Diary of a Serial Killer

Note: No one was killed in the making of this scene. This is a write-up of a recent consensual roleplay scene. Also, because the narrator is a serial killer I thought it a bit out of character for him to do many of the things that I did, like clean wounds before and after needle play, use condoms and other safety equipment. To keep the intensity of the write-up where I wanted it, I took license in omitting a few things that we take for granted. Tertiary places and actions were changed to keep with the mood and flow and are not real representations of what actually happened. To anyone who may have seen the scene as it built, it would have seemed like any other night at the club, because that is in reality what it was.Traffic. It makes me see red. It makes me think that the world would be better off with fewer people. I try to control it, this urge to set the world on fire. It is not ok to think like that, my mother would say to me when I was a child and when I insisted that the best way to avoid sharing toys in daycare was to, “make them all go away.” So I have learned to suppress my rage, to hide the beast that I am behind a pleasant mask. The problem is that traffic erodes my mask and leaves me like a tiger behind bars of papier maché.

It was not common traffic. It seemed to be… misplaced, as if the traffic patterns were being affected by some outside force that was hell bent on me not getting to my date on time. Then I started to see the signs that my fears were true. The license plate of the car on my right gave me the first clue; IL 432 1300. There in the middle of the plate stood the number: thirteen. I looked to my left. There was another one this time with three M’s (thirteenth letter of the alphabet). This was no simple traffic jam. This was a conspiracy.

I went on trying to avoid the cars that were obviously flagged. I looked deeply into the souls of the drivers, looking for more signs. When the triskaidekians are blocking my path I know that they are trying to keep me from where I need to be. They take many different forms, hidden in plain sight as cars that cut off your exit, signs that are confusingly marked, people who pull you down into a void of insipid banter that suffocates your brain until it is no longer possible to think for yourself. This last form, manifesting as humans,is the most evil, the most insidious. It is the one that wears down the cage of my beast the most and are therefore the ones most often hurt when it gets free. These invaders are invisible to most, but I see them, the creature inside me sees them. It scares me to watch from within my own head, staring out of my own eyes as the dark soul that I share this body with stalks and destroys them. I cannot feel remorse for them, because I know the evil darkness of their goals. I know that the universe is a better place for each one removed.

When I finally arrived to pick up my date, traffic had already weakened my defenses. I was weak with frustration and her incessant yammering rained down like hail on the fragile glass shelter that was my sanity. Talk of people that she barely knew and how “nice” they were. Of families that existed in her mind from posed pictures,  of clothes and food without any understanding of what it meant to be really cold or hungry. I tried to pull my mind away. I tried to concentrate on the road, on the other cars, but all around me the thirteens were closing in. I felt as if I were trapped in the car with prey. I was being forced to take this girl as a sacrifice. I am not a fool. I know that this is not the way to handle the darkness. Spontaneous actions leave trails, leave clues, leave the police with so many questions that cannot be easily answered. So I play it safe and head to the Pier to keep us in public.

“So what do your friends and family think of you being on a blind date?” I hear the words coming out but I don’t remember thinking them.

“They don’t know,” she said with a mischievous smile. Really? She has left me this opening? I shake my head and reach for another cigarette to dull the senses that are starting to tingle.
I park close to the door, under a bright halogen light. If there had been a camera I would have parked under that. We get out and head immediately for the safety of the crowded boardwalk.

“Oh, let’s go on the Ferris Wheel!” She is excited and I am pulled along to the gondola. We climb on board and we are lifted slowly into the night sky. The isolation makes her more chatty. She talks about her mom and her dad. She talks about her pets growing up and why she named them what she did. She talks about her fifth grade teacher and how he snapped his gum and all the time I waited for us to reach the top. From there, the fall could be calculated as to make her hit most of the frame of the wheel before hitting the ground. I calculate the distance from my seat to the door. I could grab her by the hair with my right hand and the gate with my left and have her tossed from the gondola in a matter seconds. As I was lost in reverie I had not noticed that she had stopped talking. She was staring out over the city and for a moment, for one brief moment she looked beautiful, almost human. The top of the wheel came and went and she was still sitting next to me. She smiled and I think I smiled back.

