Catharsis In Darkness

He wanted to make her cry.

He wasn’t sure why, not exactly, he just knew that it was something that he needed to bring out of her.

When the cane came down across her breasts and a cry spilled loose from her lips, deep and raw, he felt that within himself. He felt that as much as he felt the residue of pain around his fist that clenched the wooden cane.

It was a sense that came to him crackling across his body like electricity. He needed to push her into a different place and space, in order for her to feel, to purge.

Was he abusing her? Taking advantage of her emotional state?

A thousand voices cried out in protest in his head as he brought the cane down upon her flesh, but not once, in her strangled cries, did she utter her safe word.

Was it, then, HIS responsibility to gauge her limits and decide? Or did he trust that she’d meet him half way. Did he have to let go as much as she was?

Something about that was thrilling.

Something about the way her cries squeezed out of her chest as the cane struck her turned him on. Made him hard. He had never heard that in someone – a desperate cry. He wanted more of it. He hit her harder and the rush came, for both of them it seemed. She tilted her head back and inhaled as if breathing for the first time in months.

He laced every strike with a slice of degradation intended to cut, intended to play upon her mind. She was a fool, she had made a mistake, she was a pathetic little horny bitch.

The words sliced at him just as much, feeling coarse on his tongue, yet seeing her body tense, her breasts rising as she took in a shuddering breath, made the act worth it.

He was addicted, some part of him knew, to her darkness and his own. He felt it tearing at his soul, pulling him under with every strike. He wanted to go, wanted to drown beneath the waves. He was tired of fighting back, of being good, of worrying if he was a monster or a man.

More importantly, he wanted to see welts rise across her breasts.

‘I am an idiot. Yes, Master.’

She recited back to him what he spoke to her.

‘I am such a goddamned idiot, Master.’

Somewhere in his daze, he must’ve told her to repeat after him.

Was he in control? Was he really?

He watched her turn, facing her back to him. His eyes fell upon her ass, her beautiful pale ass, so perfectly shaped, freckles sporadically lined across each cheek.

When he strikes her, she grunts shrilly, in a way he’s never heard her before.

His cock is fully hard, aching to the point of pain to take her. As if he will go mad any moment now if he doesn’t.

He stills his impulse to fuck, and strikes her right cheek.

She falls forward, not expecting it.

He pauses, waiting. Listening for the safe word, but she gathers herself. She straightens her back as she’s on her knees.

When he strikes her again, she is composed.

When he strikes her again, she makes no sound.

When he strikes her again, she begins to sniffs.

He listens for the word.

It never comes.

The Fox

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Six degrees Celsius.
80% chance of rain.
That’s just what the weather app told her – the news was different.
She sat on the couch, eyes on the tv, listening to the weather warning – stay inside, they said. High winds coming from the south, torrential rain.
The weather man flashed a smile at her, white teeth, gentle assuring light blue eyes.
Her stomach began to knot though, rumbling and tumbling over on itself, as if folding.
She lashed out at the remote and the room plunged into darkness. 

Her husband had left for work, taking their seven year old son to school – a fact that he sulked against, saying the rain meant they had to play under cover – and he and his friends were about to finish their battle between dinosaur overlords that they began last week. She did not sway though, school was school – and she had to go rain, hail or shine at his age.
Now they were both gone, leaving her to their quiet home, where nothing but the rain cascading down could be heard.

Pulling the nearby cream lounge blanket over her chilled body – the blanket he and her would snuggle under as they tried to squeeze in a episode over Netflix – she moved her free hand over the touchpad on her MacBook and it’s glow lit her face. She didn’t want to proofread and edit, not today of all days, trapped as she was in this storming snow globe, feeling the ice cut right through her blanket and long-sleeved pyjama top to kiss the tips of her nipples, but she had to get something done. Something or anything. 

She got through three pages of this manuscript before her mind began to stutter through her memories. A country girl, she was. Born and bred in Grafton, New South Wales, moving to the city of Sydney at the age of nineteen to room with her best friend while attending college, all the while working at a record store in the city CBD.
She met the man she’d call husband while not even fully understanding what it was she wanted in life, and that whirlwind of time led her to life in Geelong, Victoria – where she suddenly had everything – a beautiful boy, a loving m home, a stable job she enjoyed (mostly) and a sweet man.

Despite this, something had begun to gnaw at the fringes of her mind. It began, she had noticed, when the rain fell a week ago.
Day after day, 9am to 3pm, when she’d pick up her son, she felt something there. Something different. Like a mirror that had begun to splinter, threatening to spread.
She’d put her head down and work, but the silence was heavier than usual. Few times she sat around the house, pausing from her work, feeling agitated and restless for reasons she wasn’t quite sure.
A few times over sharing cooking duties, she had snapped at her husband – no, not snapped. Snarled. She snarled at her husband. Later, in bed, she recalled her husband hurt and startled.
‘What’s wrong?’ He had asked. ‘I’ve never heard you like that before.’
She could only shake her head, the moment a distant memory, as if her mind was already on the case of blocking it.
But she recalled what he had said next.
‘Even your eyes looked different.’ Her husband continued. ‘Like…like amber.’

