Another Me

(This is an old writing from 2013 that I rediscovered and really liked. It’s a bit dark as it explores the psychological stuff of my relationship with BDSM, you have been warned.)

At his orders, I made another me.

It wasn’t difficult to do. One night I dreamt of her and when I woke up in the morning, there she was. She was perched on the edge of the bed with eyes full of nervous anticipation. Because she was me, entirely me, she knew exactly what I was going to do with her.

I’d always had a desire to own a suit tailored for my short and curvy body and had decided that this would be the perfect occasion to invest in such attire. So when we entered his house I was overdressed in my suit and heavy theatrical make-up, while beside me she was entirely nude, unadorned apart from a collar and cuffs. He laughed when we entered and our cheeks burned red with embarrassment; she felt revealed, I was irritated. “Hey, fuck you! I look great in a suit!” I said and he laughed again.

But it was obvious he was intrigued and so he ordered her to kneel; which, because she was me, she was trained to do. He exclaimed over her uncanny likeness and began pinching her, slapping her to test her responses which were my own exactly but I could tell he remained unconvinced –

until he kissed her, and whereas she had flinched from the abuse, she pushed up into that kiss with the absoluteness of someone in love. I winced to witness myself so exposed and felt grateful for the distance provided by my costume and my other self.

He pulled away from her with dark eyes and I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, nor could she, but I knew she was more afraid than we had ever been.

We had an agreement.

She was to be the vessel upon which we would enact our sickest fantasies – the things he and I wanted done to me, but which were far too threatening to my sanity and mortality. She would experience everything exactly as I would, the depths of depravity and extremes of suffering which I craved but feared would be my undoing. It didn’t matter if we destroyed her, I was her backup copy.

She trembled.

Unable to bear my empathetic understanding of her situation, I did something which I had been curious about but which nobody had ever done to me. This would create a tangible distance between us, her first unique experience that would define her identity as separate from my own and take her somewhere I would not follow. I began to cut into her skin, just above her chest, with a surgical blade I had brought from my studio, still covered in blue pastel dust and fragments of glitter that mixed into the blood sliding down her breasts.

She began to cry, my heart began to pound.

We both knew it now. She was not going to make it past this evening, yet nothing in the world would compel her to leave.

I wanted this.

I Wonder

I wonder if you were to stand on your head and spread your legs, would I be able to breed mosquito larvae in a stagnant pool of water in your cunt? Would all the blood gone to your head permanently altar the chemistry of your internals? Would you forget your times tables and proper etiquette at the dinner table?

If I stood you up normal ways and kissed you, would you let my tongue inside to taste your last meal or would you block me with your teeth? If I pressed my chest to yours with enough force, would our breasts merge or simply burst? If I put my hand inside your pants, would I find human sized caviar?

If I sung to you, would your body begin to vibrate and hum in response? Would your eyes close as you fell into a dreamless slumber? Would the deep relaxation melt your bones and muscles so that you collapsed to the floor all floppy and soft?

Would you feel it if I squashed your mushy flesh between my toes? Would tears of hurt and sadness fall down your cheeks? Would you remove me from your social media and stop replying to my text messages?

Oh Baby!

“It’s a girl!” Exclaimed Adele Jones, a 53-year-old midwife whose hobbies were feminist yarn bombing and masturbating to the comments section of K–Pop videos on YouTube. Baby Katniss’s eyes shot open and she spoke in a voice as clear as vodka.

“Bitch, your breath reeks like a Ziploc bag full of rotten mince, you been suckin’ on corpse dick or what?

Instantly furious, Adele shot back

“How dare you, you pudge faced shit! I’ve half a mind to ram you right back up your mother’s manky pussy!”

“Go on then, mum’s shredded cunt and arsehole situation is a tropical paradise compared to your goat bukkake breath!”

Adele leaned over baby Katniss and spat on her tiny newborn face. Adele’s yellow mucus mingled with the blood and miscellaneous childbirth sludge that Baby Katniss was already coated in.

Baby Katniss grinned cheekily,  winked at the camera and screamed “I THINK I’M GONNA LIKE IT HEEEERRE!!!!”

Brenda’s Tiny Cage

One day, Brenda woke up in a tiny cage.

“Good morning Brenda, you are in a tiny cage” explained a disembodied voice.

“But why?” Brenda asked as she rubbed her bleary eyes.

“You are trapped,” the voice continued, ignoring Brenda’s question “and if there is any way of escaping, we’re not going to tell you about it.”

Brenda started to panic, her breathing quickened and she began to hurl her body against the walls of the cage.

