hell no, every kind of no you can think of. This is over. We’re done here. Your sick fantasies are not going to play into that. Not that. I forbid it.

But—

—They took everything from me. Why don’t you get this?

No, they didn’t. Why don’t you get this? You’re here. You’re here with me. You are the most amazing woman I have ever met. You are the strongest person I know.

I don’t care.

Are you going to let them win? After all this time?

Shut up.

Are you honestly going to let some arrogant assholes who did something they shouldn’t have done to you dictate that we can’t notice how astonishing you are? If I could put my hands to them, I would murder every last one of those bastards before you, for what they fucking did. In an extraordinarily long and gruesome fashion. I would make god damn fucking sure they suffered the fucking torments of the damned for as long as you think they deserve before I rip into them for what I think they deserve. I am not trying to tear you down here. I am trying to build you up. There is so much to you, I cannot even begin to understand it all. That’s what I’m trying to find out. You’re…you’re…

What?

You’re precious to me.

So why do you do all this shit to me?

Because you are the only person I have ever met who could handle it. You’re the only one who could handle…me.

I hate this.

So do I. But I don’t know where else to go.

God damn it.

Amen to that…

God damn it …please, I am fucking begging you. I will get down on my knees and beg you. Anything else. I can’t do seventeen. I’ll remember—thanks a fucking lot—and I’ll cry and throw up and how would that possibly build you up? Isn’t that the whole god damn fucking point here?

…Okay. So not seventeen. I’m sorry.

Th-thank you.

I’m not heartless, you know.

Can we please just stop?

There’s other things we can do, if you think you can.

Shit, it’d be worse, as you say, won’t it? As in, a whole lot? I-I don’t think I can survive that. I need a serious break from all this.

Tell you what. Pick a different number.

Really?

We can work something out.

Awesome. Three.

You’re funny. No.

You can’t blame me for trying, can you?

I suppose not. Come on. Impress me.

Four.

You call that impressive?

I cannot believe I haven’t stormed out of the room…fuck…thirty five.

Hmmm. Not bad. Why?

That’s how old I was when I met you.

Uh huh.

And I think I need to be punished for that.

I’m not sure I know how I feel about that. What do you need to be punished for?

For meeting you, and not sending you packing.

You have an uncanny gift for making me feel better about things. Jesus…but by that token, shouldn’t it be thirty nine? For not sending me packing yet?

Fine. Thirty nine.

You astound me. Thirty nine, then.

God, what have I done.

Are you sure you can do this?

No. Are you going to fuck me afterwards?

Do you think you could stop me?

Did that really come out the way you intended it to?

Oops. No.

All I know is that I think you better do a damn good job of that. Because I’m pretty sure I’m going to deserve you being extra extra nice to me.

Of course.

I mean it. I had better lose my god damn mind by how good you make it.

It would be my deepest honor and pleasure.

Wait, what are you doing?

I’m, uh, putting this rope around your wrist.

I don’t know why I didn’t see that coming.

Just the one.

Of course. Just the one. Asshole.

Oh, and that thing you said?

What thing?

About crying? That does something for me.

How could it not? But you surprise me: not the barfing?

You are so anxious. Some day.

Me and my big mouth. I should learn to keep it shut.

There are ways to deal with that. We could perhaps use some discarded article of clothing.

If I didn’t think you’d shove my own panties in, I would consider something like that a mercy.

Tempting. But…I wouldn’t be able to hear you count with me, or any of your wonderful ideas. The blessed sounds you make.

Which is, of course, part of what’s so important here.

You know, if I had suggested you could consider thinking like this, even a short time ago, you would have laughed at me. Called me crude and ridiculous.

Fuck me.

We’ll get there. In good time; actually just a few minutes. Are you ready? Count with me. One.

God. One.

Hey, you know what? I want to start over.

Oh, Jesus. Now what?

Well, it occurred to me that it would be really nice if you’d thank me as we counted.

I thought you said I didn’t have to like any of this shit.

And I most certainly don’t want you to.

Spectacular. Because I really fucking hate all this.

You are everything a man could ever want. But if you’d thank me for doing something to you that you hate? My god, I can’t tell you what that would do for me!

Oh, great. I suppose you want me to call you master or some shit like that, too.

I’ll leave that up to you. But since you bring it up, just for this, could I maybe call you a name?

What name?

Does it matter?

Of course it matters!

Oh, come on. Sticks and stones.

For the record, those are not my idea. Shit. You’re going to persist and do it anyway, aren’t you, you silver-tongued nag.

Let’s try it. See what happens.

Shit-fuck me.

Temptress. So. Count with me, slut. One.

I am not a slut!

What, you can’t survive a word, bitch? Come on! One!

God damn it! One!

You cunt, I said thank me! Now do it fucking right! One!

Ow! God fuck! Not so hard!

Suck it up, paintoy! One!

Ah! No, no, wait! Thank you! Thank you! One!

Good whore. Two!

Ouch! Th-thank you. Two.

So eager to please. Good slave. Three!

Ow. Ow. Ow. Th-thank you…m-master. Threeeeee…

Couldn’t wait to cry for me, eh? I love that. Good girl. I am going to fuck you so hard; I may not be able to wait until thirty nine.

Oh, god, yes. Please. Stop what you’re doing and fuck me instead. I’ll suck your cock.

If you want. We’ll start over. And over. And over. All night long.

No! No! I can’t do that! Please! I need a second. I just need a second. God. Oh. Jesus Christ, what have you done to me? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Just do it! Hurry up!

Are you sure?

Yes, god damn it! Get it over with!

Whatever you say, cocksucker. Four!

Four! Thank you!

No master, cunt?

Master! Just go faster! I can’t stand this.

Faster, bitch? How about harder? Five!

Ah! Five, master, thank you, master!

I think harder is a good thing for you to add in here, whore. Six!

S-six, m-master, ow, thank ow, you, sh-shit-fuck…

And?

…Hhhharder…p-pleease…

You beg so god damn beautifully. Seven, slut!

Oh my god! Please, master, that was…that was s-seven, and…and…oh god…hard…

Did you thank me, bitch?

Thank you! Thank you master!

