A Dark, Sadistic Fantasy Of Mine

As a dominant, there has always been this sadistic bone in my body, this underlying aspect to my personality that delights in sheer torture, in humiliation and degradation.

One of the hottest fantasies of mine – to me – is the idea of stalking this woman from her home, kidnapping her and taking her to something abandoned industrial complex where its cold and dank and dark – and training her day in and day out to become a behaved little sex doll.

The one thing that thrills me and tickles my bones is the psychological interaction between, say, myself and this unnamed pretty little thing. I have this idea in me that I can break down, essentially, who she is – who she’s developed into.

The tastes that she has, the life that she’s built, whether she is in a relationship or married – I can work to break all that down – because….at the end of the day, we all have this spot in the back of our minds that we leave locked up, that we’re afraid of. It could be related to anything – being rude, being mean, being a sexual deviant, wanting to speak our minds but knowing better.

And I want to break that down in her. I want to…picture this – that she’s completely naked, chained by her hands to stand upright panting, sweating, begging. Picture that there’s she has some fight in her, that she will fight back to hold on to some semblance of who she was while I whip her with my belt.

You see, I want to find her limit. We can decide whether to push that limit or extend it softly later – but for now, I want to find it so I can get her to tell me EVERY. SINGLE. LITTLE. DETAIL. That her morality is locking up in the depths of her mind, either consciously or subconsciously. I want to break her down, raw and roughly and coarse, until she’s a sensitive mess of a human being, because then we get to who she is and what she wants and why.

And when she’s broken down and trembling, when every inch of her body and mind is on fire from this physical and emotional assault, then I can teach her, train her. To be obedient, to be a loving, giving, adoring Slave. No matter how long it takes. I’ve got the patience.

Why? Because minds fascinate me. I want to break down barriers, find the messy heart. I want to study what makes them tick, what darkness they have within them, what they consider light. I want to set them free.

It’s a dark fantasy in my head, a giddy rush to my cock, igniting my senses, stimulating my mind.

Just Write

So. I just got an email from a reader of my blog and it struck me as sad and it’s for these reasons that I want to write this piece.

If you’re going to write in to me, if you want to write in to me, there’s a couple things I, personally, want you to know and understand.

I’m not as busy as you think. I’m not running around like a headless chook, know that while I may work, I also definitely check my email daily and respond in full as soon as I can.

I don’t respond to emails to be polite to you, to what a reader described as ‘a self proclaimed fangirl’ – I respond because I want to. You must understand, I started this blog not just to share my fantasies and satisfy a part of me, I did it in case it could inspire someone as awkward as I was when I started off.

So I love hearing from people – young, old, male, female, Australian, American, Norwegian – the more the merrier. Language barriers be damned! I love conversing with people and I love talking BDSM and it’s lifestyles.

Whether you’re a fan or seeking answers or even if you a bone to pick with me about something I wrote. Grill me. I welcome all of it, criticism, friendly chatter, the like.

You’re not bothering me. At all. In all my years of blogging, in responding to the kind people that write in, I can honestly say not one email has bugged me, not one. Even if one person has a laundry list of questions, I’ll sit down and work it out with them until they’re more spent then I am. Seriously. So never ever think that YOU are the person that will be too much for me, because that just won’t be the case. Try me, I dare you!

Do you want to write but don’t know what to say? Do you feel stupid because I can talk so openly and you find it rough to? I’ve had years to process how I feel, to work to rise above my own shyness. I was the same as you in the beginning. We all start somewhere and blossom on our own time.

I will say this though – just write. Don’t worry about grammar or context or anything, just write. I honestly care not for long novel-length texts, I read every word and respond. I’ll even write a long novel-length email of my own.

Start at the beginning. Write how you feel. Find a place to start at, to get the ball rolling, and then just let it go – just write and let it loose. If it feels good, write it. If it doesn’t, write it anyway and send it.

