Commuting

I have always been attracted to women in street clothes. Perhaps it comes from the fact that I was a sleeping kinkster for all of my early sexual life, I would see women walking down the street, shopping, driving next to me on the highway, and imagine what they were like beneath the street legal facade they wore. Breasts hidden, skirts hinting, heels and hair and lipstick working like smoke and mirrors to both accentuate the feminine while hiding the carnal. I see it everywhere, in the coffee store, on the street, on the train and some days it is hard to not simply approach one of these mythical creatures to see if they are anything more than hallucinations of my sex-soaked mind.

I pull up to the bus stop where she is standing, blond hair straightened, attention lost in her phone. She is wearing a charcoal grey skirt and white blouse. A wool jacket is buttoned and belted to reveal the curve of her body. I roll down the window and tell her to get in. She obeys and reaches for the passenger side door.

“No. Get in the back.” She pulls away from the handle as if her hand had been slapped and moves tentatively towards the back door. She climbs in and sits in the middle of the seat so I can see her in the rear view mirror. I pull away from the corner, the other people waiting for the bus may or may not have understood what had just happened. I really don’t care.

“Open your jacket,” I say as we head towards downtown. She obeys sheepishly, undoing the belt and then the buttons. Her blouse is cute and a simple pearl necklace and earrings bring it all together. “No unbutton your blouse.” She does. She is wearing a white undershirt to hide the black bra she has on.

“Pull up your skirt.” She is wearing tights, the enemy of daytime sex. “Rub your cunt.” She starts to play with herself, her perfectly manicured fingers running over the fabric. I can see through the sheer material that she is wearing a matching pair of panties. I roll down the windows in the back so she is on display for anyone who cares to look in. She is getting flush with embarrassment and excitement and her other hand pulls up her shirt to seek out her breast. Her breathing is getting short and fast as we hit the drive. All around us are commuters lost in thoughts of the work is ahead of them. She is not thinking about work, she is thinking about her sex, about getting caught, about being picked up off the street like a whore.

Around the Oak street curve and past Streeterville she is lost in her fingers as they play with her work prepped body. I take the Grand ave exit and a block west I pull into a parking garage. There is no attendant and I quickly make my way to the top of the parking lot. I find a corner away from the elevators and turn the car off. I hop out and open the back door. I pull her out by her hair and drag her the back of the vehicle. I push her down into a squatting position that she can only achieve by hiking her skirt even higher. I have her continue to rub her cunt as I unbuckle my pants and shove my cock into her mouth. She gasps for breath and starts to flail a bit but calms down and behaves after I slap her across the face. As I fuck her face, I open the back, the third row of seats has been folded down giving us plenty of room to fuck. I pull her off my dick by the hair and shove her into the vehicle. She crawls forward on her hands and knees and I get in behind her. I pull her blouse off and toss it into the seat in front of us then pull her undershirt off, exposing her bra. I pull each cup down, releasing her breasts. Her nipples are hard as I squeeze and pinch each in turn. I grab her shoulder and turn her over the back of the seat so her tits hang down and she stares out the front window. Her skirt is already up. I pull a pocket knife out and cut the tights in the crotch. She gasps in fear of the blade and at the loss of her clothes but before she can object I have forced my cock past her panties and into her wet slit. Her focus is lost as I fuck her. After a few minutes I lean forward and whisper into her ear.

“Cum like the little slut you are.” She lets go and cums for me. I can feel her cunt squeezing and finally giving out. I pull out let her collapse in exhaustion. I pull the condom off and jerk off until I am ready to cum. I slap her face and tell her to open up. Most of it goes in her but some dribbles down onto her tits. I sit back and catch my breath.

After a moment we pull ourselves together. I have her put her breast away still wet with cum and tell her not to put the under shirt back on. The black of the bra can be seen through the blouse but only if you are looking for it. Her tights are mostly intact except for the torn crotch and when she brushes out her hair it looks mostly put together. She reapplies her makeup as we finish driving the six blocks to her building and when she gets out only another whore or fellow kinkster would be able to tell that she had been properly fucked on her way to work. But this was never for them. This was for her. For the rest of the day she will know that she is a slut hiding in these business clothes, she will know that she is a sexual creature and an animal playing the proper role. When she heads to the bathroom and is reminded of the hole in her tights or feels the pinch and pull of dried cum on her breast, she will be able to remember her true nature and that is what it is all about.