Are you enjoying this, whore?

G-god no.

Good. Eight, you fucking cunt!

Aaahhh! Oh, master, don’t you need to rest? So I can thank you properly?

Can you say eight, pussy?

Eight! Oh god!

I think! You’re trying! Uh! To make this! Not! Harder! Nine!

Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!

What? No thank you, no master, no harder, and no count? Where’s all the god damn begging? Do over, slut. One.

Nooooo!!!!!

One!

Aaaah! I quit! I release you! I don’t want to do this any more—I don’t want anything! Go get someone else! I don’t care! Let me go! Let me gooooo!

Oh, no, darling. I couldn’t possibly. You are so god damn perfect, there is no way I could let you go now, could I? Wouldn’t dream of it. You’d feel terrible about yourself. I will not let you fail.

Please! I want out! I want out of this, I want out of you, I want out!

Get right back here right god damn now. Jesus. Maybe we need more rope. To help you with your commitment.

No! No! No! No! You said! You god damn fucking son of a bitch!

…There. And do you know what else? I think we’ve been doing all this the hard way. Just by ourselves, with our own bare hands. You do know they make things that make each one of our ones a true trial and test in and of itself, don’t you? Of course you do. I’ve taken the liberty of getting one in anticipation of a day like this.

Oh my god! Nooooo!

It cost a pretty penny, let me tell you. Hand braided, it’s a work of art. Soooo worth it.

Please no! Not with that!

We’re going to name this thing Doubt Trimmer. Ready? One.

Aaargh!

Nothing else to say? Brave girl. One!

My god! My god! My god!

This is much better: I can do this all night tonight and all day tomorrow now. We’ll go on to two whenever you’re ready, and we’ll start over when you forget: tally of where we’re at, appreciation of what I have done, a compliment to me, an admonition to make it worse, and some of that fabulous pleading. And you know what? I’ve just had the idea pop right on into my head that it would be so wonderfully submissive of you to kiss our new toy, each and every time. You can beg and make interesting offers as you see fit. So. From the top. With feeling. One.

Ahhh! Please! I can’t! Get that thing away from me!

Of course you can. I have all the faith in the world in you. But you might want to consider getting started on your obligation here. Thirty nine is a long ways off, honey. Especially at this pace. One!

 

Posted with Blogsy

Progression

By Brewt.Blacklist

January-February 2015

I WANT to hold your hand. I want your hand in mine, mine in yours. Palm to palm, digits intertwined, and not just there together, flat, perfunctory: I want us to be engaged with each other, interacting, exploring each other, feeling each other, absorbing each other. The communicative seduction of fists and fingers. I want you to hold my hand.

I want to observe all the lines and curves and angles of your face and your body. I want to see how you move when you walk, how you speak with your hands, how you absently play with your silverware in your own attempts at seduction, how you make the little shifts in your demeanor when you lie, how you engage in the truth. I want to be there when you like things, and when you love things, and when you hate things, and when you aren’t sure what to think about things, as I will record all your reactions and study them and learn all about how you think and believe, all with the unabashed ambition of manipulating you for my—our—own good pleasures. I want to see you feel things that are beyond your control, because I want to be one of those things. I want to be chief among those things. Let me in to your secrets; let me know you.

I want us to date. I want us to make idle chatter about the weather, and movies, and books, and musics. I want us to talk. As in, a lot. Sex, politics, religion, money, history, family, friends, former lovers, I want no subject to be off-limits. I want us to show each other places in the world that mean things to ourselves, to bring each other into our lives. I want us to eat together, and I want us to tell stories to each other. I want others to know that we are becoming an item, a couple, that we are becoming involved with each other. I want us to have fun.

I want to touch you. I want to put my hand on your shoulder and have you be alright with that. I intend things to progress from that to be such that I can slide my hand down your back, pat your knee, and leave my hand on your thigh when we sit next to each other. I want you to touch me. I want you to surprise me at a moment I’m not expecting you, when I’m lost in whatever trouble is besieging us, to put your hand on me and your arm around me, drawing me in toward you as you assure me that you’re still here, that we’re still in this together, with the smile that says you’re here for me, and that you want to touch me and comfort me as much as I do for you.

I want to kiss you. I want it to mean something beyond courtesy, beyond duty, and have it be rooted in passion, and desire, and love, and need, and once we start, I don’t want us ever to stop. Kisses that go on for days, with all the murmurs of being overwhelmed, our tongues becoming as familiar with each other’s mouths as we are our own. I want to slide my hands and my palms and my fingers through your hair. Both hands. I want to hold your head, and adjust the angles and trajectories for our kiss, and engulf you with that kind of command. Fall into it, allow for it, relish it as much as I do. Give in to being controlled to be kissed. I would have our lips be together so long that we would undergo oxygen exchange. Hesitant at first, just a sharp inhale, to taste the air the other has half-consumed, then another shallow aspiration, all of our eyes wide and unblinking, to see who pulls away first, and have neither of us do, which would lead to another deeper draw of respiration, until we actually full-on breathe through each other’s lungs continuously, desperate to stay alive through whiffs and breezes of each other’s atmospheres with our kiss being in the middle of that, central to our survival, the very kiss of life. Oh, that all of our kisses should be like that: needy, full of circulation, dizzying.

I want to put my arms around you and hold you. I want you to relax into me, and sigh a relief that this is happening at last, at so very long last, and I want us to hold each other for such a lengthy stretch that we have to sit down, and then continue after that until our strength to hold ourselves upright fails and we have to lie down together, intertwined, constantly adjusting ourselves to close yet another gap between us. I want us to be surprised—delighted—to find ourselves waking up together.

I want to find your skin, where all it is exposed to the world—your hands, your face, your neck—and I want to explore your clothes, the seams, the edges, and to slip my fingers just under its limits, a little a first, innocuous, not invasive at all, and to toy with the fringes and perimeters of where you go into hiding, all with the tacit awarenesses and permissions coming from you that authorizes my performance of such an announcement that I will indeed go further, inside the hems, toying with the clasps and buttons and zippers, running my fingers along the pleats and stitchings, becoming familiar with the fabric you use for primary defense against the gaze of others, against the weather, full well understanding and knowing and welcoming that your clothing will be no hindrance to me and my desires. I want you to feel naked when you’re with me, no matter how bundled up you are, with all your sleeves and pockets and collars, for I am determined to find my way in through your modesties and lay you bare before me.