She closed the MacBook and left it to rest beside her.
What was she thinking? The Victorian Winter had finally gotten to her. It found a thread dangling out of her arm and pulled till she unravelled, exposing her ivory skin, her bare flesh, for the winter to lower and feast upon.
She was happy here, she knew. But wait, what has that got to do with anything? Where did the concept of happiness come from?
She shivered from under the blanket, not sure if it was the cold that chilled her now or the thought. 

From her right came a scuttling sound. Her Frenchie no doubt, wanting her to let him in and turn on the heater so they could snuggle.
She frowned, curled her hair around her ears where they wouldn’t get to her eyes, and rose from the seat.
‘Mason, get out of the rain, boy – you have a house for a reas….’
Her jaw fell open and she could feel her eyes narrow, focused in.
Amber eyes peered back at her from the grey outside.
Carefully, she moved across to the blinds, and began weaving the beaded cord through her cold fingers.
An inch at a time the blinds moved upwards, revealing red tufts of fur, matted back in the rain.
Her eyes met amber and never left, even as the light of the morning filtered through the backdoor.
The fox was standing on the back step, it’s ears flattened, twitching against the heavy rain that fell upon its head. It’s eyes watched her cautiously, wondering.
She, herself, audibly gasped once it came into full view – and found herself unlocking the backdoor and pulling it open.
‘Heyyyy…’ She began – but the fox ran around the corner, obscured by the side of the house.
In its exit, it left paw prints in the mud – a sign of its existence.
Without thinking, she stepped outside. Rain lashed at her skin from all around, each drop crashing down against her pyjamas and drenching it into a thing of weight.
Suddenly she could feel the cotton of her top and bottom cling to her body, framing her hips, her breasts, her ass.
She rounded the corner to the left, stepping through the gate that separated garden from the outside area.
Nothing but the plants she had placed was there. 

‘But…where…?’
Her eyes scanned the corners of her yard. A hole perhaps? Hidden ‘neath the shrub?
That couldn’t be, another thought came to her, we’ve sandbagged the bottom so Mason doesn’t continue to poke his head under to the neighbors side and say hello. 

All of a sudden her mind was back on the weight of her pyjamas. She could feel everything in that moment, the rain bucketing down upon her, the wind tracing across her nipples, the water trickling down her back cold as ice. She grunted, no, snarled, and tore at the pyjamas she bought from Peter Alexander, the pyjamas that she loved for the feel of them against her skin. The fabric made a satisfying tearing sound and the soaking piece came free, her body relieved of the weight. Now the rain relentlessly stung at her skin – her arms, her stomach, her breasts. 

She felt herself snort and growl as her hands now focused on her pants, her bare feet drifting in the mud, encasing her feet in the sinking earth, as she stepped out of her pants one foot at a time. She tossed them into the wall with a huff, pants and torn top, and stood there heaving in the rain, in the storm, the weekly storm.

It came to her then – a huff, a growl, a snort, a snarl, a Welp, a cry. It rose from her stomach, up through her lungs. She began to scream in bursts of guttural groans. She didn’t sound like herself, didn’t feel like herself, something was wrong, something else was with her, no, in her. She could never go back, could never be the same again.
Burning against the onslaught of rain drops. 

Water ran from her forehead down across her eyes. She blinked through them, and found herself unable to stop screaming even though it stung her.
She felt hands claw at every inch of her, leaving red streaks across her chest. They marked her breasts, claw hooking across her nipple, dragging the pain outward.
Her legs, as if unable to take the assault of rain any longer, trembled and collapsed beneath her and she fell to the ground, mud splashing across her knees and face.
This wasn’t her, but who was she? This wasn’t her, the wife, the worker, the mother. The busy bee, say yes, nod politely. Swallow down the hurt, let it lump in your throat no matter what. 

She curled up in the mud, her knees rising back into her chest. The rain now reached to her rear, coming to whip her anus and reach out to lash across her exposed slit.
Her lungs sucked in crisp winter air, the likes of which she had never experienced before. The fresh air swirled down her throat, and she sucked in more, eager for more. 

