Rehearsal

By Brewt.Blacklist

January 2018

THERE WAS nothing to it. The running sight gag that the author of this farce so carefully designed that the director bought into was sheer simplicity in itself. The dialog that contrasted it nearly wrote itself, setting up a social criticism they were sure would be meaningful to everyone after they went home. A conversation starter. The hunt for the actor that was to accomplish this artistry—not to mention the auditions for it—went on for days longer than for the lead. There were no lines; they were looking for a modesty of presence that undercut the daring necessary that so many men were so ready to flaunt, standing up on the stage, bold and daring, desperate to get the part, so they could show off their…theatrical…gifts. None of them understood.

Chester adored this play and believed in it, and he fought every instinct he had to turn and run, or even at least put his hands up to shield his shame, and that genuine inner conflict he could do nothing to hide was what fulfilled the vision and landed him the role.

“Perfect. No arrogance.”

“Agreed. That blush is priceless.”

The hard part, the directors and producers correctly discerned, was to waltz a very fine line between his willingness to appear full frontal naked before an audience at very precise comedic timings, and keeping his personal mortification and disgrace turned up on high in doing so. Rehearsals were tricky; they didn’t want him in any way to get used to prancing about in front of God and everyone, so he didn’t appear “in costume” until the second-to-last tech rehearsal when all the lights were kicked on to performance levels, and a serious unexpected setback was discovered.

“Wow, he’s white. Incandescent.”

“Agreed. I’m still seeing spots. Makeup!”

Lucy was given the task of finding the right mix of powders and oils she would have to brush all over his entire body to keep from blinding the patrons when he stepped on his mark and yet still have him appear glistening.

“Oh, and shave him, too, dear. Can’t have our gimmick looking like a gorilla.”

“Yes, of course completely. Everything below the nose.”

There were coloration and glow debates right up to his second entrance.

“Cut! What the hell, Chester?”

“Yeah, no, we can’t have that.”

Chester’s hands flew to his center juncture. His face went crimson even more spectacularly than usual—the rampant erection he was sporting was just out-and-out wrong for this kind of show. He flew off, stage left.

Lucy was there to catch him with a robe, and she assured him that he killed it, taking him back to the dressing room to re-apply the pancake that had smudged, slowly, carefully, paying extra care to make sure his penis was properly shaded. His third entrance had the same problem, and brought up the question among the directorate as to whether or not they should bring the whole cast and crew out, to try to laugh him out of his hardon. It proved necessary. By the time he got to his last moment to shine, he was so embarrassed, his guilt and humiliation took over his courage, and withered him in the green room.

“Can’t have that.” Lucy twinkled as she knelt before him—checking for stubble with her cheek, licking and tonguing and slathering the vexing excess clumps of foundation that sure seemed to be centralized, smoothing him over, getting his eyes to glaze as she cooed, encouraging him to relax—like she always did right before he went on. “Mmmm; break a leg. Listen: you go be brave and I’ll be right here to fuck you like a whore after your dramatic triumph.” Her dress fell to the floor to show him what he had to look forward to, and he took his cue.

“Cut!”

“Lucy! Get out here! No, now! Right god damn now!”

Directing is the art of compromise and problem solving toward creative eloquence, and the decision was made that Lucy was just going to have to fuck him like a whore before he went on, not after. Which worked, until an inspiration struck at the last run-through, and there was scrambling.

The production, of course, bombed. The review did comment on one small change to the script that was of note, in that the comedic nude appearances of Chester and Lucy together—hand in hand, humble, out of breath, rosy, dripping, their body-greasepaints smeared and blended—was indeed an amazing special effect, a case of fine acting, and a true conversation starter.

 

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Version

By Brewt.Blacklist

September 2016

GOD DAMN it.

I am so mad at you.

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

Oh; “innocent.” That’s a laugh.

Don’t talk to me.

What did I just say? Hmm?