The day is out there that my bold and brazen hand will find its way to your breast. Over your clothes. When that finally comes about, I want you to stopper up your breath and be still and allow for it. Adjust yourself to all that it means and portends; look away, and let it happen, because it’s going to happen a lot, even in public. Not a quick flitting glancing graze that could be rationalized as some kind of accident, due to our near-continual close proximity to each other, like bumping into your shoulder as we walk down the street in the amusing moments that lead up to our hands fumbling about trying to find each other, inducing a small laugh when they do that, with a sense of delight that no one else can share with us in our mirth, no, this is a much more serious affair, a full on hold, a claim being staked, a marking of territory that yes, it will be my intent and thereby yours as well, that others will see, and when you are convinced they are, I want you to lower your eyes, and breathe slow, and smile and approve. Squirm a little, and submit. Show them—and especially me—that this, this was anticipated, expected and is indeed welcome. Put your hand on mine, to hold it there, on your breast, whenever I find my way there, and pull me up to you whenever we are out in public and I am not already in the process of mauling you, molesting you, and do not hesitate to show whoever looks our way, that you want me to touch you there. Smirk at their discomfort, at their involuntary invasion of what should be a privacy between us with me.

I want you to open your blouse, just a little, to reveal what you hide there with the cloths that you wear to preserve your dignity. I want you to show me what you keep over your heart, secretly waiting for me to find, with you looking for my approval. Which you shall have. I want that to happen often, I want it to happen whenever we are together, wherever we are together, whether in private or out in the world. I want you to expose your breast to me, just between you and me, every chance you get, with the devil sparkling in your eye when you do. I want you to surprise me with the daring risks you will take to show yourself to me, to get me to laugh.

I want you to stand up and take off your top and your bra and look me straight in the eye, and nod your approval for me to look, to see, to authorize me to break the lock on our gaze, and I want to look at your breasts, and watch your nipples become erect. I want to see goosebumps. I want your breathing to deepen, with your mouth unable to close, and for you to arch your back toward me, as an offering, which I will accept.

When I brush your nipple with my fingertip, I want it to electrocute you. I want you to be unable to suppress a moan, and when I lean over, moving in close, so that you feel my breath invading your space, my exhale colliding with your skin, warming it, with my inhale cooling it and drawing your body temperature away as we share your heat through my lips while I am trajecting closer, closer. I want you to hold your breath, unable to breathe, waiting in shivery hopes and anticipations of my moving in to present my lips to the very tips of your nipples on your breast, evoking a cry at your astonishment and exultation that this is finally happening, with me spending more and more time in contact with you there, taking a little more of what is so sensitive for you with each passing second, slow, steady, until I have captured enough of your donation, your gift for me to put my teeth onto your areola, dragging them along first one nipple then the other, pulling and stretching your skin, and I want you to throw your head back and gasp as I take you into my mouth and hold you there, and I want you to pant. My hand will come around your back, barely touching you, and I want you to move forward, into me, and I want you to like that and enjoy it and dream about it when this kind of violation isn’t happening, which, from this point on, will be rare. Put your hands around my head, and adore my sucklings and play with my hair and my ears, and tickle my face, and smile a smile I will never see.

I want you to squirm as I kiss your breast, as I toy with your nipples with my teeth and my tongue, varying the pressure from just-barely—maddening—to as hard as you like it and beyond to where it gives you pause, all as I suck as much of you into my mouth as I can and apply other-worldly suction on you there. I want your legs to cross and your knees to rub together in an effort to increase the stresses there between your legs, at the top and middle of your thighs, and I want your hips to thrust in tiny ways that are beyond your control, and I want to tease you until you can’t stand it any longer, to get you to where you are beyond the point of decorum and restraint, and I want you to long to be naked, and I want you to silently beg me to allow you to be that way, to get on with it, breathlessly telling me how you just can’t hold back any more.

I intend for this to take longer than you want it to, and I want you to get to where you can’t bear to wait another second for permission or approval or the go-ahead, and I want you to go right on ahead and risk and throw off the rest of your clothes. I want you to pour yourself into my mouth, groaning with impatience, roaming your hands all over me, to get me into the same state of urgent craving as you are. I want you to take my clothes off, urgent, touching, feeling, kissing, smelling, acclimating yourself to me, bringing up your desire into high, bristling, brimming, focused.

I want to look at you, completely. I want to observe every square inch of your gloriously nude body. Hands, arms, feet, legs, neck, back, front, top, bottom, every angle, every view. I want to see how your muscles and bones and sinew move underneath your skin. I want to look through your hair. I want to see inside your ears, your nose, your mouth, inside your belly button. I want to take notes on your breathing, how your chest rises and falls to live, persistent, determined. I want to listen to your stomach growl. I want you to spread your legs, running your fingers down through your public hair, curling it and pestering it and asking me if I like it like that or if I want you to shave it off, which you would be willing to do for me, to be even more naked for me, which I nod my head for, and you promise me that you will do that for me, and that I can be there to watch if I wanted, and how you would even let me do it to you, if I wish. And oh, yes, I want you to show me your pussy, and I want you to coax her open, running your fingers up and down around the outside of the folds, teasing the lips of your sex, drawing and enticing yourself apart, stretching your entrance for me, and you simply have to show me your clit, opening yourself up and pointing to the very center of you with your tongue peeking out from between your lips, and then putting your finger directly onto your thrill and circling it around, gasping and assuring me that this will be mine to do with as I will, and I want you to gape yourself even further open so I can see inside you there, inside your pussy, your cunt, and I want you to show me the obscene pink that is inside you, getting yourself turned on enough to make that happen, promising me that I can see this any time I want, and that the arousal that makes it turn color is happening because of me. I want to see your pussy get wet; I want to see you drip. I want you to show me how many fingers you can get inside you, and how you squirm and then lurch when you get far enough in there to get to your g-spot. Convince me that you want to be able to take your whole hand in there, and that you want to be able to take my whole hand inside you, too, and that we will work on that together until it can happen regularly. I will ask you what else you have to show me, and I will want you to stand up and turn around and bend over and part your ass cheeks for me, so I can look directly at your asshole. Tell me all about the fantasies and fears you have about having fingers and cocks and hands inside your ass, with the solid guarantees and affirmations that we will make all that happen together, even if it hurts, especially if it hurts, and that I will always be welcome to do with your ass as I please. Admit to me your fascination with assholes and anuses and pissholes and urethras and vaginas and cunts and mouths, and what they do, and what they are for, and how it feels to be invaded there, and how it all makes you feel like a filthy girl, and that…and that you like that. I want you to blush from that, and I want you to show me your asshole long enough that it contracts and pulses on its own in a way that you can’t do anything about to stop it, powerful enough to make your head drop from looking back at me because you can’t help yourself, and I want you to display yourself like all this so often, so very often enough that it turns you on for me to see you like this. And at the same time, I always want you to blush when you do this for me. I want just the whisper to you that I have seen some part of your body do something outside of your own control to make you go completely crimson. Build whatever dignity you need within yourself to make that reliably happen for me, knowing full well that I will demand you to glow with embarrassment for me at times of my choosing, which will be often. And I want you to find my toying with you like this endearing and attractive, something you look forward to such an extent that you would even go so far as to volunteer to display yourself if I haven’t shamed you about it lately, and how you do not find it annoying at all, but that it makes you wet whenever I do that to you.