At dinner she shifted again. She ordered the sloppiest most expensive item on the menu. She threw herself into the meal with abandon and talked throughout. The drinks were large and ostentatious with flashing lights and collectors cups. She ordered round after round and with each round pointed out more emphatically that she did not “put out” on the first date. This was said with red stains from the boiled shrimp around her mouth. It was not like she did not have manners. Most of the evening, she was well behaved but when we entered the franchised seafood restaurant with its southern, hands-on style, she seemed to absorb the artificial culture. Her language started to drawl and she drank sweet tea and called the waitress “Sugar.” It was as if her personality was made of a semipermeable membrane and could absorb the world around. She was empty like a sponge waiting to take in the nutrients from the surroundings. I watched with revulsion as she clapped along to the birthday song and whined for Key Lime pie. She ordered one more drink long after it was time to go and I decided that I really had no choice. The prison that kept the beast at bay was no longer there. Now all that stood between her and destruction was time.

I paid the check and with a smile asked if she was ready to go.

“Go where?” she is a little tipsy from the drinks but still thinking fairly rationally.

“A club.”

“What club?”

“A private club.” Her ears perked up. The singularity, the uniqueness of my offer gave her the push she needed. I helped her to her feet and kept my hand on the small of her back as I guided her through the mall. The awkward, morally aware soul that inhabits this body from time to time was gone. I was finally alone. Getting her to the club was going to be easy. She was a slightly inebriated, trusting soul that wanted to believe that there were no real monsters. As we moved farther and farther away from main shopping area, my hand moved from the small of her back to the nape of her neck. When we passed through the first set of doors into the small  hallway that separated the mall from the parking area, I grabbed tightly at her hair, stopped and spun her to meet me. I leaned in and kissed her hard, using her surprise as a way of getting through to her. She caught her breath and just as she started to push away, I released the kiss and turned to keep walking. I walked through the second set of doors, letting them swing open but not holding them for her. Her shoes clicked frantically as she tried to get through the swinging doors before they closed. I let her chase me all the way to the car, unlocking the doors but not opening hers. I hopped in and was buckling as she scrambled into the seat next to me.

We got to the club and I ordered drinks as she freshened up. I pulled a small vial of powder from my pocket and laced her drink. The bartender went about washing his glasses as if he saw nothing. She came back, a little stiff, a little scared of being hurt,  but more of being abandoned. I pushed the drink to her. She claimed that it tasted funny. I told her it was the city water. She began in again about how great her home in the suburbs had been. I can’t stand it anymore.

“Finish your drink.” She struggles to down the rest of it as the narcotic starts to take affect. She starts to lose focus and balance. I take her for a little tour of the club. It is a Friday night and the club is quiet. She starts to stagger, unsure of her feet. She leans back into me and then pushes off as if to play coy. I let her do this a couple more times as we make our way towards the private rooms in the back. At the entrance to our private room a sober shiver runs through her as she see the darkness inside. She stops and unconsciously backs away from the doorway but I am behind her and before she can say a word my arms are around her neck. Her hands come up but land lightly on my bicep and forearm. With a gagging squeak, her body goes limp.

I toss her unconscious body onto the couch face first, her ass propped up on awkwardly angled legs. I handcuff her hands behind her back and sit back a little, waiting for her to come to. The drugs make her come to slowly and I give her situation time to sink in. She scrambles to straighten herself up. She looks at me confused and a little angry. I slap her across the face, drawing focus into her eyes for just a moment.

“Can you hear me?” She does not say a word but cringes at the touch. There are so many things about this bitch that annoy me I don’t know where to start. Like a wrecking crew at the gates to the Mall of America I lick my lips at all that there is to destroy in front of me. I pull her to her feet without a word and start in on her personality.

