Watching a friend go mad

I had to bear witness to the end of a friend the other day. He is an amazing man with a keen wit and sharp intellect and to see him wasting away has left me sadder than all my own personal troubles combined. Nothing I have to deal with can compare to the horror of seeing a brilliant mind being consumed by mental illness.

I would collaborate with him when we were both in school. He was a mad scientist, an artist, a Casanova, a con-man and entrepreneur. We would get together late at night and spiral through realities of our own making where secret societies existed, people were inhabited by fifth dimension aliens. We would talk about using sex as a way of opening the spirit to higher levels of existence. One of the last times I saw him I was reading Labyrinths by Jorge Luis Borges. He asked how it was and I began to explain the wonder that was Borges. I must have gotten through to him because he reached across the table and opened the book to my book mark and tore the final thirty pages out and handed them back to me. He took the rest of the book and stuck it in his bag.

It was his MO. He was star burning too bright. He was filled with ideas which seemed to be visiting from another dimension. They could fill your imagination with bright colors and sounds never heard before. The details were rich and beautiful and I could always rely on him to dress my mind with bright plumage. It was refreshing to hear about the world he saw. When I realized that this world had move from imagination to reality for him I was shocked and saddened.

He was dropped off in front of my house by another friend. He has never had a car, never used public transportation, always relied on his ability to get where he needed to be through his calling people to action. He did this a lot, manifest his thoughts through others. He lived well in the spare room of his cousin, he traveled in artistic and musical circles because he was friends with the right artists and musicians. The more I think about this gift of his the more I realize that his fears of manifesting the demons and aliens of his nightmares was not that much of a stretch for him. He was different now. He was unshaven. His clothes were the right clothes, they were his clothes, of him, but there was something off. It was as if there was a thin layer of dirt. He had a backpack like always but it was filled with newspapers. He got in my car and spread out across the backseat, spilling papers like ideas escaping from unseen cracks.

We took J to work and I told him I would give him a ride back to Elgin. It is a long drive but it had been years since I had seen him and he seemed out of it. The conversation quickly turned to how many of the things that he had always thought were just weird and twisted images in his overactive imagination were in fact real. This is not good. I try to find out more, it is partially an attempt to feel out what he is going through and partially a morbid curiosity I have always had for Schizophrenia. The stories and the images were familiar, places and people and conspiracies that he had talked about for years but they lack continuity. Before he would stick to a plot, aliens using mind control to change the course of evolution or extra-dimensional wars happening in this plane with traitors and patriots within societies that were fight in proxy. Now the stories were starting and stopping, tripping over one another as they tried to fight for space in his over full brain. In the same breath he would talk of being stuck in a karmic cycle of rebirth paying time and time again for past transgressions and about his fear of death and an eternity of hell. He was a body frozen in some hidden lab while his mind was projected into a clone and made to walk the earth surrounded by reanimated corpses. People were talking to him but only in lies, lies he knew because the world was communicating with him is morse code and hand gestures. We pulled up to the intersection of two four lane highways. There was a green shirt in the road and while I sat at the red light waiting for it to change, he stared at the shirt as if it was a clue to something. Just as the light was about to change, he jumped out of the car and walked through oncoming traffic to get the shirt. He got back in and looked it over, seeing if it would fit him.

“Is it your size?” I asked. “No.” I could not help him. Anything I said was interpreted by his wounded mind. A mind he was certain was filled with holes like Swiss cheese. He would talk and then fall off as if he was about to pass out and then start in a new. He would stare at me with a flat false smile as if he had caught me doing something and did not want to let on that he knew that I knew.

I pulled up int front of his house and let him out. He thanked me over and over for the ride and all I kept wondering was if this was the last time I was going to see him alive. He had said something on the way that stuck with me. “I am so tired of all of this. I just wish I could start over again, you know? Be a child again.” I knew that he was thinking about suicide and I tried to address it without scaring him away or talking to him as if he was a fool. He admitted that he needed to be committed and talked about having his cousin drive him to the hospital as soon as his visit with his dad was over. Did he go? I don’t know but there was something about the way he came to see me that made it feel like he was saying goodbye. I don’t know if that is just me reading into it or not. I also don’t know if it might not be the best option for him. He is already gone and any help he gets will leave him lost mentally. He said that he feared the hospital because as soon as they got him in that he would never be let back out. It was not a paranoid fear but a moment of clarity when he was seeing honestly that there may not be any “cure” for him, that he may never enter society again. He was saying that he knew he was already too far gone to ever come back. I will miss him dearly.