“Let me out!” she screamed “LET ME OUT!”

The cage grew smaller.

“The cage is growing smaller,” offered the voice in a helpful tone “and it will continue to do so any time that you struggle.”

Brenda forced herself to slow her breathing. “Okay,” she thought “this isn’t so bad, I just have to keep still and accept my fate. I can live like this, there is still so much beauty in this new little world of mine” and she quietly admired a ray of sunlight that was illuminating some specks of dust as they gently danced in the cool spring air, just outside of her little cage.

For a few months, Brenda was content.

Sometimes, she even felt an incredible joy that made her feel grateful for her life. Just as often, she felt a boredom so excruciating that she wondered how she might bear it but because she knew there was no escape, she would simply bite down on her own tongue or the inside of her cheeks so that they were always covered in bloodied ulcers.

But it wasn’t such a bad life, really.

Autumn came and the cage started to shrink again.

“Why?” Brenda cried in despair as the walls pushed in so close that her organs started to squash and her spine started to snap “I played by the rules!”

The voice chuckled indulgently.

“Oh, how cute, you thought you had some control over this.”


Her skin is lumpy, her limbs asymmetrical and her breasts disproportionately large. The stitches he has sewn are inexpert so when he presses down on her, her seams start to split and the plastic bags she has been stuffed with rustle.

Utilising a permanent marker he has carefully, lovingly sketched her eyes that look like round, black spiders and painted her a smudged, smiling mouth with fuchsia lipstick by Maybelline.

He dresses her in different outfits, babydoll dresses with tan leather sandals, black silk gowns with sheer pantyhose and stilettos, pink negligee he orders online and manages to squash her awkward appendages into.

He never fucks her, he didn’t make her for that. He whispers that he thinks she is beautiful and he is grateful for her company.

The Vlogger

“I don’t go out anymore” she tells the camera “I’ve watched way too many people die.”

She adjusts the camera which she has sitting on a small, tabletop tripod. For a moment the autofocus shifts to a painted landscape hanging on the wall behind her, then back to her face.

“The last time I stepped outside was four years ago. I’d been holed up in my apartment for months and the claustrophobia was really getting to me, so I convinced myself I was being paranoid. I was walking to the library when a middle-aged businessman in a crappy Kmart suit passed by. We made brief, meaningless eye contact, then he stepped onto the road and was hit by a truck.”

A ginger coloured tomcat meanders on to screen, close to the camera and out of focus. She picks the cat up, holds him in her arms and strokes him while he purrs loudly.

“I didn’t feel shock when it happened, only the vaguely nauseated boredom that comes from desensitisation. He’d been crushed from the belly button down, smeared across the hot summer asphalt in violent reds, rusty browns, hints of buttercup yellow and bluish purple. He was still alive and had a look on his face like a stupid animal, it reminded me of a daddy long legs spider whose abdomen has been crushed under merciless Reeboks but who continues to attempt to walk, despite being glued to the ground by its own guts.

Some people ran to him and when a blonde, young woman knelt down to speak to him and take his hand, he must have seen the look on her face because his eyes filled with horror and he started screaming. He died before the ambulance arrived.”

She reaches for something offscreen, a book which she displays to the camera.

”Self-help for fuckwits. Yeah I continued to the library and checked this book out but I knew I wouldn’t be back. I don’t go out anymore because every time I do, I see somebody die. I don’t know why it happens, I don’t know if I cause it or if fate is a sick pervert who wants a witness but I just don’t go out anymore.”

As she leans in towards the camera, the cat jumps off her lap.

”I’m not sure why I’m posting this to YouTube, everyone will probably think I’m crazy but I guess I’m wondering if anyone else has experienced anything like this… Please let me know if you have, in a twisted way, I think it’d be comforting to know I’m not alone.”

She turns the camera off.

The comments on her video read:

”nice tits”

“wtf lol I’m in the weird part of the Internet again” and

“Incredible! The prices are unbeatable at and it has the biggest range in the United Kingdom!”


Flickering candlelight illuminates silicone tits, shaved cunts, oversized cocks and beautiful faces bespattered with thick cum. The only sound is the gentle buzzing of a bullet vibrator, her orgasm is mute as the sound of her own voice is too jarring in this almost absolute silence.

Approximately five months after they all disappeared, she took refuge in an abandoned adult department store on the main highway connecting Melbourne to Sydney. This made practical sense as it was situated between a Chemist Warehouse and a 24 Hour Gym, so she was able to survive on old protein powders and vitamin supplements. She slept in the office of the sex store on an old mattress, wrapped in faux mink blankets which she scavenged from Kmart before it collapsed.