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

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

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

They all have them.

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

That’s right.

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

With a fucking cock in my mouth.

With a fucking cock in my ass.

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

Jesus.

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

Oh, guess. Go on, guess.

Uh huh. Yup.

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

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

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

Fuck you.

I swear.

If it was only pictures.

Moron. What do you think?

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

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

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

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

Fuck. Me.

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

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

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

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

Why couldn’t you see this coming?

Oh, shut up. Shut the fuck up.

Christ.

There’s only one thing for it, then.

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

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

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

Oh, man up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pansy. Do it again.

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

Come on. Get my attention.

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

Aw, poor baby. Now hit me.

You call that a hit? God.

This isn’t a question of nice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck makes you think this is about me?

I will grow accustomed to being whipped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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Trial

By Brewt.Blacklist

February 2016

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

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

It all is a matter of worth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forgiveness, my lords.”

“Pray, for what, dear child?”

“For mine own confusion.”

“Surely thou knowest of what we speak.”

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

“Why dost thou then hesitate?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Truly?”

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

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

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

A silence hung in the room.

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

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

The woman turned to the panel.

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

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

“I do so with honor, assessor.”

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

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

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

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

 

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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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Ashley’s Idea

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Circuit

By Brewt.Blacklist

June-July 2014

COWARD.

Sorry; what?

Poser.

What’s bringing this on?

Pansy-ass wimp. Fucking fake. Chicken.

What the fuck?

You know god damn good and well what, you malingering faint-hearted pussy.

Pretty sure I don’t.

Oh, bullshit. Why don’t you just let me go? Leave me the fuck alone.

No, I think you need to tell me what the hell is going on.

Why don’t you just make me?

And just how do you propose I do that?"

See? I just insulted you with what are deemed to be some of the worst things you can say to a man, and offered to lay myself open to whatever you can think to do, and you just sit there like the fraidy-cat wimpy liar you are.

Back up. Reset. Start the fuck over. Go back to the, you know, beginning.

You are not what you said you were.

I’m not?

You said you were a fucking sadist.

Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did.

Which you are not.

I see. And what makes you think that?

For one thing, you aren’t pounding the shit out of me right now.

Oh. Wow. My bad.

And the truth is that you don’t ever really hurt me.

I might want to protest that.

Really? When? How?

Well, let me think now. Night before last I seem to remember spanking you.

God. That wasn’t a real spanking. That was a little play-slap and tickle. I cannot, for the life of me, remember the last time you completely went off on me and made me regret even knowing you.

Well, given that you are making such an enormous deal about the, what, lack of emergency room care, you suddenly seem to have decided you regret knowing me without me even doing anything.

Oh, no you don’t. Don’t you try to twist this into some punishing-me-by-not-punishing-me bullshit.

I don’t know; you seem pretty stressed. Looks to me like that might be working.

No dice, bunny boy. You are not a sadist. You are a fucking nice guy who’s been pawning himself off as one because you happen to be able to scare the shit out me by what you can write. It’s a world of difference between that and someone who can actually rip a strip out of me, and jerk off in the process.

Ah. The masochism is running a little hot today, isn’t it?

I don’t know what the hell you mean by that, and what the fuck do you care.

No, this is an expression of your own self-defeat, your own self-loathing. You despise yourself so fucking bad that you cannot bear the idea of someone—anyone—hating you any less than you do.

Oh, gee-shucky darn, there, mister. What an awesome analysis. Did you get that from a cereal box? And I suppose now you are going to try to tell me that to placate me that you feel exactly that way? That you however I can hate me you can hate me better? Comfort me with how much you abhor me?

I don’t abhor you.