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For My (first) Birthday

I have two every year. It is a long story and has nothing to do with this post. Mariela asked me yesterday what I wanted for my birthday by which she meant what sort of kinky shit I want to do. What I want is a felony and therefore I won’t go into it but it got me thinking about what I want that I can actually have.

Kink has been an amazing way of getting to make the world I have always wanted. If I am able to imagine it, for the most part, I am able to have it. Sex, pain, love, hate, the whole world of human emotions has been opened up and I am able to experience what it means to be human in its entirety. Existence is multifaceted, there are angles so often feared and left unexplored. There are dimensions infinitely long and infinitely thin running like threads through the world that we see and know. Pain in people who should know no pain. Joy in moments that we expect to find no pleasure in.

The book Flatland, is the story of a creature that exists in one-dimensional space. There in no height or depth, only width. One creature, say a circle, can tell another creature, say a triangle, by how it’s width changes when they are in contact with each other. I’ll give you a minute to ruminate on that.

One day this creature is taken into a second dimension. Looking down on the plane that was his existence, he can see the shapes of things in ways that he never had before. This two dimensional Virgil shows him another world within his own world and he is never the same again. This happens again and the wise two dimension creature is taken into three-dimensional space and realizes the narrowness of even his understanding.

This can go on and on.

I am a one-dimensional creature which has seen the second and third dimensions. I am at once aware that the world I know is far more complex that I initially understood but also that it is infinitely more complex than I can fathom still. I am suspended between exploring the nuance of what has been revealed and diving deeper to see how deep I can go before being crushed by the weight of all there is.

What do I want for my birthday? I want to dive slowly. I want to slowly descend through the layers of existence starting with those I was born understanding, down through this new world of shades of gray and into the lightless pit beyond. I want to hold my breath and feel the burn, I want to hear the pressure changing in my head. I want to be a piece of coal compressed and heated, changed and realigned until I am a more hardened and crystalline creature. I want to come back from this experience and cut and polish my soul until it catches and imprisons the light.

Besides, I always have another birthday to make her drink my piss from another girl’s asshole.

Owning Your Darkness

There are levels to each and every person’s darkness; a sliding scale that ranges from the dulled colors of dusk to the depth of a black-hole where the very act of looking seems to strain the soul. We all have this scale and while some people never look past the fading colors of evening, many of us like to look deeper. I have been thinking a lot about my darkness lately and wondering what it is I would find if I stared into the singularity that is my darkest place. Why do we do this? Why do I want to know what my own personal evil is? I think there are many reason; knowing my own demons, exploring all of existence, Understanding. In this exploration I have found that my true darkness is a terrible place filled with reprehensible horrors but I do not regret the search. It is the act of searching, my willingness to look at the nature of human evil as it exists within me that gives me a better understanding of myself and humanity. Like the yin yang, it is in the darkest reaches of the soul that the seed of light can be found. It may be a little woo, but that does not make it any less true.

I have found in my darkest places a desire for the threshold moment. That event or point in time when life is forever changed. I fantasize about rape and murder, about innocence lost. I see myself there when the victim realizes what they thought was the bottom is nothing more than an illusion. She sees that no matter how cruel and heartless she thought the world could be, it is far far more cruel and heartless. My heart races, my face flushes, my mind reels at the idea that this is the moment when she will never be the same again. It is exhilarating to feel, saddening and life affirming all at once. I am in that moment the epitome of evil. I am destroying another person’s life. I feel so…alive.

So what is it that keeps me from making these moments real? What is it that keeps me from raping and murdering, from destroying lives in reality like I do in fantasy? Part of it is social morals and the rule of law but more than that I think I am held in check by my love of the exploration. It is the act of expanding understanding and existence that I like which is to say not only do I want to see the worst but also the very best. It is through this darkness that I can see that helping people discover their true selves is one of the most rewarding aspects of reality. If I play with someone who wants to relive or live out some dark moment, who wants to be raped to better understand the powerlessness of the situation, who wants to feel that moment when they go from innocent to aware I am able to broach the moment with another person and together we will see the darkness but also the light. We are both hurting and helping each other. She is my victim and I am her assaulter. She is my partner in that moment and is giving me a gift which is as light-bearing an act as there is. Likewise, I am helping her by being both the dark and menacing violator and a non-judgmental accomplice allowing her to explore her own darkness. It is the beauty of consensual edgeplay. We are both giving and getting that darkness that rounds out reality.

It is because I know what I am looking for, because I know which direction my darkness lies that I am able to explore life more completely. I know how dark my soul can get and this allows me to better understand myself and others. I love it and yes, it is a little woo but there you have it. It is not for everyone and not everyone’s darkness is the same but it is part of who I am and I am ok with that.

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.

