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.

 

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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.

 

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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.

 

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Recreational Scolding

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