“If I had to listen to one more minute of your chatter in the car, I swear to god, I was going to drive us into the river.” I’m gripping her tightly by the upper arm as I whisper this in her ear. I slap her face, watching her long black hair hide her eyes. I brush it aside to ensure that she sees me as I take her apart. “No one cares about your boring life.” (slap) “Nobody wants to hear how ‘nice’ your boss is.” (punch) “I could not care less whether your mom loved your sister more than you.” I spin her around and close my arm around her neck and squeeze until the gasping sounds come. Close in, I whisper softly in her ear, “Your life is fucking meaningless and if you had an ounce of self-awareness in you, you would see that. Her eyes roll back in her head, and as she falls I spin her to fall on her back onto the couch.

I drag her over the arm of the couch tilting her head back, forcing her mouth open. As she starts to come to again I wait for her head to start to move before shoving my cock into her mouth. The angle, the force and the choking all fight her urge to get away. She gags and tears fill her eyes.

“You go out on a blind date without telling anyone where you are going. You buy a new dress, new underwear. You proceed to talk about how you are not going to put out while proceeding to lean on me, brush up against me and generally tease me. Now tell me, are you surprised where you find yourself?” I pull my dick out of her mouth and wait for her to start speaking. She says nothing. I slap her hard across the face. “Answer me!” The rage is like a heat wave running through me as I feel it coming out of my pores as sweat. I am on fire as I want to peel her like grape and listen to her scream.

“I…” She stammers and I shove my dick back into her throat feeling her tonsils on either side of the head of my cock. She starts to get her feet under her as she tries to shift her angle and stop the assault anyways she can. I pull out and step back, putting my dick away as she gasps for air. Spit and and tears cover her face.

I pull her up to her feet by her arm and turn her to remove the cuffs. The abuse has affected her, sobering her up a bit and now is time for her to be broken of her hope and fight. After taking the cuffs off I relax and turn ever so slightly to give her the opening. She sees it and almost without conscious effort she starts for the door. My arm snaps out and grabs her by the hair. I throw her into the brick wall and laugh. My hand goes to her neck and I lean in again, breathing hot on her cheek. I feel her body goes limp and I let her fall into a pile. I step back and kick, catching her stomach with the top of my foot. A sound escapes as the air is forced from her lungs. She tries to curl up in to a fetal position but I dig the heel of my boot into her thighs, pushing them down.

“Get up.” She slowly gets to her hands and knees and I kick her in the cunt. She falls face first into the carpet. Her hand comes out as she tries again to come up and I step in feeling the bones move beneath the sole of my shoe. I grab her by the hair and pull her up, only shifting my weight of her hand after her arm had reached full extension. She held her arm limp as I squeezed her jaw and forced her to look into my eyes.

“Did you really think you had a chance?” She is looking right at me now shaking her head violently. She knows there is no way out except through me. “Do you want to go home?” She feverishly nods her head. Little pleases start coming out. “There is only one way out. Show me that you want me to let you go.” I reach down and undo the belt of her dress and put it around her neck. She is shaking as she tries to get naked. She sheds the last of her clothes and I let go of the belt, spin her around and slap her across the face. “Besides, even if you did get away, where would you go? Do you think anyone out there would stop me?” She looks over her shoulder towards the door that leads back to the main club. Suddenly, how far she has gone, how far she is from safety, sets in. She looks back at me with desperation in her eyes. I throw her back on the couch and turn to my bag.

I watch over my shoulder as she gauges the distance again. I give her my back as a way of tempting her into trying for the door. She lunges, on hands and knees, for the door and I contemplate for a minute letting her get to the bar and having the bartender and bouncer drag her back in but decide against it. I wait for her to almost reach the door before snatching her up by the hair. She screams as I throw her back on the couch. I lean in close and say, “Do that again and I will be fucking your corpse.”

I grab some rope and string her up by her wrists. There is nothing more perfect than the stripped victim before the real damage is done. It is like a clean canvas, an unmarked form waiting to be worked into something more. Her head hung down and her hair hid the fear in her face. I pulled it back and tied her head up by her hair.