I want you to be without your clothes on for me as much as we possibly can accomplish that, behind closed doors, in the car, with one of us dragging the other into bathrooms or closets or into alleys out in the world so you can strip for me, with me continually daring you to be someplace you could get caught—bare—having you send me pictures every day of yourself being naked when we are apart in places you shouldn’t do that, with us regularly going out into the country so you can perform your nudist duties to me freely under the sky. I want you to walk around our neighborhood without anything on for my entertainment, and I expect you to get caught, and to do whatever it takes to keep from getting turned in or complained about. I want you to always go to the bathroom completely disrobed no matter where we are, and to sleep naked, with both of our hands full-on held onto each others’ sex whenever we wake up in the night and find that we have rolled apart.

I want you to be completely aroused all the time. Suggest perversions for us to try or retry without cease. Be desperate, horny, willing to go along with all kinds of outlandish and daring and dirty things, I really want you to surprise me with how good a sport you are about sex and all the games that go along with it. I want your interest in the state of my erection to be continuous, with the underlying idea being that you could maybe do something to make me hard when I’m not, and then do something else when I am. Because I most certainly want to make love to you, to screw you, to fuck you, in every way possible. I want my cock to slide into your pussy. Into your mouth. Your asshole. And I want us to both fuck each other like it was important. And I want that to happen constantly. Let it be said that we never denied each other the opportunity. I want us to be unconcerned about who knows or sees or hears anything. I want you to be loud, unbridled in the sounds of passion, and I want to hear you genuinely make them, overcome with emotion to the point that you cannot possibly suppress them, every day for the rest of our lives. I never want you to fake an orgasm. Commit yourself to rapture on my tongue and my cock and my hand, however and whenever you find these instruments of mine on you.

I want us to go mad with bliss.

What I want, what I really want, is that when you have an orgasm, that you come so hard, so preposterously hard, that you scream, that you lose control, that you gush, that you pass out, go senseless, that you lose consciousness. And not just one time once. I want that to be what happens each and every time. And I have a plan for that.

I want to tell you that I want to see you play with yourself, and I want you to have no care whether it’s right or wrong, or if it’s too much too soon, and I want you to dive right on into it, lying down before me or sitting on my lap or splayed out next to me somewhere out in the world, and I want you to open your legs and put your hands right on in between them like you do when you’re by yourself at night and the siren call comes and you cannot wait any longer, and I want you to masturbate with abandon, and bring yourself right up to the thresholds of relief, to the brink, the very limit, and I want you to inform me that you are about to come, and I will tell you that I want you to stop. Oh, how I want to watch you swear and slump and quiver but I will expect you to obey me and take your hands off of yourself, and you will shake and shiver as you come down, and I want you to thank me for ruining your orgasm, because the truth is that I am going to make you do it again, and again, all in an effort to make it even better for you when I do let you come, to make it bigger, more powerful, more memorable, as I want you to trust me enough to offer up your own control over your own pleasure and give it unreservedly to me. Know full well that I will torment you with this, and be merciless about it; I will tease you, periodically calling you up during the day to go find a place you can do this sort of thing, and to jill off for me over the phone, telling me how you feel all along the way, and what you are thinking about as you do what I command and get yourself to the edge so I can tell you to stop and have you thank me, and if we have to use insistent super-powerful vibrators—maybe even remote control ones, which I will thoroughly use against you at every opportunity I can—to get all this to have a strong enough impact on you, to make it real, to get you to where you are earnestly begging me to come, then you can count on the idea that we most certainly will, forcing you if I have to, and that I will be cruel and deny you without fail.

I want us to do this until you absolutely cannot stand it any more, and you disobey me, and have an orgasm without my permission. It doesn’t matter if I am with you and you cannot help yourself, despite how unrelenting I am that you do not have sanction to come, and you end up caving in to whatever submerging drowning demanding ministrations I or even you are applying to you, with me full-on lying to you that yes, this time, I vow I am going to let you come, that I really want to see you go right to the moon this time, only to have me tell you to take your filthy hands off of yourself when you are almost there, almost there, almost there, and the little death takes you over under whatever pretext of "accident" you swear to me is true, the absolute truth, oh god so help you dear god is true, or if you are by yourself and you wickedly decide to go ahead and have one to spite me because it has been so fucking long, you will confess this heinous sin to me with the full understanding and concession that I will punish you for it. And by punish you, I don’t mean that I will simply throw you back in there, teasing you and denying you, no, I mean an actual real brutal punishment comprised of something you absolutely hate. And if you cannot just truthfully tell me what that would be—either because you are sincerely afraid or you honestly just don’t know—we will have to work at it and try things until we find something that you despise so hard that you would rather give up having an orgasm when you want one, under your own control, than to go through the repercussions of disobedience.