When her hands found her slit and began to glide across the length of her lips, she did not question it. She stayed in the fetal position, her arm stretching back across to stroke what was exposed. Using the rain water that was beading on her skin, she rubbed her clit, letting her chest rise and fall to take in more of the sweet air.
Time weaved around her, leaving her trapped in a dome where the rain always fell.
She wriggled on the spot, her ass twisting into bed, lathering her back and legs.
Icy muddy puddles pooled around her, lapping at the sides of her stomach.
She lay there feeling her grunting come back, burning up her throat, tearing out between her teeth, leaving a string of saliva to fly across her neck. She felt her face push into the bed, her hands assaulting her slit, working herself into a frenzy. She didn’t know…didn’t understand. She wanted to scream.
She found herself grunting, groaning, spitting. Saliva, mild and thick, ran down across the centre of her chest, coming to hang across the  shape of her breast.
At once she growled through clenched teeth, her thighs clamping down on her hand between her legs. The world around her spun as she blinked away the rain. 

She sucked down more of that air, rolling onto her back, letting herself fall into the muddy puddles around her. 

Untitled

Sickeningly sweet and twisting.

Why do we act the way we do?

Winding tightly around your skin.

What drives us to do the things we do?

Your breath catches on your cracked lips.

Why are we so scared to make an action?

You can feel the heat flush over every inch.

Why are we so scared of ourselves?

Your heart is pounding in your ears.

Is it any less real if you ignore it?

A dull light flicks on in the corners of your mind.

You cannot hide from who you are.

Your head is bowed before the sink.

The more you run, the stronger it gets.

You try to get it under control.

This is who you really are.

Acid rising in your throat.

Take a breath and let it in.

Needs

As he stumbled to the kitchen from the bedroom, completely nude, the corner of his eyes wet from the mist of forgotten dreams, he noticed his cock was hard – and achingly so.

With each step forward to the kitchen sink where sanctuary awaited, his cock seemed to pulsate in a delicious twitch, crying out maddeningly to stop the pulse.

Yet the thought of the water from the kitchen sink, cool and clear and heavenly, was too hard to ignore.

Making his way across the hallway and onto the cool tiles of the kitchen, his hands thumbed for the faucet clumsily.

He found it after the third swipe, finding a spare – and rinsed coffee mug – from the dishrack beside him.

As the water ran sweetly into the cup, he felt the urge come again from his cock, which twitched and bobbed on the spot. His muscles clenched in response to subdue the sensation.

Then he clicked off the faucet tap and drank greedily. The coolness against his raw throat was heavenly, and yet too cold all at once. He had to stop, to breathe – to swallow again to coat his freshly revived throat with his tongue.

Then he felt it – something brushing against his shaft. He jumped at the couch, letting out a startled gasp.

‘You’re always so jumpy…’

‘Did I wake you?’

‘Hmmm…no…’

The velvety voice of his wife came out from the darkness, purring in his ear.

Her breasts pressed against his back below his shoulder blades as her body pressed against his.

In the darkness, she was consuming him, their flesh becoming one active entity.

Her hand seized his cock then – and she began to initiate a rhythm.

‘What…what are you doing?’

He cleared his throat, speaking felt weird after being suspended in sleep.

‘I…have a need…’

Her teeth slid down into his neck as her hair fell over his shoulder.

The bite made his cock twitch. As it resisted against her grip, she let out that beautiful giggle that made him fall in love with her all over again each time.

‘Again With the jumpiness…’

She had that tone about her, he realised. That tone when she comes possessed by something unlike her in any other circumstance. It’s a dark, smooth and deviant voice – commanding, mischievous.

She was right against him now, he felt her stomach tightly snug behind him.

Ahead of him, light bounced from one corner of their new kitchen to the next – a car passing by in the dead of the night, on its own odyssey.

‘You do know any passing car or neighbour can see us right?’ He said.

‘Let them.’ She replied simply, focused on the pulse that was magnifying as the seconds passed.

He was suddenly aware of his breathing, quickened and shaky. He could suddenly feel the soft burst of air across his neck, as she breathed in the darkness.

Suddenly she slapped him – and he realised his hands had a mind of their own, had been reaching back behind to touch what he could.

‘No.’ She said, low and husky. ‘Just you.’

‘But – ‘

‘Both hands on the counter, mister.’

He let out a breath, which twisted out of him into a moan. He knew better than to disobey her.

Her hands felt as wild as the water had felt coming down his throat. She slid the palm of her hand down the length of his shaft, sliding it back while reaching underneath to skim across his balls.

Beneath the rising pleasure in him, he felt that sensitivity jolt through his shaft – and she giggled to herself, no doubt proud.

A dizziness began to fold over him now – dizziness mixed with a feeling of warmth and fatigue.

Sensing something in him, her pace quickened and her rhythm got faster – and faster. As if bracing herself or protecting him, with her free hand she gripped his chest, palm open.

A sharp moan gurgled up his throat and out his lips and he came, shooting his load in quick, short bursts across her finger.