“You are a cunt.” I spit the words out and watched as she flinched when they hit her. “I am going to use you like a cunt, but first you need to act like a cunt. What does a cunt do?” She says nothing and I reach up and squeeze her cheeks. “Well?”

“I… I don’t know.” She is almost in tears, but not quite.

“A cunt bleeds.” I unroll a string of thirteen needles and proceed to pierce her flesh, looking for vulnerable spots. Her skin was red and hot to the touch from the earlier tortures. As I look over the body and find where I want to put the needle I pinch and pull and slap the skin to bring even more blood to the surface. With casual torment I begin to slide the needles in, letting each slide in slowly watching the skin stretch, feeling it pop as it punctures. The screams come again, this time with sheer pain. I give each one room to exist on its own uncomplicated by the mixed pain of overlapping punctures. After putting in about six of the needles I start to ask her about her prudish composure.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” She shakes her head, closing her eyes tight to keep out the image of her wanting it. “If you want me to fuck you, all the pain can go away.” She looks up at me desperately.

“Please. Please fuck me.” The words are the verbal equivalent of her scramble for the door. I smile down at her.

“You are saying it, but you don’t mean it. You want me to stop the pain and are willing to be fucked for relief. That is not what I want. What I want is for you to want me to fuck you. I want you to beg me to fuck you because you long for it, long for me.”

“I do. Please fuck me.”

“No. Not yet.” I return to my work, finding new places to inflict sharp, exquisite pain.

After they are all in, I leave them in and leave her hanging for a while. The pain subsides and I want her to be refreshed when I start to pull them out. Each comes out with a twist releasing a small rivulet of blood. She is gone by now, lost in the pain, afraid that the slightest move will increase it. As the last one is pulled free I step back and look at her. The red lines accentuate her curves and define her body in ways that no clothing could. I take a few of the beads and smear them on her parched lips and on her cheeks. The look in her eyes says in no uncertain terms that she is now mine completely.

I untie her arms first leaving her nearly suspended by her hair. As I undo that knot she slips to her knees. I undo my belt and she looks up with anticipation. She wants to show me her gratitude, her desire and as soon and my dick is free, she consumes it with hunger.  I let her relish in her devotion for a moment before dragging her back to the sofa by her hair. I throw her over the armrest, pushing her legs apart and under her so she opens to me. I take a piece of medical tubing from my bag and wrap it around her neck. I pull her head up and enter her from behind. The sound escaping is a mixture of ecstasy and dying and I pull her back onto me over and over again. She tries to hold herself up by her arms, but as her world goes black they slip and she crashes down onto the couch. I release the tubing and let her gain consciousness again. She is coughing as she gets back onto her arms. I pull back again, violently pulling her into each thrust until again, her arms give out and she falls forward. Again I release and let her taste air for one last time. As she starts to move I pull the tubing again, this time as tight as possible. She starts to scramble for the hose with her hands and now she is completely held up by the tension. There is a convulsion as she dies and one last orgasm shakes throughout her. Her arms go limp and then her whole body. I keep her like that for a few seconds more to ensure that the struggle is out of her and I let go. She falls forward and I pull out. I pull the body back on the couch. The corpse stares lifelessly at the ceiling, the skin not yet cool. The blood all over it makes the scene that much more vivid, and in no time I feel the orgasm rising within me. The semen falls across her face and into her eyes that do not flinch or seek approval. They take it with the same apathy one would expect from tile on the bathroom floor.

I rest for a minute, sitting on the sofa next to the body, feeling the heat slip away and the joints begin to stiffen. When I have rested, I pull my clothes on and grab my bag. I go to the bar. I look at the bartender who gives me a knowing nod. There are reasons that you belong to a private club. In a matter of hours the room will be clean again and the night will proceed as if it had never happened. Well, except for the one more missing person report floating through the police bureaucracy.