My point exactly. You care. You think that somewhere in here is someone worth saving, someone worth having delicate tender little feelings for, and that’s where all the rot sets in. It’s already been so long since you hurt me so hard my mind erases that I can’t remember when you ever did, and soon, I’m going to be something inestimable to you, a treasure you’re going to have to protect from the big bad world out there, and you’ll put me up on some kind of god damn pedestal. Next thing you know, you’ll be asking me to fucking marry you, start squeezing out kids, and bake cookies. I’ll be a trophy slut that you keep in the case in the house to keep from damaging my value. Something you won’t even shit on or piss on or hit or hurt or fuck or make do things you know I don’t want to do. Because you are afraid you are going to damage me. Newsflash, buddy-boy: I’m already damaged.

Okay. So. I haven’t been pushing you hard enough lately. Point taken. So come over here and suck my cock.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

Why? You afraid you’re going to be rewarding me for my not-so-bad behavior?

Bingo, you faggy-dicked cocksucking weakling.

Alright, this does present a challenge. So, tell me something, my precious little angel—

—Fuck you—

—Ahem. My precious little narcissistic selfish angel who tops from the bottom and is nothing but a fount of complaints about how she is treated.

God damn it.

Are you trying to tell me that the satisfaction du jour that will keep you interested and engaged and willing to continue with me—the very me that you are so inventively name-calling as nothing but a pitiful charade and a fraud—is for me to cowboy up and disregard the safeties, that I should not be attentive to what I am doing to you and simply hit you for the sake of hitting you, for getting the motion to happen in my arm to happen for the sake of the motion?

You’re not helping.

No, I mean it. You’re saying that I am not doing what it takes here and what will be really satisfying to you is that I should simply not stop hitting you until I pound you into the ground, that I should basically just beat you to death, are you not?

I…well…no, I don’t want to die.

Oh, well, then, let me cater to your wish for your awesome little life to continue as an invalid, permanently maimed and disfigured, unable to do anything without the assistance of the home medical profession, leaving you a vegetable that can’t eat or shit or move or even breathe on your own, then. Since you’re being so kind as to spare me the chair for having murdered you.

What?

Oh, but that would serve, would it not? To commit assault and battery and hey, how could we forget aggravated rape upon you—and perhaps a little enslavement action; can’t forget crimes against humanity—not to mention the affront to femininity that I as a man in general represent to all women everywhere by simply existing such that I should spend the rest of my life in a penitentiary for violent offenders and get my own good self butt-fucked for the remainder of my days by the criminal element in order to satisfy you and your little longings such that you got me to commit a hard enough felony on you that might actually matter to society. Right?

Stop it.

Are you saying that you don’t want it to go that far? That maybe the notion of having to suffer brain damage or to losing limbs is maybe a higher price than you’re willing to pay for me and my cock? I know: how ‘bout I bleed you to where you pass out from the blood loss, and you can explain, in the hospital, when you wake up from all the transfusions, that no, officer, we were just playing, he didn’t mean to go too far, I’ll be fine, really.

Gross.

What limit is far enough? I myself am quite satisfied with the idea that I most sincerely believe that if I ask you to do something, something painful, something humiliating, something that you don’t even like or want to happen that you will go out of your way to make sure that it does, for the mere sake of me being able to think to myself that "yeah, she’d do even that for me," and that gets me so hot that I can’t wait and I have to masturbate myself into a frenzy to the point that I cannot perform for real, and I will leave you stranded and without the satisfaction of the penetration of a big, fat, hard, long, pounding, throbbing, dripping cock—especially one that forces its way into some place uncomfortable or unspeakable—such that you should then get to suffer long and hard through orgasm denial and that, too, feeds a part of my need for acknowledgement and acceptance that only the peculiar institution itself can take care of. I’m getting what I need; why aren’t you satisfied?

Because you aren’t asking for any of that shit.

Asking what?

Asking me to allow you to perform an atrocity upon me, or to perform one upon myself.

Ah. So you’re bored.

I…yes. You aren’t making use of me, and I feel useless and empty.

And you’re not willing to feel that way for me.