As he gathered his breath, head bowed, she spoke to him softly.

‘Face me…?’

It was strange – was she asking a question or demanding him to. He faced her regardless – and in the fuzziness of darkness, saw her fingers disappear into her mouth as she giggled, licking clean what was hers.

He wanted her, then and there – more than anything. He wanted to look into her eyes as he had his fun with her, as he let her come.

Instead, she grinned and turned from him, her hips swaying as she disappeared completely from view and into the darkness.

Hellfire

Beatrice, O heavenly guide!

Lead me to my damnation,

I’ll happily follow you through the woods if it meant one last chance to sink my teeth into your flesh, to coat your nipple with my saliva,

To hear the fabric tear and cut you loose.

O Beatrice, what I would give

to baptise you come the morning,

To be rid of the agony of want,

To drown you in the waves of my ignorance.

Beatrice, O heavenly guide!

I am lost without your light

Join me in darkness

Please forgive me.

The Prisoner

When it comes to writing, especially erotica, there’s always one concept that comes to me and I have no idea from where it originated.

Why did my mind piece together such a surreal, sensuous image? What does that mean for me? Is the image heralding the return of my dominant side? A side that has, I must admit, taken a back seat in the days following a particularly nasty bout of anxiety.

Or was it there all along? Influences and memories and turns on all stitched together under a pale grey sky within my mindscape, waiting to come out?

I ponder all of this as I ponder her – the nude woman lying on her back on the hotel bedroom, illuminated by the soft glow of the room’s television, the only source of light in the room.

I think of this woman – blonde hair folded underneath her, her breasts caught in the quickened rhythm of her breathing. Her nipples, stiff, pointing upwards towards the ceiling.

I can see the faint trace of her ribcage, the slick glean of sweat across her body, beading across her stomach.

I can see the soft fuzz across her slit and, if I peer hard enough at the image, I can see it glisten under the eye of the television.

And I can see the wires – thick, grey, sturdy – wrapped around her body, coiling around her chest and weaving down, snake-like, across her legs and under her ass.

She is bound, held tightly in place. I can only guess how the cables feel across her skin, how they pinch, how they are cool across her breasts.

I can see her arms held high above, locked in position, the cables winding up around her wrists, and I can see that she does not resist. That there is no struggle.

No, quite the opposite. Her body reverberates with an intensity I can feel worlds away. I can feel her pleasure, just as I can feel the pain bite at several points in her body where the cables cling tight.

I can hear her breath catch in her throat, hear her heart in my own ears. I can see her eyes, glued to the image on the television, static. A prisoner of the times.

This bound woman comes without touching one part of her body, is held by the cables as the orgasm hits every inch of her. An electrical current.

I’ve no idea where this image comes from but I feel her there with me every step of the way.

He Holds Her Under

He holds her under by a fistful of hair.

She’s throwing her arms backwards, trying to claw at any part of him.

He found there in the bath, positioned under the running tap, writhing in ecstasy until her eyes fluttered open and she saw him.

Something dark and warm rushed over him, within him, as he covered the space between them in a single step, possessed to grab her by the hair and dunk her under.

He could feel that something different within his body, pumping through his system. It took a sadistic sort of glee at the way her tits jiggled as he took command of her body, at the way she shrieked and pleaded for him to listen to reason. He would not.

With his free hand, he found her exposed cunt, shaven and pink, and traced his index finger along her slit.

A beat —- then he found what he was searching for, her opening, and slipped his index and ring finger inside her. The same sort of sadistic glee he took at the way her tits jiggled came back as he felt her body convulse under his direction. He heard her gurgle beneath the surface as he violated her tight cunt, feeling the pressure contract upon him as he slid his fingers in and out of her in a viscous assault.

She was gurgling beneath the water and he was saying something wild and frantic, something he couldn’t understand over everything that was occurring. He was mad, had gone mad the moment he saw what she was doing. And now she was on her knees in their bathtub, her ass just barely breaking the water.

He slid out his fingers and found her clit, pressing inward hard. She gurgled somewhere between distress and a moan – or did he imagine that.

He curved a finger and slid it within her, his thumb continuing to draw patterns on her clit.

When her orgasm hit, her entire body twitched, her legs clamping down on his hands – to no avail. He didn’t budge.

With her body still in the midst of her spasm, he pulled her above water. She gasped, sucking in air greedily, shaking off the feeling of a deep sleep approaching.

He leans down to her ear as she caught her breath, as her body began to bring itself back to speed.

‘Not without my command.’ He simply said – before rising to his feet, and exiting the bathroom.

Her mind racing, she knelt there in that bathtub for the next ten minutes, analysing what she just happened as the water around her began to chill her to the bone.