Two months later…

The lead up was not unlike spinning a plate if by plate you mean a bitches psyche and by spin you mean digitally stabbing her while she attempts to work. There were a couple of video chats that were grainy and off center with her armed with an arsenal of found objects attempting to follow verbose tasks so convoluted that she has to print out the instructions and keep them at hand through out the scene. There were times when she wore binder clips on her clit at work and other where she stole office supplies by smuggling them out wrapped in a rubber glove and stuffed in her snatch. There were drives home with her phone in her crotch as I wrote long, heavily punctuated stories that turned her on just enough to soak her phone in cunt juice. And then there were the edges.

Many, many edges. Starting over a month out I started an incremental increase in the number of daily edges that were required. One, then two, then three, four, five, six and so on until she was looking at days of 15, 16, 17.  The pressure and lack of release was destroying her sex drive. The need to cum was giving way to a sad resentment for stimulation. If she had been able to complete the task she would have done 36 the day before we played in person but she gave up. I should have seen that as a bad sign but I am nothing if not intrepid, undaunted.

A week before I started scheduling time with Rough. We figured out who was going to have her what day. I slowly turned up the pressure. Monday: no snacks at work and a half a can of coke. Tuesday: no snacks and no coke. Wednesday: no snacks, no coke and tasks. Thursday: complete radio silence (she lost her shit on Thursday). Friday: act as if nothing had happened on Thursday. Saturday was play day.

I text her the address about an hour and a half before she is supposed to be there. She is still on EST and so thinks that she only has thirty minutes (unexpected win!). She panics and grabs all of her stuff and, dressed like a reasonably price hooker available for $65 dollars through groupon, heads out for my house. First thing she does is get on the train heading the wrong direction. This is an understandable mistake for a tourist visiting the city except for the fact that I live at the end of the line and the name of my stop, the name of the station she was to get off at and that I gave her was the name of the train she should have taken. Instead she gets on the opposite train and text me from the Southside. Again, I tell her that she has fucked up and that if she is not back on the train quickly that she will get raped and shot and not in the good ways. [Side note: she was not in a bad neighborhood in the least. In fact my neighborhood, the hood she was to intentionally end up walking, is far worse]

Finally she gets turned around and headed in the right direction. She arrives and I pick her up. I park far enough from the station that she has to do a little bit of a hooker walk in front of the train station. We drive around the corner and pull into the garage. We get out and I make her walk into the house in front of me. She has no idea which way is north or south, where the door is or what floor I live on so every step is tentative. I push her on with words and hands getting her to move faster. As she hesitates or looks for affirmation, I look at her irritated and then push her on. We get to the house and I tell her to take of her coat and shoes. As she is doing this, she tries to chat but I am having none of it. I take her glasses off and throw a hood over her head. I tie it off with my rope and she is already starting to pick up the breathing.

I take her to the room and have her strip. She decides to take her own sweet time with it so I start slapping her around telling her to go faster. She tries but she has no idea where she is, where the walls are, what she is standing on, anything about her surroundings. She is cautious and I push her. Finally she is naked or close to and I start punching and slapping her to get her worked up before starting the new party game. I tell her to shut her eyes and I pull off the hood and replace it with a blindfold that I wrap in stretch wrap to keep secured to her face. I tie her hands above her head and start the game.

Two dice. First is the type of actions (Clitoral, insertion, abandonment, electrical, stingy, thuddy) and the second was the number of minutes. First roll is 6, 6. six minutes of thuddy pain. At this point I had a pang of guilt because she was playing with Rough the next day and he is a beast who likes the ol’ ultraviolence and so me marking her up the day before would be kind of mean to him but the role was what it was and so I started the timer. Fists, hands, knees, forearms, bats, you name it. When you are working someone over for six minutes straight, you have the time to use everything you have.

Then next in line was stingy pain. Four minutes of crops and slaps, floggers to balance the beatings. Next was electrical and then clitoral stimulation. For an hour we played this dancing back and forth between the different types of torture until at one point she is so exhausted that she starts to pass out. I catch her and she asks for a drink of water. Oh, you‘ll get water…

But first more electrical!