Don’t even go there. That’s the whole torture-me-by-not-torturing-me shit, and I won’t stand for it. I’ll leave.

Right. You’ll leave me because you’re bored here with me in order to go sit by yourself and be alone and be bored by yourself.

Pretty sure I won’t be bored, although a little peace and quiet would be nice. There is no shortage of available men out there who are perfectly willing to abuse a woman any way she wants. You’re replaceable.

So. We found a limit. At long god damn fucking last.

What?

The super-submissive stone masochist who has no regard for herself or her own safety, who actually needs someone to look out for her and make sure she doesn’t self-inflict any kind of final solution against herself in her efforts to find yet another new height of pain to fly through or another depth of degradation to drag herself through in her relentless quest for rapture is going to safeword because she’s not being entertained enough. She has finally come to the idea that she is maybe worth a little more than the nothing she feels about herself, and she is not willing to suffer through that kind of emptiness. She needs attention. And not just a little, she needs whoever she is with to be completely taken with her and to be perfectly adaptable to whatever mood she is in at a moment’s notice. Now, never mind that he will have to be constantly on guard against the possibility that maybe, just maybe he is not enough for her, because the important thing is that he is to devote his every waking moment and every sleeping dream-moment toward making sure she is properly treated and amused at all times. Even if her definition of "proper treatment" isn’t exactly something the rest of the world would necessarily agree with.

I…uh…

So what’s the difference between having someone who is expending all his efforts toward your perpetual suffering and constant misery and relentless agony and someone who is expending all his efforts toward adoring you and caring for you and dare I say, loving you? Because in both cases, he doesn’t matter at all. All that matters is you.

I-I don’t like how you did that.

Tough toenails. Submission is a ruse. It’s a negotiating tactic, to offer up to some poor schlepp some piece of attention that he has felt he has been denied all his life, all geared toward the idea that even though he treats you some kind of bad that he’s been taught not to do that you are alright with him getting away with that with you. He’s not really treating you "bad." Despite all the over-theatrical appearances of servitude and compliance and yielding towards him and all his little perversities, it is in fact he that is honoring you and your wishes and taking the utmost care of you in any and all circumstances by making sure you are still alright before he starts bossing you around, insisting you sexualize anything and everything about him with all the threats and realities of punishments, from slight to severe, for failing in any way shape or form. He is in fact caring for you and taking better care of you than you can care for yourself and playing into you and your little perversities and giving you what you really want above everything else, which is to be relieved of all fucking responsibility. Someone who doesn’t have a choice doesn’t have to make one. And the funny part of it all is that through all of it you are expecting that it will be he who is the one that is changing himself, tearing himself to pieces to be able to bring himself to inflict some new horror onto you that you deliberately set him up for. Doing something petty and stupid and slightly wrong to force him into the position of having to wreak something awful on you that he maybe doesn’t even want to do as long as it’s all at the level you are willing to tolerate that you feel that you deserve today. All of which is going to be completely different from how you feel tomorrow. The masochist never actually changes inside of herself because of anything anyone else ever does to her. You are fucking immutable. If I hurt you, all I do is feed you and your own self-esteem issues. And fuck me sideways with something hard over me and my cherished little feelings about all this; it’s my job to do nothing but take care of you. You do not take care of me.

Wrongo, bucko. Submission is a stance, it is a position in the world. I am beneath you, and I defer to you, to give you the bolster to your pride and your ego that you need to go back out into the world and conquer. By overthrowing me and whatever genuine resistance I might have to the most outlandish deviancy you can come up with, you can come to the idea that you can rule out there no matter what they do to try to defeat you. It is a service I perform to you and your needs and your cock, and it isn’t a casual little game, it is a way of life. When I give myself to you, you don’t get a little piece of me, you get everything. Lock stock and barrel. You get my body to do with as you please, you can tinker with my emotions. You tell me to think something, I will think it. You tell me to believe something, I will believe it with all my heart and defend it and you and everything you do to me to the death. I. Am. Your. Property. Submission a ruse? That’s—no—that’s not true.

