Consensual Dissolution

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Boundaries are bullshit boring. What I seek with you is a consensual dissolution of law and order through a mingling of fluids, an anarchy of flesh and a riot of the psyche.

Brutality is our romance, your fists pounding into my stomach are red roses and microscopic ego-deaths are our holiday destinations

I liked the times you forced me to look at myself in the mirror with the intent that I witness my own whorish depravity; Mostly what I saw was how beautiful we look together, the contrasts in our shapes and sizes, your strong arm wrapped commanding and possessive around my throat.

I crave endless assault. No escape even in the darkest and most private corners of my mind, I want you to stalk me through my dreams. Your violence tastes like life and when you look into my eyes, your vision is 20/20.

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Wash

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When he visits me, washing becomes an event. I demand that he scrubs me clean like I’m a naughty toddler. I whine when the water is too hot or too cold and splash about in hopes of getting his shirt wet because I like to make him mad. When he pulls the plug and I watch the water sucked down the drain, I push my arse into the air just asking him to push his fingers inside my holes. When he is away, washing becomes a display. I take photos and videos like a digital siren because I want to remind him of what is here for him. His eyes on me make me feel as if I exist and am beautiful and I am a junkie for his attention.

On my Instagram.

Sydney Rd is Silent

(This is an old one from 2013.)

3AM

I have been struck by a memory momentarily so tangible that the effect is physical. I feel that warmth in my mouth, a strange thing that happens when I am aroused; as if I heat up so rapidly that I can taste it. The other thing that happens, there is no other way to describe it, my cunt clenches.

It might be the remembered sensation of all the times he has fucked my mouth so violently that the back of my throat feels tender the next day. I may recall the feeling of my fist in her cunt, the warmth and the incredible intimacy that comes from being deep inside another creature. Maybe I recall some of the filthiest sex I’ve ever had in a log cabin surrounded by 800 year old fern trees and the cool, dark nighttime of the ancient Daintree rainforest, my mouth tasting of alcohol, his arsehole and the feeling my own piss running down my leg. Maybe I’ll recall the first time I orgasmed in public, surrounded by at least forty strangers, fully clothed and straddling a Sybian, him kissing my neck. Or the man who whispered in my ear “Tonight, you are going to be the one to make me come.”

I tell myself stories about myself and feel that mixture of arousal, agitation and isolation.  Memories I may have not visited in a long time are potent this late at night.

Sydney Rd is silent. The only sound is my computer occasionally muttering to itself, the clicking of my mouse and the hum of the electric heater at my feet. The only light in the whole apartment complex comes from the flickering glow of my monitor. Tonight I watch my porn on mute.

Masochist

The impact of his hand on the side of my face is microscopic oblivion and my reaction is addiction. His hand around my throat is paralysis and my option is endurance. His foul words in my ear are humiliation and my eyes close in avoidance. His cock forced sudden inside my ass is agony and my screaming is genuine. He tells me this is just the start and I believe him, we’re so new to each other, we have such a long way to go.

It is difficult to articulate the experience of being drunk on fear, intoxicated by the abject reality of becoming a thing, a vessel. Difficult to explain the simultaneous desire for an experience to end yet never stop. I hate love it. The crueler, the wetter.

I see violence burning in his eyes and my heart jumps with excitement. His lust for my suffering is symbiosis, it belongs to the both of us.

I consent to my violation and stand back to watch myself fall.

Relief.

I love him.

Welcome Letter

Hello darling,

Thank you for stepping inside to see me, thank you for taking the time. Yes, that room has always been there, no, you’re not the first to take a peek, but you walked right in and started looking around with interest. I become the absurdly servile hostess, so grateful for the company that it’s almost embarrassing, plying you with offerings and stories and photos from my past. As I perceive the metallic sound of your belt buckle unfastening, I tremble with a pitiable hope that I might soon hear it cracking sharp across my skin.

Please, yes, thank you, yes. Yes make yourself at home, yes help yourself, yes whatever you like, however you like, oh please oh yes oh please. I wait in a corner and observe you with keen interest, hanging on to every word, anticipating every movement. Is this what you want? Is this how you want it? Oh I am perfectly comfortable down here on my knees, don’t you worry about me.

Don’t you worry about me, this is what I was built for, hope for want for, it is craving and ancient and instinct and myself on autopilot. Please, I aim to please. I am to please. Please. Yes, you may touch what you want how you want, yes, yes, please. Unfurl yourself inside me and make a monstrous mess.

Please.

Only, darling, respect this interior; all that breaks must be rebuilt. Hurt me darling, make yourself at home. Only, hold me, darling and promise you will take care.

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.

Disinhibition

(This is something I wrote for a fetish website back in 2013. Content warning, it speaks of my fantasies regarding rough and non-consensual sex. These are strictly within the realm of fantasy/consensual kink.)

I want absolute disinhibition.

Self-consciousness is paralyses, thoughts distract, detract. Shut the fuck up.

I want to forget that I forgot to shave my legs. Wait, no, I just don’t want to care. I normally enjoy emphasising my femininity but right now I want the animal, untamed, uncivilised. My physicality is imperfect biology, I want his fingers digging into the subcutaneous fat around my waist, my hips, my heavy and low breasts all manifestations of nature’s plans for my body. I never want children and the fact that I was made for reproduction is redundant but nevertheless, there it is. Blood, bone and meat, I was born to die and already I can see the signs of my aging and mortality in the tiny lines that have begun to appear on my face, in the changing shape and mass of my arse, gravity compels my skin with its downward pull, as if slowly dragging my flesh into the dirt I will someday rot in.

In this moment I don’t want to hide or deny my mortality under makeup, I don’t want to style my hair into a semblance of obedience, I don’t want to awkwardly attempt to shape myself into a simulacrum of a more slender and firm 18 year old self in order to get the sex I want so much more now than I ever did then. It is nature or culture’s dirty trick that in the apparent prime of my desirability, my desire was the flick of flame on a matchstick. Now it’s a goddamn bushfire that is spreading interstate.

I want my hair grabbed in fists full, I want to hear the ripping sound as strands tear from my scalp because fuck my vanity. Fuck beauty, fuck clean, sanitised, organised. I want to fight, frenzied, violent, teeth, nails and the guttural screaming of a woman who might just kill you if only she could. I don’t want to win. I want to be defeated by my smallness and relative weakness, overpowered by an animal larger than I. I want to be brutally invaded from behind and to lose track of what is in what hole where when what. I want to be nothing but sweat, spit, tears cum and the taste of blood in my mouth.

I will be viciously, brutally, repeatedly raped in a way that is a complete cessation of any semblance of the civilized. In the aftermath, I want to lie for a long time, still trapped underneath him, neither of us speaking. Eventually he will pull out of me and we will fall asleep, warm, mute, mammalian.

Later, I will shower, shave, deodorise and civilise. I’ll scowl in the mirror at my imperfections then head out the door. Smart, crisp, clean I will smile and spend my day being a productive citizen.

I will wince when a stranger brushes by and unknowingly knocks one of my bruises, my white panties will be wet from his semen which has trickled out of me and the tenderness in my cunt and arsehole will not subside for several days.