After almost ten more minutes of violet wand her skin was red and irritated and again she asks for a drink of water. I acquiesced and untied her, threw a burlap sack over her head and dragged her into the bathroom. In the shower she goes and I turned the water on cold to soak her. I left her there and got a knife to cut the glory hole and had her keep completely still while I cut because the last thing I wanted to do was ruin the brand new sack with blood.  When the hole was open I jammed my fingers in and down her throat to make sure the burlap got in her mouth and then I took the showerhead and sprayed it into her mouth. She gulped and sputtered like a thirsty little whore. Thanking me between swallows. I pulled out my dick and shoved it into the whole. Her mouth was ready and started attacking my junk. I take the showerhead and start spraying her in the face as she sucks and the water runs over her face and she freaks the fuck out; spitting, thrashing, and generally acting like she is being drowned. This is an unexpected surprise. I was thinking that the wet burlap would irritate the skin but the fact that it made fellatio into a form of waterboarding is even better! I use this to build up the stress. I start by jamming my dick all the way down her throat to the point she cannot breathe. I hold it there until the twitching starts and she is on the verge of panic. I pulled back just enough to allow her to breathe through her nose while keeping my cock in her mouth. Her focus immediately goes to licking and sucking while gasps for air through her nose. Then I bring in the water. It runs over her face and makes it impossible to breathe again. She starts screaming and thrashing about. I laugh and pull my dick out of her mouth. She loses herself in the moment; at once wanting air, water and cock and knowing that she could not have all of them at once. I did this a couple more times watching her gasping like a caught fish through the burlap glory hole. I figure it is time to move on and turn the water on colder and leave her alone while I prepped the next scene.

I put the sawhorse up facing the mirror and lay the spreader bar out. I brought her in, cuffed her down and attached her legs to the bar at an angle at once forcing her into the sawhorse and exposing her cunt. I took off the blindfold so she could see herself as I put the Jennings gag on her. She watched as I prepared the anal hook, inserted it and attached it to the gag holding her head up while pulling on her ass hole. It was a mixture of Hitachi and dildo that forced her to nearly pass out again. I untie her and we settle into a little closing orgasm. She screams, she moans, she hyperventilates and lays down against my chest afterwards to relax.

“You never did play with the psychological stuff” She was rubbing my chest as she whined about the missing piece. I just spent the last 3 ½ hours driving her mad and she is still looking for more. Insatiable cunt! I give her a minute to let the thought slide from her head and I turn on her.

You think you are so tough but you nearly passed out twice. Once was from orgasms. Orgasms! You keep talking like you are this insatiable slut constantly wanting more orgasms, more cock, more use and yet here you are trying to escape into unconsciousness. I turned her over and pulled her ass in the air and jammed my fingers in her. Her cunt is dry. What the fuck! I spit in her cunt and berate her with talk about how she is always bragging about how wet she is. How ready she is. She thought she could get away with big talk without being tested? She started to complain and argue. She wanted to tell me that she was wet but I shut her up by shoving her tit in her mouth. She started to let it fall and I smack her ass. She wanted to tell me she couldn’t do it and that was the opening. Excuses, excuses, excuses! All she had were excuses. She had spend the last two and a half months telling me how desperately she wanted to be dominated, how much she loved having tasks. She wanted to be told to do things that she thought were difficult, painful, disgusting because they were the things that I wanted and yet every time I gave her a task, she would come back with one reason or another as to why she could not do it, could not do it right. Yep, that did it. Face down bawling into the floor. I turn up the heat and force one last orgasm before letting her collapse into her own misery.

Cut to now, six weeks later. The urge is rising in her again and she emails looking for a time to play. The hunger to be taken apart, washed clean, made empty, whatever metaphor you want to give it, has reappeared. It always does.

Sadistic Martinis

I have a confession to make — I like causing pain. Not in the paddle-the-girl-who-likes-to-be-paddled sort of way, but in a much darker way. It is not an all the time thing, I have not completely transferred my pleasure into other people’s misery, but it has been added to my repertoire of enjoyments. There is something about that side of emotions that is… intriguing.