It most certainly is. You don’t want me to kill you, remember? And here you are, threatening to leave me: my car doesn’t do that. There is a "too much," and there are limits that come on way before anything to do with any kind of final solution, and not just one. Despite how hard you tout that when you submit, you really fucking submit and you give up on choice and defer on everything and all and will simply go with whatever I say, saying "you pick, whatever you want," that is simply not true. You have more negotiations on the side and preferences and suggestions and requests and insistences and restrictions and out-and-out naggings in what you will allow and won’t allow than if you were a plain vanilla jane who only permitted me to fuck her on Saturday night with the blinds drawn and the lights out in the missionary position wearing pajamas. At least they’re up front about it.

No; I’m here to submit to you, to cater to you, to serve you, to be your slave in all things, to do what you want, to be what you want. I am here to kneel.

Horseshit. You are such an attention whore that you demand compliments on everything you do and don’t do all the god damn time, and frankly, it’s exhausting. "Good girl, you got me a cup of coffee, good girl, you sucked my cock so good, good girl, you took that whipping well." And god forbid I should leave you to fend for yourself, to allow you even the possibility you should find yourself even for just a moment blasé and disinterested in whatever you think is my responsibility to keep your sophisticated attention span from lagging. The worst sin I could commit against you is to bore you, and it is one you will not forgive me for.

Fine. You want to kill me? Go ahead. I won’t care.

No, you won’t care, because you’d be dead. And you plainly don’t care now what that would do to me. Because I am the one that is expendable here. You’ve said so yourself. If I let you get tired of anything, I will have failed you, and deserve to be punished with the worst thing you can think of: the removal of your own good company, and just let me see if I can find someone to replace such a priceless jewel as yourself. You want it both ways: you want to be treated like you are completely worthless, and you want to be treated as though you are completely valuable. Simultaneously.

Great. Now I’m the bad guy. Just as I suspected. Awesome.

Oh, grow up. This isn’t about good guys and bad guys, or nice and nasty, or right and wrong, or even sadism and masochism. This is about you and me, and whether or not we are together. If the answer to that is "yes," then everything after that is a crap shoot.

So why bother?

Because I don’t know about you, but I still have some faith to expend here.

Why does it always have to be life or death with you?

Because it always is, with or without my say so. And in case you haven’t noticed, I keep choosing life: life with you. I am not interested in having you die. Your death would take you away from me, and make it so I couldn’t do what I want to do with you. Which is what you just threatened me with. Leaving me, taking your own good self away from me, making it so I don’t have you here any more. And you are willing to do that because you don’t find me exhilarating enough. You are the second most selfish person I know.

So fuck me and all my evil ways. Haven’t you had enough of all the terrible burden I seem to be placing on you? Why won’t you let me go?

Because I still love you, and, for my own selfishnesses, I still want you around. Because I am the most selfish person I know, and I want you to stay, and I want you to suffer for me and my sake. To feel what I want you to feel. To do what I want you to do. I’m not done with you.

I…Well. When you put it that way. What do you want me to do for you, master?

Take off your god damn clothes.

Fine. Whatever.

Let me look at you.

God, I hate that. There are so many things wrong with me.

So? Stand there, put your arms down and let me look. And quit frumping.

Look, can’t you just do something to me that hurts?

I am. I am hurting your pride, your endless vanity. Just the act of looking tears you to ribbons. Now stand there and suffer.

That’s not what I mean. You know what the fuck I mean. Please?

Of course. Give me your arm.

Why?

So I can pull it up behind your back while you suck my cock. In fact, give me both of them.

That would really fucking hurt.

Isn’t that what you wanted?

Yeah, but not the way you do it. You don’t hate me enough to do it right.

What? So? It still hurts, doesn’t it?