She plastered the walls with photos from porn magazines. These had provided her only company for a very long time now and so all her notions and memories of the flesh and actuality of humanity were replaced by these remnants of sexual ideals. Now when she tries to recall the faces of loved ones, she can only see platinum blondes with heaving breasts or the hairless abs of gay porn stars.

In an attempt to pass the endless time and cope with the suffocating boredom, she masturbates. There is a good supply of batteries and a huge variety of vibrators for her to choose from and perhaps this is the real reason she chose to take refuge here; in this dream world full of pleasing shapes and bright colours, these objects of escapism and pleasure are the antithesis of what lays outside, the opposite of the barren landscape where the sunlight is a hazy silver through the smog and everything is coated in that grey, omnipresent dust. Sometimes it rains but the water tastes like ash and the dust turns to mud.

Night and day are entirely devoid of the sounds indicative of life, no cars, no birds, no skittering feet or buzzing flies. There is nothing but the hollow wind, the unconscious creaking of old architecture and sometimes, a sudden and violently loud crashing from crumbling plaster and collapsing steel as buildings no longer maintained have begun to deteriorate.

There was a time she was convinced that she could hear music, too faint to pick out the tune, like a radio that was very far away. She spent what she estimated to be a year, judging by the passing of the seasons, searching for the source of this sound. Every single day, she would explore the empty, used car lots, discount grocery stores, TABs and dusty McDonald’s but the sound never got closer, it always existed just on the periphery of her perception so that it began to feel like psychological torture.

One day, in an abandoned retirement home, she found the body of a cat. Shaking violently, she stared at the corpse in shock; it had been a very long time since she had seen evidence of any other living creature. She had seen no people, plants or animals for years, had never once found any bodies, bones or remains of the life forms she was sure once existed in abundance. The only indication that life had once prevailed were the cold artefacts, the photos, buildings, objects and the powdered meal supplements she survived on.

Yet here was this dead cat, utterly emaciated with a thin trickle of blood coming from its mouth. Tentatively, she placed her hand on the corpse and her ears began to ring. The cadaver still contained traces of heat, whispers of a recently ended life which sent a burning, intolerable pain throughout her body. And so she ran. After that, she ceased her searching and believed the music to never have existed.

She doesn’t venture out far anymore. The grey dust falls thickly over everything now, the highway is covered in a blanket of the dust so thick that it goes up to her thighs in some spots and when she walks, clouds of the stuff are stirred up so that she chokes and coughs relentlessly, her throat burns and her eyes weep. Day by day, the sun seems further away, the difference between night and day is becoming indistinct.

Atrophied and weakening, she struggles to keep down the protein shakes and only drinks them every other day because, years old at this point, they are lumpy, flavourless and as colourless as the dust. Her skin is ashen and withered like a woman four times her age.

She still masturbates, though her orgasm is mechanical, sexless and she hardly notices when it happens. Sometimes she still imagines she can hear music but she can no longer conceive of why that might be significant. Idly, in a mental fog that grows thicker as every day passes, she wonders what will expire first, the vibrators, the batteries or her.


Her skin looks as if it is stretched taut across her frame but when you touch it, it is almost too soft, as if under the thin layer of epidermis, she is made entirely of spreadable cream cheese. She smells a little like bubblegum and a lot like bleach.

Your touch causes her eyes to flutter open and they are green marbles, her mouth widens into a grin made entirely of teeth. Now she looks like she is laughing maniacally but no sound escapes her body apart from the wet, sucking sound of her hand disappearing into her cunt. Thick, fluorescent orange fluid seeps down her thighs and if you looked closely, you would observe the liquid is populated with water beetles and mosquito larvae.

Now you hear a noise like a thick bolt of cotton being slowly torn in two. This is the sound of her ripping herself open; starting from her crimson cunt she tears her skin along her centre in a perfect line right up to her scalp.

Then, gripping at the middle of her torso, she pulls herself open like a jacket which she steps out of and allows to fall unceremoniously to the ground. She is now muscle, sinew and veins, the colours are all pinks, purples and that fluorescent orange. She glistens in the clear, cold autumn sunlight.

Her exposed insides are as sticky as tree sap and a light breeze soon causes her to be decorated in brown leaves, old feathers and dead insects. She is no longer laughing, instead she seems calm and disinterested, an animal that knows you’re not a threat and therefore has no concern for you. She is rubbing her clit and staring into the distance.