The most obvious solution to that problem is, naturally, pain, and so yes, pain will be inflicted upon you. Which will actually all work out, because I want you to allow for me to hurt you anyway. We’ll take it slow at first, easy things, things that are almost gentle, with only a slight pang to them, like a light and loving spanking with a gentle and delicate brushing of your skin after every strike to spread the warmth and allow you the opportunity to adjust to it and look forward to the aftercare from each and every stroke, nothing more than a love pat in the beginning, or perhaps the leisurely twistings of skins and muscles in fragile and tender indian burns, on your arms and legs and maybe your breasts or even your neck, going slow and gentle at first, simple for you to take, especially when you’re solidly masturbating for me, with the vibrators churning away directly on your clitoris, throbbing and humming hard and contending you overcome whatever minor discomfort I might be inflicting you with so you can go ahead and get to where you are about to come anyway. Which I will deny. But we will have to escalate the…trials I want to do to you up beyond the casual good-natured hints of things to come into actions that get your attention, that make you stop and have to adapt yourself, to pause and find a way around it within yourself, so you can continue with the ministrations of pleasuring yourself despite whatever exquisite strength-ridden touchings I surprise you with, and right on from there into operations against you that could almost be considered an attack that I want you to allow for, to work your way passed and through and beyond, right on into things that actually hurt, that you will rationalize as being a tiny allowance for everything else I subject you to, under the auspices that I might let you come soon, until we get to endeavors you could deem to be cruel, deviating you from your course toward luxuriating in the glow of happiness of sexual satisfaction, even so far as excruciating and ruthless, something that could put a stop to that orgasm nonsense in and of itself, diverting you into something at least as intense if not moreso, so as to mix up the signals for you, blending pleasure and pain so that you can begin to associate one with the other, overcoming and overriding the gentle play-slaps and squeezings and spankings and chokings and as they get harder and go on longer, way beyond anything casual, passing way beyond reason, until you can tolerate my whims and fancies to spank you at the drop of a hat as being no big deal at all, no matter where we are or what we are doing.

For I do want to spank you, and I do want to spank you a lot, for no other reason than I want to. Spank you when we get up in the morning to go with our face-the-day coffee, or when I come home from work, with you waiting for me, bent over, naked, with your hands against the wall and looking back over your shoulder to encourage me, as a welcoming greeting as proper as a kiss, or when the commercials come on on TV and we would get up to get a snack or go to the bathroom, adding spanking you to our list of normailties, not forgetting to make it part of our good night rituals of brushing our teeth and taking off our clothes and crawling into bed to cuddle and love each other, spanking you every night to the point that tears are flowing freely from your grateful eyes, or as we are getting ready to leave the house to go on a date, as we pass each other in and out of the hall and I swat you which gets you to jump and smile and laugh, or in the bedroom when we are changing, with you lifting your skirt and dropping your panties so I can apply my hand there, reddening your bottom as part of the approval process of your appearance for us to be seen together in public, or as we’re getting out of the car at the restaurant, with you all dolled up for our evening out, bent over the hood, accepting what happens when my hand comes down out of the air, making whatever modifications are necessary within yourself that this, too, is love, even in front of the passers-by who would stop to watch and question what I am doing to you, wondering what they are seeing and what is going on and if they should interfere, not quite believing this could be happening before them in our modern world, all of which you will maintain is perfectly alright with you, and to prove it, you will allow whoever it is, thinking they should be rising up to defend your honor and protect you from the likes of me, to let them spank you, too, as a part of our kinky games that we will laugh about them participating in, or laugh at them as they run away, aghast.

And my love pats, my spanks, my full on strikes of you are not to be just on your bottom, no. I also want to spank your bosom. Your stomach. Your legs. Your sex. Your face. And I want you to accept that and tolerate that and live with that and expect it and learn to love it and suggest it if I haven’t done it anywhere near enough yet today, and I want you to tell me to do it hard, yes, even harder, to the point that I cannot possibly satisfy either one of us enough with just my hand.

Because what I really want to do, is whip you. With a real whip. With real paddles. Floggers. Crops. Switches. Scourges. Straps. Canes. Whatever we can find to hit you with. And I want that to happen so much so that you can tell the difference between the various implements I want to use on you, even if you are blindfolded, dangling naked and vulnerable before me, suspended all the way up off the floor by your wrists, or your wide-spread ankles, or your breasts, depending on what day of the week we are talking about. And you will have blanket permission, now and forever, to come as hard and as long and as often as you want when you are under the lash, when you are getting marked. And I want there to be no day, for the rest of your life, that you are not bearing my marks. Fresh marks.

Wouldn’t that be glorious? To look in the mirror in the morning, to see what I had done to you the night before, to see what I had done to you the day before that as it is starting to fade, and have it remind us both how much we love each other? To have to catch your breath during the day when something aches, to replay the memory of how it got that way, and all the fucking that went on around that—and especially because of that? To have you waiting for me to come home, being naked as you ever are, kneeling, handcuffed, with yet another kind of whip in your mouth for me to take, to pick up where we left off the night before? This is what I want, to be this kind of accepted, to be this kind of encouraged, for you to want me to ravage you and ravish you and take everything I can from you, your body, your love, your lips, so I can hear your uncontrolled all-you-can-do-is-scream screams, in both passion and agony and to be the reason for both, and to have you want that with every fiber of your being, too.

I want to call you names. And I don’t just want to call you a name and have it bounce off you like it didn’t matter, no, I want it to effect you deeply when I call you a slut, and I want it to actually tear at you when I call you a cunt, and I want you to stop whatever you’re doing when I call you a bitch and consider what you could be doing that could make you be seen as that, and oh, let me tell you about what I want to happen when I call you a whore. I want you be utterly confounded that I would even consider you to be that way. I want the vile names for women to be weaponized against you, so that with a mere word, I can hurt you in ways that cannot be seen, and I want you to know, that I will call you these things most freely for my own pleasures and my own conveniences. Do not ever let yourself get inured to them.