It feels different. I can feel you caring in how you pull, in how you shove my cock down into the back of my throat. You don’t cut loose. You will not break my arm.

So you want me to break your arm? I think what you really want is to be hate-fucked.

I want to feel like I have survived. Like I have been put through the wringer.

Like you’ve triumphed. Like you have proven yourself. You want to show off how noble and strong you are.

I’m not strong. I am so fucking weak, I cannot stand it.

Nonsense. If I were to say to you that I wanted to cane you until you bleed, would you consent?

In a heartbeat. You wouldn’t even have to tie me up.

You call that weak? If I were to say to you that I wanted to plunge needles into you over your entire body, into soft spots, into bone, wherever, and hook them up to electricity and make you dance and convulse and hurt, on beyond the point that you could do anything but sweat and scream, would you allow for that?

I would totally hate that, but yes.

Such a fragile and frail little thing you are. No strength whatsoever. Shouldn’t you be fainting by now? Or are you just a girl who can’t say no?

Is that what you want me to do? Say no? Sing? You are so confusing.

How about I get a razor blade and cut you open, just enough to part your flesh and pack it with cigar ash, just enough to scar you permanently, would you say yes?

Wh-where?

That’s not what I asked you. I didn’t say "I want to put an innocuous little cut on you, so tiny it would be almost cute, so please pick a nice spot that you would be comfortable with that that wouldn’t show," I said, "cut you; scar you." Period. I pick where. I could choose anywhere: your face, your tits, your legs that you are so proud of, maybe someplace you can’t see, maybe someplace you’d have to explain to people who couldn’t help but do a double take when they look at you when they pass you on the street. Perhaps I’ll leave you in such a state as to frighten small children. I know: how about I carve and scar into you the words "slut," and "bitch," and "cunt," and "whore," and "fucktoy," and "cocksucker," and "asslicker," and "painslut," and "humilationwhore," and "slave," and "all you have to do is ask," right out there where it would be difficult to cover up, so there would be no question as to what you really are. Or maybe I’ll have you tattooed with instructions to anyone who reads it on just how to abuse you in ways you would hate, with the assurance that you would welcome it anyway. I’m sure the words "hit me" on the inside of your lower lip would do wonders for your pout. Yes or no?

…Y-yes.