A Sadist’s Tango

Two thoughts have been wandering about in my head as of late; one is about how I reconcile the person I am while playing with the person I am when I am not, and the other is how much my desire to hurt and dominate have grown now that I have allowed myself to feel this way. The former is connected to the D/s power exchange, but specifically in how it pertains to non-scene reality. The latter is about power itself, about being in control and taking what I want with a sense of satisfaction in that victory. This growing desire to hurt and my conflicting desire to not lose track of my socially acceptable self in this rising tide dance around each other. I wonder if there is a way to keep them in balance where they can coexist peaceably, or if someday one or the other will win out.

I am addicted to the look of terror. Eyes lit up with fear, involuntary spasms brought about by the deepest parts of the reptilian brain stem pushing for fight or flight, screams that rise without conscious awareness, these are the moments in a scene that I find the most attractive. Seeing a sub lose control of herself while I remain calm and collected is so alluring. The power exchange and the feeling of control is like a drug, creating actions that would be unacceptable in any other context. It is not just the physical games either, domination through verbal and psychological humiliation is verging on a fetish for me. Don’t get me wrong, I am very comfortable with these thoughts when I am in scene but after the scene is over and I am coming down I start to wonder about what I want and whether it is seeping into my daily life. I do not want to be an asshole all the time. I like that people like me, and for the most part I think I am a nice person, but there are times when the nice guy loses out in my thoughts to the asshole. While I am still being the nice guy, I’m finding that I have a harder and harder time actually wanting to be the nice guy.

Why? I want to be compassionate, I want to give a shit. I want to help people and feel for them but frankly I find it hard to put up with what I see as bullshit. At work, I am less likely to accept the sob story from guy who is chronically late. When negotiating a scene I am thinking of what I will get out of the scene, not just what I can bring to it and afterwards I am more prone to cut my losses if I was not turned on or got off. I used to let it go. I would let the new guy at work off with a warning when he told me about how his car broke down again or how it was his brother that was in the gang, not him. I would allow the sub to get too attached and avoid the discomfort of telling her that it wasn’t working. Now I just cut it off. It is as if I don’t have time for the crap, for the drama. Maybe that is true, but that does not mean I have to be an asshole about it.

The real problem is that I kind of like being the asshole. I like being mean, but I know that this is the fastest way to loneliness. If I am the asshole then no one is going to want to be around me. I like being around people, I like talking to people, hearing what they have to say and hearing their opinions, so the idea of isolating myself with my asshole-ish tendencies terrifies me.

So how do I do it? How do I explore the dark places that really turn me on without letting that darkness bleed into my everyday existence?

On the Ride Home

She hit me. Not hard, not maliciously, but with a joking sense of dare, she hit me. I looked at her and she smiled that smile that says, “I have no idea what I am in for…” I reached up and petted her head, running my fingers up the nape of her neck until they held the back of her skull. I closed them into a fist and pulled down hard. Her eyes closed as she melted into the seat. I pulled her closer to me. We are on Congress at the post office. The road narrows to one lane as it goes over the river, concrete barriers on either side as we drive through a hole in the side of a building large enough to have its own zip code.

“Open your eyes,” I said. “One of us has to watch the road and I am watching you.” She tensed up as we pass through and I-290 opens up on the other side. I had her stick her hand in her pants to see if she was wet. Hell yes. Instant mess. I had her stick her hand down her throat which was pretty easy since I had her head pulled back like a sword swallower. She got most of it in and started to gag. I had her pull it out and start masturbating.

“Think of this. Think of now when you go home. This is what you are missing. This is why you are moving back. This is what you want, what I want. This is what we do.” Now we are going about 60 and her exit is coming up quick.

“Cum now.” She picks up the pace and starts to let out those little lost girl sounds, that whimpering that makes me… As she starts to cum, I pull back on her hair hard making her scream in pain at the same time. Again and again I pulled on her hair as she shook through a fairly nice little orgasm.

I looped around to drop her off in front of her sister’s house and to give her a little time to pull herself together. We stopped in front of the house and chatted for a bit before she went to get out of the car. She leaned over and hit me on the shoulder. Some bitches will never learn.

Fear Factory

 

Fear comes it all sorts of forms. Fear of things, people, actions. There are valid fears and irrational phobias. There are fears that can be faced and fears that can be approached and fears that are so dark they’ll never be addressed. I have a co-worker that is afraid of large sinks. She refuses to use the bathroom in our warehouse and will hold it for as long as it takes to avoid having to come face to faucet with her phobia. I, on the other hand, like fear. To be more specific, I like other people’s fears. I like the way they react irrationally, the shortness of breath and the purely physical convulsions that seize the body. When you are playing with fear, there is something so powerful, so potentially malicious about how you are affecting the sub that it could easily become addicting.