It is also not as simple as wanting to destroy. Like Kali, it is through the teardown that rebuilding can occur. From the ashes of the phoenix, blah, blah, blah. The truth is more complicated than just wanting to destroy or to rebuild. It is a savage instinct bred into us in the earliest days of our evolution. Somewhere in the DNA of every biological consumer is a brutal drive to survive at the cost of others. This is more than a willingness to take but a need, a desire.

The truth is that, like a good dirty martini, sadism is complex and more than a little of it is finding pleasure in displeasure. Not only in the receiver’s pain, but also in my own guilt. Standing over someone who has been broken, who’s been taken apart and left in a pile at your feet, is a powerful demigod of emotion, but it is not an isolated feeling. Standing there beside it is deep-seeded hatred for what you have just done to another person, and when you are working within a consensual arrangement, as I do, you will also find a pleasure not unlike that which you get from making someone orgasm. This twisted trinity of power, guilt and erotic pleasure is intoxicating and addicting. Added to this are a variety of minor demons that change with each situation and person. They add nuance and detail to an already complicated scene and are good from time to time but are not vital to the flavor. They are like blue cheese stuffed olives or bar onions. Added garnish, sometimes savored, sometimes left in the empty glass when the drink has been drunk.

But just like blue cheese olives and dirty martinis, sadism is not for everyone. That is good. There are too many feelings, too many emotions and ways of seeing the world to be limited by a single thought. I like happiness too. Pleasure is still pleasing. I can be completely controlled with sensual touch and have girls that can attest to the achillies heal the scar on my neck is. It is a mixture of all these different feelings that make us human. It is the petty jealousies, the justifiable outrages and the seething hatreds that balance the crushes, first loves and parental endearments. They create the whole sphere and to deny oneself an emotion just because others find it uncomfortable is not something I am willing to do.

In the Name of Science: Light Therapy

Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is no laughing matter and millions of people (including thousands of kinksters) are putting on their frowny faces as the Hurizzard of 2011 turns our brownstones into igloos. While wandering the perverted halls of Fetlife yesterday, I came across a fellow pervert whose picture inspired me.

The rules are simple. The room is prepared with heat and music to ensure a comfortable background. The subject was stripped and strung up. She is then blindfolded to reduce outside influences and gagged to keep her from disturbing the neighbors. All outside light is extiguished and the trigger light is set. The subject is unblindfolded to see the light but no verbal cues are given. The blindfold is replaced and the working lights are turned on. Depending on the color, action is taken. Red light is pain, green light is pleasure.

Start with red. Slappy, slappy. Scream. Cringe. Slap, sway, slap, scream, cower.

Red: Clamps. Moan, ruler slap, cry.

Green: Touch. Remove clamps. Run fingers over goose bumps. Her hands unclench a bit.

Red: Knife play. Stabby stabby, try to draw blood. Down the back, stripes carving up a piece of meat.

Green: Clitoral and anal stimulation.

Red: (audible moan when the light is seen) Butt plug. Thumper. Probably a little too hard on the thigh. Rib shot, breast shot. Hit the calves and watch as she swings.

Green: (visible relief) Remove the plug and use the Hitachi.

Red: (moan) Clothespins. Lots of clothespins

Red: (angry glare) Removing the clothespins with knife.

Green: (visible relief) Gentle removal of the remaining clothepins and the Hitachi.

The subject was nearly passed out by this point so I pulled her down for a post-experiment interview and sexytime. The pattern was obvious almost immediately and she could feel the tension building every time she felt a lull in the action. When asked if she started to try and predict what would be next, she said no, not intentionally. What she did was try and see around the corners of her blindfold. She looked for visual cues. I believe this is because of her need to experience another sensation other than touch. She also noted that while she knew almost instantly knew that green was good and red was bad, her brain never gave up on the possibility that I would switch up the order and punish her when the light was green. It seems that my own known sadism may have been the Schrodinger’s cat to this experiment, affecting the outcome merely by being the scientist.

What have we learned? We have learned the human mind can be trained but it can also be fucked with. The mind will over-think when stressed out. It will try and out-think its captors and therefore make the eaiest mindfuck by simply giving something predictable the potential to not be.