September 2016
GOD DAMN it.
I am so mad at you.
Don’t give me that; you know god damn good and well why.
Oh; “innocent.” That’s a laugh.
Don’t talk to me.
What did I just say? Hmm?
Really? You want to play it that way? Fine. It was the pictures.
Yes. Jerkwad. I warned you. Did you listen to me? No.
Why is this hard? Every. Body. We. Know.
They all have them.
Didn’t you hear what I just said? “Them.” Not “one,” or “some.” “Them.” As in “all of them.”
That’s right.
Now they know. They all know what I look like under my clothes. Naked. My legs spread, my mouth laid open with that horrible gleeful slut-expression on my face.
With a fucking cock in my mouth.
With a fucking cock in my ass.
No, they can see my ugly mug in that one, too, with my eyes clenched shut and my mouth stretched open in either pain or pleasure. It’s impossible to tell the difference.
Jesus.
Sperm in my hair, running down my face. Here at home. Out in public.
Oh, guess. Go on, guess.
Uh huh. Yup.
And if that weren’t enough: me playing with myself.
Prancing about with-with…things sticking out of me.
I have no more secrets. They are all out there. For everyone to see, to gossip about, to twist about in their perverted dreams. Obscene pictures of me.
Fuck you.
I swear.
If it was only pictures.
Moron. What do you think?
Me standing out in the hall, taking off my clothes until I am god damn naked with the delivery guy, telling him that it’s okay to look, that it would be alright—really—that he could just go ahead and put his hands on my tits and squeeze them if he wants, sure, play with my nipples, make them stiff and hard, letting him see that he’s having have an effect on me, making my breath catch, letting him hear me moan, and then, then showing him my pussy, asking him if he liked how it felt, if I had shaved it up right, asking him if I’m wet and gee, wouldn’t he like to do something about that, and here, while we’re at it, see, this is my asshole. Kneeling down, licking my lips, opening his pants, asking him if I could please-please-please do this, opening my mouth, sticking my tongue out, licking him, kissing him, making yummy sounds as though I liked him, making him hard, taking him all the way into the back of my throat, gagging for him, sucking his cock until he can’t help himself any more, and he is overcome, and he fucking defiles me. In living color. High fucking definition video.
Don’t give me that. Pretty sure you had a hand in there somewhere.
Do you have any idea how it’s going to feel, now and forever, whenever our friends—our fucking families—look at me? All they will ever see is a slampig; all they will ever see is me sucking and fucking and offering silly words of encouragement, of love, of acceptance, suggesting filthy things. How they are going to hear, replaying in their deviant little minds, over and over, how much I wanted to be pissed on. How they are going to watch me swallow, all dreamy-eyed.
Recorded for all posterity to see. To jerk off to.
Fuck. Me.
I’m going to get to live with glancing across whatever room I am in—at a party, or at church, or at fucking work—knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that whoever is there is going to be staring at me, judging me, and the worst of it? They are all going to be wishing and hoping and convincing themselves that I should do all that shit for them, too.
The men are all going to think that they should just have the god-given right to get them some of that kind of action, let me tell you. Every last fucking one of them. And at least some of them are going to try. You know that, right?
And the women? They are going to always have it in the back of their minds that I am just a cunt, and every last god damn one of those bitches is going to be plotting on how to hurt me in ways I can’t even imagine if they ever-oh-ever even so much as think that their men has been in my mouth, my pussy, my ass, wreaking holy vengeance on me if they convince themselves that the little bastards have so much as just considered it.
I don’t know why you would do this to me: give me a cellphone that takes pictures, that takes movies. “Have fun.” Motherfucker.
Why couldn’t you see this coming?
Oh, shut up. Shut the fuck up.
Christ.
There’s only one thing for it, then.
Take your belt off. Give it to me; let me see it. Just do it; geeze.
Excellent. It is soft. Here. It will stripe me the least, and prolong my agony in producing the quality of mark necessary the longest.
You know what I mean. You know exactly what I mean.
Oh, man up.
Everywhere. Everywhere you can lay that fucking thing down on me. Back, ass, legs, feet, tits, stomach, inner thighs, pussy. My face. The only thing I ask is that you let me see that I am being beaten.
No. There’s no way out of this. You know that.
Now listen to me: when we do this—which we are about to—we can’t fuck around here. We have to do it and we have to do it for real. None of this fake shit, none of this easy or gentle play shit. We are to where we need some real live honest and true sadomasochistic action. The time has fucking come.
Don’t be stupid. You need this as much as I do.
I’ve always known. Why else do you think I even talk to you?
You have to promise me you won’t back down here.
I need you to fucking commit. Now pull your hand back.
Pansy. Do it again.
Do I have to say “harder” here? Harder.
Come on. Get my attention.
Why am I—the god damn fucking masochist—the one who is having to take charge here? That’s your fucking job. Now fucking do it.
Aw, poor baby. Now hit me.
You call that a hit? God.
This isn’t a question of nice.
If I wanted nice, I’d go fuck someone in the choir at church. One of the shy losers at work.
Look, there’s no two ways about this. This is all well and good that you’re trying to be careful, but we have got to move beyond the pleasure stage. You must make the tears flow, and you may cease your efforts only when your clear judgment of the size and color of the welts you raise declares them to be sufficient for your sadistic pleasures today.
It’s supposed to make your cock hard. Erect. Ready and needy to fuck. If it doesn’t, I am just going to have to suck your dick enough while you strap the shit out of me that you learn that I will accept that about you, and will encourage that in you.
No, it has to do with what that old French whore said.
Because these marks make it impossible for me to cheat and immediately proclaim, from the moment they are seen, that anything goes, as far as I am concerned.
For to know this is one thing, but to see the proof of it, and to see the proof constantly renewed—which I am counting on you for—is quite another.
What the fuck makes you think this is about me?
I will grow accustomed to being whipped.
But don’t hold back; don’t let me like this. That’s no good, either.
Better. Make me docile. Make me question my choice to let you in. Get me to offer to betray the whole world to get the torture to stop so I may be happy to have gone through it, happier still if it had been especially brutal and prolonged.
You have to be strong enough to be unmoved by my pointless exaggerated sufferings and frantic writhings, giving me ample time to struggle and scream and cry, pleading for mercy that should only give you cause to redouble your cruelty.
Because that’s how this works. It is how we shall then live.
In the evidence we will send out to everyone we know today, and then tomorrow, and then again the day after that, be sure that you order me to tell you that I love you, so I may fulfill that, too, as I don’t know how else to say it, but under decree.
Let’s show them. Let them see how we are concerned with each other’s ecstasies.
When you have finished punishing me, command me to caress your insolence with my lips, so that I will finally come to understand that there resides my lord, my master whom I serve, to whom I am destined, dictating that my eyes will look there and nowhere else for all time, being available always to its whims and reliefs and rampages.
I expect you to savagely abuse me and mistreat me with enough chains and whips to teach me obedience, yielding, and submission. I am yours: no longer free—thank god!—but forever doomed to happiness.
Dominate me. You can discover the unbridled joy you can have at prostituting me; it shall be greater than you hope.
Posted with Blogsy