The one name that I want to call you that I want you to agree with with your entire heart and soul, is slave. When I call you a slave, I want you to bow your head and nod, and stop whatever you are doing, and conform everything within you to becoming obedient. Compliant. Docile. Did I say obedient? When I look over at you with the look that I’ll get and pronounce the word, the sacred word, no matter how softly, I want you to fall to your knees, and begin to take off your clothes, right then, right there, and prepare yourself to do whatever I have a fancy for, and I don’t care where we are. If we are alone together some place private where you can expect me to make an outrageous demand upon you, or if we are out in public, in a crowd of strangers, or with people we know, where I will want you to do things that are above and beyond your own imagination of what all I would make you do before other people, I want you to demonstrate to me and everyone around us what all you are willing to do for me, what you, in fact, are for me. Kneeling, naked, faithful, ready. If anyone, and I do mean anyone, asks you what on earth you are doing, I want you to say that you are obeying me because that is what you want to do, what you have to do, more than anything else in the world, because—and I want you to be utterly mortified to have to admit this, and please feel free to plead with me to not have to say it, over which, of course, I will instead urge you commit to your commitment to me—it…it…is a sexual thing for you. Something completely shameful for you that you cannot do a thing about. That you are s-sub-submissive, and that the choice you don’t have about this does not come from me. It comes from deep within your very own self, and when they shake their heads in disbelief, it is then that you should beg them to let you show them, to not make trouble, to let you do this, that you will make it worth their while. For this is what you truly are. Servile. Subservient. That you actually get aroused by groveling and laying yourself down low before others, by being base, and it is your greatest pleasure to acquiesce to the most foul and filthy things imaginable that people could want from another human being, from a woman, from you-specifically-you, and that it would be your only opportunity for sexual satisfaction you could get that does not involve grueling agony, and would they please please please objectify you and quit thinking of you as a friend or a person they know or even as a human woman with any kind of dignity or grace or even feelings they need to be concerned about, but rather that they should all come to see you as a fucktoy, a piece of meat to do with as they only dare to dream about when they are alone and masturbating at night, so that they could allow you to oblige their dirtiest, hideously vile and most obscene fantasies right here, right now. Be persistent, be persuasive, until everyone there is looking around, flitting their eyes back and forth at each other when they can pry them off of your naked slathering and praying that they allow for your utter degradation, to see if anyone else is still arguing with you, and to the point that everyone’s breath is being held as to what is going to happen next.

Just so you know, they’ll all be a little scared, and unsure about this, but they will still be fascinated by it, and a little turned on, too. We do not want to disappoint them. For sure, I will tell you to stand up and kiss everyone in the room, as a way to welcome them, to put them at ease, and I will expect you to pour yourself into them, and arouse them to the point that they are hard or wet, encouraging them to put their hands on you anywhere they want, any way they want, and you will let it affect you as if I was touching you. Let them look at any part of your body they want to see for as long as they want, and be sure to blush for them. And yes. You will have permission, no, more like an iron clad order under these circumstances, to come and to come hard and to come like you have to. Because you totally fucking do.

If I tell you to start sucking the cocks of the men that are with us, then that is precisely what you will set in on doing, on your knees where you belong all the time anyway, crawling up to each man, opening his pants to let his cock out so you can take it into your mouth, making him hard, getting him to lose his mind with how good it feels, making every last one of them believe that he is your king, your god, and that it is good and proper worship for you to gag on his most splendid cock in your piteous efforts to get him to come on you, especially on your face so you can wipe off with your hand with awe and relish which you will lick and enjoy immensely before you go on to the next man, you whore. If I tell you to start licking pussy, you fucking slut, then you will do whatever slutty thing it takes to get every woman at your disposal to let you in between her legs so you can do this to her, making whatever slutty and degrading promises you have to, all so she will allow you to make her come so hard that she squirts on you, even if she doesn’t think she is anywhere near slutty enough to even consider that she can, let alone with another slut like you. If I tell you to beg people to spank you, then you will go around and get them to do exactly that by providing whoever you are before with enough evidence about what a god damn bitch you are and how you so very much deserve to have them hit you—offer to let them choose where to strike you, and make it clear that there is no square inch of you that is off limits—until their hands are too sore to continue, and you will thank them profusely for chastising you so very properly, as you so very much needed them to do, and that you will call on them to do this again for you some other day, before you go on to the next person. Which is a promise you most certainly will live up to. And if I tell you to show everyone what a cunt you are, you will march right on into the men’s room to serve as the only urinal there until I come to get you to send you into the women’s room to do the same, and you will find your own way home, naked, doing whatever it takes to get there, making whatever trade you have to with your mouth and your ass and your pussy and your tits and your body, and when you come in, bruised, reeking of piss and semen and the gush of women, you will humbly entreat me to punish you most severely, as I see fit.

Which still leaves us with the problem of how to actually punish you, when you are disobedient, or fucking around on me, or inattentive to me and my cock, or I simply decide that I want you to suffer for me.

Perhaps we’ll need a horse to put you up on. Something you cannot simply get off of by yourself, if for no other reason than because yes, the bondage will be keeping you there, as you can certainly expect bondage to have become a part of your life before me, as I will expect you to be under some form of restraint beyond clothing at all times anyway. Chains, manacles, straps, strait jackets, armbinders, hobbles, spreaders, rope, endless rope. Wearing rope bondage under your clothes when you go out into the world will become part of your underwear, to remind you constantly that you belong to someone: me. We can take shackles or handcuffs with us when we go out to eat where you will—of course—be expected to suck my cock under the table while we are waiting for our food, and you can use your hands cuffed in front of you to eat if you’ve been good, or if you haven’t been, then they can be cuffed behind you, and you can simply bend over your plate and eat like an animal. A fuck animal, if anyone should ask, which you will be delighted to demonstrate, by whatever means necessary, with you crawling to whoever questions your status and putting your face in their lap with an seductive offer to put your mouth under their clothes and eat them, too, with the admission to them that you will be severely punished if they do not find you pleasing enough to take you up on it, which, even if they do, won’t stop the punishment I have in store for you anyway. A collar should be on you at all times for sure, one that has rings on it to affix you to various places with heavy chains, like the bed, or the car, or the coffee table in the living room, or the toilet.