She got off the train in my neighborhood at 9pm. I live in a rougher neighborhood, not the roughest by any stretch, but rough enough, and at 9pm when the weather is changing and people are running around happy to be out of the house, it can make a lone girl walking down the street uncomfortable. I usually pick up the sub to avoid hassles and to make better use of the time allotted us, but this time I had her walk. I followed her in my car and fed her directions by text.

Cross the street.

Turn left.

Walk down the alley.

Go into the open garage.

Strip.

The overhead light was out so as I shut the garage door on her, she was left in the dark.

I park the car around front and take a casual stroll to let her stand in the dark naked for a while. The thin metal garage door barely stops sounds so the chatter of people passing by makes her feel as if she is surrounded by the general public. One of the most interesting things I have found about public nudity is that it really depends on the crowd’s opinion. If you are in approving company, at a club or play party where it is accepted or even expected, being naked can be liberating. If you are in a general public environment, nudity can make someone very self-conscious. The sounds of people walking by made her nakedness an isolating thing. I stood outside the door for a moment listening to her breathing as she tried to hold still.

I burst in and her breathing immediately changed to more rapid, shallow breaths as I threw an oversized pillowcase over her head and upper body. I took two belts and strapped them tight around her chest and waist. The pillowcase itself was confining enough but the added constriction made her breathing even more labored. She was about to lose her shit and we had barely started!

I spun her around to face me and bent down to pick her up. I grabbed her by the waist and my fingers felt that her cunt was already soaked. I threw her over my shoulder and headed for the back stairs. The walkway from the garage to the stairs runs between our building and the next, which is an apartment complex. It was late at night and I rarely met people in passing but I moved quickly to avoid any questions that might come about from being seen carrying a girl in a bag into my house in the middle of the night. The last thing I need is for my neighbors to think that I am a serial killer.

We made it to the stairs without incident and were rounding the corner, out of sight when the sound of people passing by made me freeze in my tracks. I was not likely to be seen but I wanted to give her a moment to hear the people. I wanted her to think about us getting caught, about trying to explain to strangers that we were friends and this was just a game. The moment passed and I moved on. Up two flights of stairs and to my door, I put her down to walk into the house. I direct her to the room with one hand on her neck. In, around the bed, past the suspension frame and on to the mat she goes. I kick her in the back of the knees to make her collapse and leave her on her knees with her forehead touching the ground as I go back down to the garage to retrieve her clothes.

When I get back I fall upon her with punches and slaps, watching her wriggle and writhe in the bag. I pull on her hair through the case and bring the cloth in on her nose and mouth, increasing the feeling of suffocation as I growl in her ear. She is whimpering as I beat her chest and pound my forearm into her back. I pull off the first belt, fold it in half and spank her with it. She cries out in pain and pulls away. I hold her still and slap her again and again. I get bored of the belt and go back to punching and slapping, pulling and growling.

I wanted her to feel that she may have made a mistake by deciding to play. I wanted her to feel that she had no control even if she wanted it, that I held all the cards. She continued to moan and cry out as I beat her more and more. I reached down to take off the second belt and she immediately tensed up. She knew that as soon as the belt was off I was going to use it. She was flinching already as I worked the buckle and pulled it out from underneath her. I spanked her again and again listening to that most gratifying of sounds as the belt slap mixes with her cries of pain.

I grabbed her face and hold her nose and mouth, waiting for the panic, and just as she starts to thrash I let go. As she gasped for breath. I stood her up and wrapped my arms around her chest, squeezing the air out of her lungs. I released and the air flooded back into her lungs. Squeeze again, hold and release a couple more times to ensure she was lightheaded when I took the pillowcase off.

When she came out of the pillowcase, the first thing she noticed was the lighting. I had replaced the lamp bulb with a black light to screw with her senses. She is a very tactile person and to go from the enclosure where she was seeing almost exclusively with her body to being assaulted by the sharp, artificial contrast left her more confused. I took advantage of this to double down on the beatings that were now sharper without the fabric to soften the sting. I threw her back down and started moving her head back and forth by pulling hard on her hair. She was completely out of her head by now and, like a well-rested dough, she was ready to be worked over. One finger, then two, then three. I fucked with her cunt until she was begging to come. I pulled out and squeezed her thighs, reached over for the Hitachi and turned it on low as I went back in for another three-finger work out. She couldn’t hold it any longer and I let her cum, watching as she squirmed on the floor like a fish gasping air.

In the end it was a blast and what I learned about fear is that there are so many different kinds of fear, so many ways of scaring someone and invoking that gut response to terror. We definitely need to do this again… and again and again.