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.

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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.