Ah, but the horse, yes. It should be a sturdy contraption that we simply leave out in our living room so that we have to explain it to our friends when they come over with an end-to-end demonstration of what it does and how it works and what it’s for that will simply have to go on and on for them to see the full effect, until you lose your decorum and grace and cannot help but make those adorable noises I will expect of you when you are on this contraption. This sturdy appliance that will hold you and not fall over no matter how vigorously you squirm around on it, with your feet bound up off the floor, spread wide to be of no hindrance to the intent of the damned thing, giving you no leverage with which to adjust yourself away from its intent, with your arms handcuffed at the elbows and pulled up behind you, so that your weight bears down on your pussy, directly pressuring your clit onto the angle of the plank, or maybe even the sandpaper running across the edge, to make your stay there way on beyond merely uncomfortable, but something that shifts your entire focus to the crisis between your legs, imbuing you there with an ever-mounting ache and anguish, such that the evening of television I have planned on any given night would be accompanied by your groans and pleadings, until I decide that I want you to be quiet, and I gag you, and have to test the gag’s ability to silence you by caning your breasts so ferociously that you thrash hard and throw yourself about, squealing, and worrying you might not make to the end of the commercials, knowing full well that I will pick right back up where I left off when the next one comes on. Perhaps I will ride you during the show, as you ride your horse, crawling up onto you, getting all my weight to bear down onto your pussy that is being cleaved by the whetted shank, as well as your own, bouncing on you as I do when you so normally crawl around the room for me, carrying me about, as I am shouting out with glee, digging spurs into you when you take me to bed as you do every night where I so sadistically whip you to tears before I savagely fuck you in your pussy or your mouth or your ass—a different place, every night, so we don’t get bored with the ritual—until I fall asleep inside you.

But I digress.

So when the news comes on, I will give you the opportunity to express my authority and dominion over you and your gratitude for your splendid evening of suffering, and I will take your enormous gag out, and bend you all the way over on the horse, so your head is hanging off the front end of it, and your arms are being pulled up behind you almost to the point that your shoulders are being dislocated, and I will stand before you and drop my pants down to my ankles and casually play with your asshole, and decide if I will take you down off of this unusual and useful piece of furniture, so you can come to bed with me after the full-bore gagging blowjob you will so enthusiastically give me—like you wake me with every day anyway—which should, naturally, be spectacular, and if I do, you will spend the night with my cock in your mouth as a relief and a grace from all the usual nights you spend with your tongue as far up in my asshole as you can get it in there after I have fallen asleep, after I have mauled you and pummeled you and beaten you and fucked you enough to make a difference, sure to be handy there any time I just so happen to wake up and need to go to the bathroom which you will take care of, in bed, with your mouth, so I don’t have to get up, and if I decide you haven’t earned your way down from your toy, I will come in to see you in the morning after I have jerked off a time or two onto your pillow before I get up just to give you a challenge and grant you another merciful chance to demonstrate how much you want to be let down. I am reasonably sure I can wait for as long as it takes for you to become pleasing, willing to obey, desirous of my hideous desire to have you only come on command, with you doing everything you possibly can to continuously exhaust my ability to ejaculate no matter how much it hurts you to rouse an erection out of me, no matter what vile and filthy perversion you have to be drug through to maintain our interest in each other, leaving you up there wearing a zipper made of thirty clothespins and twine the first day, then sixty alligator clips and five hundred pound test fishing line the next, and then ninety bulldog clips and steel cable the day after that, all so I can rip the zipper du jour off you when I come home, to guarantee a scream to be torn from your lips when I ask you how your day has been, only to set it all back up for when one show ends and I ask you what you want to watch next with a solid yank on the line so you can reply with another screech under your gag, leaving it for me to decide during the utterly inhumane flagellation I thrash you with while the commercials are on, or maybe even leaving you up there for whole weeks at a time with binder clips and massive weights on your nipples and knots and ropes woven into your hair with the rope going up to a pulley in the ceiling and over to the wall and down to the floor where there is enough mass to pull you up off the horse so you can hang by your hair, far enough up so I can light votive candles across the top of the brink of the horse to give you something else to think about during the day when I’m gone until you agree with whatever the fuck I want. And when I do finally let you down, the very first thing I will expect you to do is to apply your fingers and the vibrators to your tender and sore and torn up pussy, getting your whole hand all the way on up in there for as long as it takes to get you to where you have to ask me for permission to come, which I will deny, and we will go on from there with me slapping your face until I cannot lift my hand, for which you will thank me and offer to drink my piss as proof of your affections for me, as a sure and true demonstration of what you are willing to be for me any and every time I have such a need, morning, noon and night, in public or in private, before friends and strangers and family, even to the point that if I just want to show off to someone else that you would not even hesitate to kneel right down and open your mouth, taking your clothes off in the process, eager to swallow whatever I pour into your lips from whatever vulgar source I can think of, even in front of all the cars whizzing by on the highway or in church or at your parents’ house or in front of old boyfriends, ones that you dumped to whom I will offer the very same pleasures, and that you would be happy to let everyone we know see how willing and eager you are to do this and be this beautifully degraded creature for me, to disgrace yourself for me no matter how low I want to push you down into the gutter, and serve me and my cock in any fashion I may devise, so that all may know that you are in fact my ever-obedient slave-lover.