Suppose let’s say that you should get all gussied up and we were to go downtown tonight to one of the bars, and I would send you off to go hit on some actual nice guy who sits up straight and wears a tie and has both hands on the table around his drink and you ask him if you can sit down with him and you pay no attention to how he stammers or stutters out his surprise at a pretty girl asking to sit next to him and you slide around to his side of the booth and put your elbow up on the table and your head under your hand and you introduce yourself and ask him his name and sit up straight and nudge in a little closer to him and you repeat his name to him and shake his hand and you repeat his name to him twice more, relishing the pronunciation of it the first time and whispering it the second and you find out what he does for a living and you make some lame comment about meeting people in bars and you bat your eyes at him and you smile at him and ask him what he’s drinking, and then you ask if you can have a sip and you drink down half of whatever he has left and you compliment him on whatever it is and slump the rest of the way over to him so that your leg is actually up against his and you laugh and put your head on his shoulder and hook your arm into his elbow and pull it towards you so that it comes in contact with your breast and you do not back away and you carry on a conversation with him and lead him on to think that you are a nice, good respectable girl that he suddenly has a chance with, and you could smile at him and engage with him on whatever he wants to talk about and you should laugh at his jokes as you squirm in the booth and adjust yourself to the music and you could maybe mention that you would want to go to church with him, and you put your hands on him in ways that are okay and innocuous at first and you persist and cross the line to make it clear that it wasn’t an accident, that it was deliberate and you put your leg over his under the table and pull his legs apart with yours at his knees and pull your leg up his as high as you can get it and you spread yours, too, and you start rolling your hips around slowly, slightly next to him and you move on to touch him in ways you maybe shouldn’t but you can’t help yourself and when he freezes and doesn’t move you pull your hands and your leg off him and be all shy and concerned that you maybe offended him so he can say "no, uh, no, it’s okay," and so you pick it back up right where you left off and make sure you leave one hand under the table and you pull up your skirt to expose your panties and you rub between your legs over them there and you make sure that he notices and take the little shake of his head that he’ll do when he does notice you doing that as the go ahead to shift yourself around so that if he looks down he can definitely see what you’re doing and if he can’t figure it out for himself you hint with your eyes that you want him to look and take the opportunity when he does do that to pull your hand up so he can see you can push it back down inside the waist band of your panties and make it clear that you are wiggling a finger directly on where your clit would be for a few seconds before you push it down further so you can get actually inside yourself and you squirm and you masturbate for him like that by moving your hand back and forth there, between playing with your clit to reaching inside yourself until his breathing changes which you will take as the indication that it would be okay for you to become familiar with his muscles and bones with your other hand and you relish squeezing him here and there and gasp out loud with an exhale when you find a stretch of flesh in his arms or his legs that makes him flinch when you touch it and you find out if he’s ticklish or not and you play with that a little and when he looks up all wide-eyed you offer up that you are very ticklish and you tell him where and position yourself so he can touch you there and you laugh and curl around all coy and cute and pull your hand out from your panties and inhale hard with it under your nose and if he’s interested, you offer it to him to do the same and you compliment him relentlessly about how this is all turning you on and how much you like this and you get him all hot and bothered and you do whatever it takes over his clothes to get his cock hard as a fucking rock right there in the booth, so hard that he is overcome by it all and is anxious to get started with what just has to happen next and you let him put his arms around you and you let him kiss you on your neck at first and make it clear that you are enjoying that and then wiggle yourself around so he can reach your cheek then you pull your head back and look deep into his eyes and then drop them down to look at his lips and you slowly reposition your head as you move in and brush his lips with yours and you linger into a kiss, a real kiss, a bride’s kiss, gentle and sweet and persistent such that it should continue forever, pushing your tongue onto his lips at first, smiling as your feel him quiver and you take a moment to compliment him on how good he tastes before you pull hard on him and force yourself into his mouth, licking his tongue and his teeth and you breathe through his mouth and moan as you do it and you keep at it and hang onto him there for dear life, relaxing into his arms, molding your body onto his, until he pulls away to inhale real air and not air that has been in your lungs and you slowly let him find his way to your breasts, encouraging him if you have to, and when he gets his tentative fingers actually onto you there you pant through your open mouth with your eyes wide and boring into his hard until he gets his palm onto the front of breast so he can feel your erect nipple and then you gasp again, inhaling a squeal this time, hard and sharp, heaving your breasts in the process, pulling his other hand up onto your other breast and pushing them hard to his hands and you do everything you can to convey in no uncertain terms that what you really want before you go to church in the morning with him is to have him inside you anywhere and everywhere you can get him and when he nods his head the little nod that he will do when you whisper that into his ear, you tell him that the time has come that you and he should go fuck and you make sure that the "f" of that word is long and the "u" is soft and the "k" is hard and sharp and clear and you pitch it so that it sounds like you want to do that right god damn here right god damn now and you tell him in no uncertain terms that you think they should go and that you should go right now and you shimmy out of the booth brushing your skirt back down and you make sure that he understands that you are reaching over to hold his hand and you pull on it gently to get him to follow you and keep looking back at him to smile at him and crook your neck and your shoulders with a "come hither" in your motions as you take him out into the back alley where I would be waiting for you to come out and you tell him to wait just a second, that you have to do this first, and you let go of his hand and step towards me with a sashay in how you cross your ankles and sway your hips as you walk towards me, taking off your dress up over your head and your bra and your panties and you don’t just drop your clothes, you throw them away from you as far as you can and when you are standing before me naked with your legs spread, with us positioned so he can see that you don’t have any pubic hair, you slowly and elegantly kneel down in front of me and open my pants and take out my cock and you open your mouth around the biggest smile you can put on and you put one hand in mine and your other behind your back and you turn to him and wink at him and then you look up at me with every ounce of adoration you have and you clearly nod and I will break the little finger in the hand of yours I have in mine and your mouth will fall further open with a groan and I will piss on your face, your hair, your body and especially in your mouth that you make a big show of swallowing and twisting around the hand I still hold and squeeze with you shaking your other hand in delight over all that is happening to you and you beg me for more, saying "please, piss in my mouth, I want you to," and "god, that hurts, thank you, I like it," until I am done and you wipe off your face and lick your good hand with murmuring sounds about how good it is before you turn toward him and you seductively crawl to him with a limp on your bad hand, swinging your hips and your body so your breasts sway underneath you across the filth in the alley with you focused on him with lust in your heart and when you reach him you put your hands on his legs and walk them up slowly, one hand on, one hand off, flinching with each press of your broken finger, up his leg a little higher with each climb, nodding the whole time until you get to his belt and you open his pants and get them to drop to his ankles and take his hard cock and hold it gingerly with your broken hand, moaning and panting as you bend it down far enough that his back arches and hold your mouth open right over what is in your fingers, tempting him by putting your mouth onto his cock as far as you can get it without touching him with your lips or your tongue or your teeth and you breathe hot breath onto his flesh, inhaling through your nose so all he can feel is heat through at least three such rasping breaths before you pull back and hook your unbroken little finger into his fist and look up at him and swear by the god you both worship that you will let him fuck you in the ass as hard as he wants after you suck his cock for as long as he wants you to starting right then and there if he would only do to you what I just did, all of it, and to seal the deal you tell him to be sure to hold my hands tight, baby. Is there any question you’d do that for me and my entertainment?