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Putting the Sub in Subconscious

I have been hearing a lot lately about subs having very vivid, very obvious dreams. The kinds of dreams with so much obvious subtext that you don’t have to be Jung to understand it. It makes me think of when I dreamed. When I was much younger, I was a avid dreamer. Lucid dreams, prophetic dreams, subconscious dreams, even waking dreams were a part of my existence. There have been several changes in my life since then (less sleep, more stress, sleep apnea) that are probably far more realistic explanations to why I don’t dream nearly as much I used to but for the sake of this post and for aesthetic reasons I am going to stick to the idea that I am much more conscious of what I want and need than I was when I was 18.When I was growing up there were many things that I assumed were impossible. Things that had resigned myself to existing only in the imagination. It is one of the first things that we are taught by our families, by society; there is a difference between fantasy and reality. Some things exist (cheese, birds, oxygen) and some do not (Santa Claus, God, a chance that I will ever give a shit about sports). It was a way of fencing in the imagination and focusing our attention on those things that are real and can be changed. Flights of fancy are all fine and good but they are limited in their practicality. There are certain unreal things that are not worth spending your mental energy on. At the age of 16 I started to explore metaphysics and religion and while these ideas allowed me to be more creative in my thinking, they still seemed to be only metaphors, images that reality wore like ceremonial dress. They are not real in the real sense of the word. They were just ways of perceiving what is real more creatively. But they did allow me to explore the idea of changing the world around me through creative thought. I could imagine the world as I wanted it more vividly when it was wearing a metaphor than when I was staring at the naked reality that sat in front of me and so I pushed more and more to incorporate these metaphor images into my life.I became a writer. I began to read surrealist writers. I started looking for images, stories, fantasies that could be create from the world around me. The old women on Michigan Ave that wore long fur coats and read any book that Oprah suggested became savage hunters wearing their Mac cosmetics like war paint. The friends who drank and smoked and wasted their potential on unproductive philosophies became manifestations of the Buddha, or Christ and Krishna. I was seeing the world that I did not like in ceremonial clothes that were at least entertaining. The reality of it was that I was not changing the world, I was changing how I saw the world. I was imagining Hitler in his underwear; I was taking the things in life I feared or disliked and making them ridiculous.

Then I got married. I got serious. I became a father. I saw that I had to be responsible, mature. I let these images slide away and concentrated on that which was in front of me. I stopped writing. I got a job that paid well and wasn’t horrible. I started seeing the good in the real world. It was as if I had spend so many years looking out past the fence that kept real and unreal separated that I had never seen what this fenced in world was all about. I began to explore the real world and it was pretty good. Were there things missing? Sure, but that is life, not everything that you want is attainable. You accept this and then you move on. I could still have those fantasies, I could still live out my imagination within my head as long as I knew that was not the same as the real world.
“I can do that?” The question echoed through my head for the first several months after ZG and I came out as kinky and open. Here was a reality filled with acts and ideas that I had long ago relegated to the world of fantasy. Threesomes, multiple partners while remaining married, hurting and violating and degrading people were some of those long held dark fantasies that I allowed myself to think about because they were clearly outside the well defined borders of the real. Now they were being offered up as common place, not only as real but as nearly ordinary. The biggest revelation was that if these ideas that I had thought to be far beyond possible were not then what other things, ideas, desires were within reach? The truth is there is nothing out of reach. It is just a matter of want, determination and manifestation. If you can imagine it, it can be real.

Maybe this is what happened to my dreams. Maybe this fundamental shift in my understanding about the make-up of reality has brought my conscious and unconscious minds into sync removing the need for the subconscious to translate. The more you feel you have control the more you feel free to explore the reality of your wants. Perhaps this is the opposite of what is happening with the subs I know who have become so highly attuned to their subconscious dreams. Where I feel more in control of not only my life but my very reality, they have all but let go of their conscious mind, their needs to control and have become completely centered in their subconscious.

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.

The Kinkster and Daniel Webster

 

So much of my life has revolved around words. I am a writer, I work with books, I found my wife on the clearance table in the basement of our local Borders, so many ways the written word has shaped my life. When ZG and I found kink, it only seemed natural that I would find that my favorite kinks revolve around words and their use. I like psychological warfare, mental sadism and general mindfuckery are the fields on which I play my best games and where I am most at home. Recently a small back and forth on the definition of psychological play got me thinking about the words we use and how minor changes in meaning can have drastic affects.

One of the first to come to mind is the trifecta of embarrassment, humiliation and degradation. Some people will see these as various different acts, some physical, some mental, some intense others to a lesser degree, where I see them as grades on a fairly wide ranging field of psychological play. Looking at humiliation as the verbal part and degradation as a purely physical piece give to much room for error. If you define the words this way, making someone worship your feet or crawl across the floor is the same as cleaning the toilet with her hair or enema play. Humiliation can be as simple as calling someone a whore or as complicated as deriding someone in her lack of social skills. It leaves too much room for error. It make more sense to me to define the level and then let the variety of play fluctuate between verbal and physical.

There are so many of these little differences that come up, small inflections that change the meaning of everything. So like in most everything I do, the words take center stage and turn a simple scene negotiation into a legal document. I am just glad to know that there are others out there that enjoy Pedantics