Then again, it may not be the horse that does this for you. You may come to look at it as nothing more than a mildly entertaining carnival ride. Be that as it may, I am a patient man, and we will try something else to do to you, to truly punish you for falling out of line and coming without permission. There is no shortage of things that can be used to punish a woman, to punish you. Nettles that can be rubbed over every naked inch of you, which will continue to itch and to burn long after they have been taken off, to say nothing about pushing them inside you. Needles that can be eased in to all your intimate places, or jabbed in, relentlessly, over and over and over until you cannot help but notice how hard you are crying. Nosehooks that mar your beauty, and make you look like the slampig you truly are, and open up your nostrils to allow me to tickle the insides of it with a feather to make you sneeze, and make way for the tweezers to pull out the little hairs you have in there that hurts hard enough to make the shivers run up and down your spine. Hot wax, dribbled onto you from heights that get progressively closer and closer, until candles are being completely liquefied and poured directly, from a height of zero, onto breasts, sex, face, stomach, thighs, armpits, feet, all so it can harden and be whipped off with carbon fiber painsticks: glorious. Breaking bones: little ones at first, like fingers or toes, left unsplinted and uncast so as to grind them together, and if that doesn’t get your attention, there are larger bones that that can be done to. Tiny burns made by incense sticks or cigarettes that you will hold still for no matter how many times I do it, as I want to use these things, too, to break you, to show others how I can break you, even if I simply let the burning end rest on your nipples or the inside of your thighs or on whatever lips I can find on you, that I will have to do so much to you that I will be afraid of catching cancer from all the relighting I will have to do, and so I will have to insist that you relight the things that scald you, and put them out on yourself, slower, slower, I said slower, so that it is your fingers that smell like tobacco, that it is your own shaky hand that performs my will upon you, and it is you that has such a filthy habit that I can punish you for taking up and getting addicted to without my permission; a master’s work is never done. Razors, oh my god, razors. Splitting you open along long lines, just deep enough to get you to bleed, carving the obscene words for women into your flesh in places your clothes cannot hide, set in your skin and muscle and sinew as though in stone, all so salt can be poured onto the wound, re-opened time and again as a reminder, with other words that can be placed somewhere else, leaving detailed instructions on how I want others to treat you permanently left on you that anyone can read. Branding? I understand that hurts hard enough to get you to pass out. The trick is to get a small enough brand so that we don’t kill the nerve endings over too large an area, making it possible to do that in lots of places, over and over and over again before moving to another position. I’ve even heard of someone doing something so simple as using a squirt gun to squirt warm water onto the woman’s pussy. As such it reminded her of the abject humiliation of wetting her pants, and she hated that so much that her owner only had to use it once on her, and merely had to show the toy to her to get her on her knees, her mouth open, ready to suck cock or do whatever—and I do mean whatever—he wanted. When she finally got married, long after they had gone their separate ways, he sent her new husband the squirt gun as a wedding present, with a note that said "May your new wife forever love, honor, and obey." When she saw it, she screamed. We’ll try it, see what happens.

Who knows? Maybe its electricity. Electro-stims, circuit pads, parillas, picanas, the whole technical shebang. We could stuff copper wool into your cunt, hook it up to mains, and use another wired copper wool pad to buff your skin, with the current flowing between them, always shocking your pussy, always sanding and shocking you wherever I rub the other end of the circuit; I understand it’s quite effective in forcing confessions. We’ll see what we can get you to say. Or I know. We’ll get a setup that we can use to wire up just your breasts—each one separately, of course—and find out what kind of voltage it takes to surge through them and how long it takes get you to scream so hard that that is all you can do.

Now don’t worry. I’m not trying to kill you. It’s the amps that do that, and so whatever equipment we get will be totally safe for entertaining human electro-torture, as I’m not interested in inducing heart failure or permanent neurologic damage or even any kind of disfiguring burn. I just want it to hurt. As in, a lot. So I’ll need you to be honest about it all so we can really go about torturing you effectively. There is an appeal to scrambling your very essence without leaving a mark, with something that can reliably drive you completely out of your mind with pain until the power goes off, over and over and over again. I would think that would completely terrify you right on into sacrificing all of your selfish vanities, all your thoughts for your very self to curve them around instead onto me, to have you care and care deeply for me and my ecstasies, which is what I demand of you, along with only you experiencing an orgasm when it pleases me, which will be rare, to say the least. Because, sure as shooting, when push comes to shove and I find you lacking in any way whatsoever, I’m going to want an electrode in your urethra, another one curled up inside on your g-spot, another on your clit, and even one more all the way up in your ass, all so we can see how much bodily function control I can rip from you at the top of your lungs with the touch of a button.

It is, of course, true. The studies on aversives say that negatively punishing someone does not necessarily induce positive corrective behavior modification, and so you should truly know and believe, that I am not above going at all this from the other direction, as I am genuinely interested in seeing you have more orgasms than you think you can, however we can make that happen, as long as they are so violent as to wipe you completely out of consciousness. Which really is the goal here. So much so that I would be completely on board with the idea of tying you up and keeping the vibrators going on you all the time and forcing you to orgasm way on beyond what you think you can tolerate, for whole days or even weeks at a time strapped into perhaps some kind of a fucking machine, relentlessly pounding an enormous dildo into your asshole and maybe even, at the same time, a second one in your pussy that is bigger than both our hands combined, and, perhaps, we could get a third mechanism to plow on into your mouth right down into your throat so you can gag continuously, so that all you can feel is that you are being fucked and that it is going to go on forever, even up to and indeed way on beyond the point that you are nothing but sore and you beg me to please, please, stop, that you would be willing to have me grant you any kind of relief from it, even if it hurt or was somehow disgusting instead. Because it would be no end of fun to tinker with all that pleasure/torture shit, as you’re humming along, almost to the point that you’re screaming from over-positive-over-stimulation, or maybe as you’re just starting to really vent your feelings, only to have the whips and the electricity or whatever come out and change your focus for a while until the vibrators and the mechanisms come back into play and mix up the signals some more.

Because that is what I really want. To push you into the ecstasies that all you can do in is feel, that you are completely overwhelmed, that your brain shuts completely off to the point that you forget everyone and everything. That’s the kind of impact I want to have on you. And I really want you to want that; I want to be the person you come to for that, that you cannot resist, such that you are addicted to me and all that I do to you. And if you don’t want to do it my way, and it means that I have to spend as much time as it takes with my head between your legs, with my tongue on your pussy to accomplish my—our—goals here instead, then that is what I shall do. It would be my pleasure to drive you insane like that, if you’d rather. It’ll just take longer. One way or another, I want you to drool.

The most I can hope for is that I would mean as much to you, that you would be willing to do what I need, to get me there in heaven with you. To appease my desires, and afford my reliefs, and allow for me to have my joys with you. Which, I think, you know what they are.

 

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