Absolutely not.

Is your pussy wet?

Fuck, yes!

Play with yourself, right now. Show me how you can get yourself off.

Talk to me, please.

I cannot remember the last time you rubbed one out for me. I want you to do it now, I want you to be loud, and I don’t want you to hold back. I want you to get up and jump up and down, so your boobs bounce hard and I want you to do it so long that they ache so hard that you beg me to stop and I won’t let you, you can only stop jumping when you collapse. When that happens, I want you spread your legs as far as you can get them and curl up on your back so you can reach because what I want you to do is to get your entire hand inside yourself, four fingers and a thumb, all the way up past your palm all the way up to your forearm, right in your pussy, and I want you to get as many fingers as you can get into your asshole, too, and rub your clit with your wrist and fist fuck yourself as hard as you can and I want to sit on your face while you drive your tongue into my asshole as far as you can get it, and I want to slap your tits as hard as I can until they bruise, I want them to hurt for a week, with or without a bra, and I will pinch your nipples as hard as I can and twist them so far you’ll be afraid they are going to come off until I can’t pinch my fingers together any more, and I will fart in your mouth and you will change whatever it takes inside you to get off on all that, you will come, you will come like the god damn slut who can’t help herself that you so fucking are, you will come.

Oh my god!

Come for me now, that is an order, I want you to squirt, cunt; I want you to fucking scream. Do it right god damn now, you fucking whore.

Oh! Oh! OH! Fuck! Fuck!

…Are you alright?

Oh, shit, yes.

Did you come?

Do you have to ask? Yes. Yes I did. Thank you. I needed that. Oh. Wow.

Good. Listen, I gotta go. Call you tomorrow?

Yes. Yes, sir. Please.

Okay. Good night.

Hey?

What?

When are we gonna meet?

Someday. Promise.

I really want to.

So do I. Really.

Okay.

Tell me you love me, bitch.

Not a fucking chance, hero.

I’ll wait.

Asshole. Good night.

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