Too many times have I read that someone wanted to write in sooner or deleted several iterations of the email they just sent – and it breaks my heart.

I know I can’t TELL people what to do. I know I can’t get people to talk as frankly as I do, but I’m writing this because I want you to know, anything you have to say, in any way, is perfectly A-OK by me and that you should not feel shame or delete what you write, because I mostly certainly want to read it. Don’t even press that delete button or I’ll slap a crop against your knuckles!

Be yourself. That’s all I ask of you. Everything else, please don’t worry. I’m not as scary as your mind makes me out to be!

TD&D

The Guilt Behind Enjoying Dark Erotica: And Why It’s Okay To Talk About it

I have this ongoing relationship with my dark thoughts where I accept that they’re there and I own them, but their origin and reason for existing alludes me. Sometimes I catch myself mid thought and think ‘wait, you went there? Really?’

My readers have pulled me up on my darker stories before. Some have expressed their confusion on why they enjoyed a rape fantasy while my twisted takes on Disney princesses has polarised some enough to write in to discuss any themes at length. And any response (including response length) is welcome to me because good or bad, as long as you’re polite I’m happy to talk out philosophical differences with you. To discuss.

Some readers cannot though, which is why I’m here – this darker side of our minds is so different, so potent, so alien that it alienates the reader out of fear of being judged by the others that come to visit the same blog. They just can’t find the words because everything feels wrong. I’m there too, with my own stories. It’s a terrifying thing, this feeling that you might be THE ONE that scares others away.

What we need to understand is that there’s a difference between fantasy and reality. There’s a difference to the rules in the fantasy and the rules of reality – rules that govern your own life and the code of honour you live by.

When it comes to actively expressing these fantasies and bringing them to life, consent is there to form a new set of rules to keep peace of mind and safety. In this circumstance, as long as it’s discussed thoroughly and safety is paramount, living the fantasy should be – should feel – right.

But when it comes to looking at a fantasy and thinking about why it turns us on and how, it’s important to remember that enjoying something so decadent and devilish doesn’t change who you are outside the realm of fantasy, because we know that if we’d act out these fantasies, we’d have safety and protocol.

It doesn’t change how you feel about your marriage or your kids if you like a story about a poor pretty little thing being chased through the forest — because this is a seperate fantastical space for you to explore. You enjoy this feeling, this hunt, this setting, and there is no shame in embracing this as another aspect of your mind no matter the background.

Believe me, I’ve been there before. I’ve wondered about my sanity, about what my life and morals mean if I love to write rape fantasies. The answer is – I like it for the fantasy, I like it for how the fantasy feels to me in this context only. I don’t find an actual act of rape arousing at all. I’m not violent in any way. There’s just a thrill to explore something so dark and violent in a safe environment.

So please, The next time you find yourself battling a similar reaction to erotica that’s challenging, either on my blog or otherwise, remember its not a reflection on who you are as a person. It doesn’t make you broken or wrong or sick. You are a healthy person bravely exploring a part of your mind that others wouldn’t even dream to.

And if you ever find the need to talk to me about a story of mine that’s so dark and compelling to you, I don’t care how long winded and messy it is, I would love to hear it.

Be gentle on yourself – and always practice safety with each other.

Good Little Catholic Girl

Dark hair, olive eyes.

What are you doing here? My Daddy’s downstairs.

Loose white singlet, nipples poking through.

No, that’s crude. Crudecrudecrude.

A fistful of hair, air squeezed out of her.

You have to go.

Empty words through soft whimpers.

Hands on her throat, clawing, digging, squeezing. Choke.

No. Nonono.

Like a kitten frozen by her mother, she’s still.

Eye contact. Hands go limp.

A rough kiss. Tears and sweat and saliva. Saliva so sweet it beckons another kiss.

Fabric tears. Shorties slink down slender legs kissed by sun. Cheerleader legs.

She watched him by the seats, on the field, wondering, wanting, wavering.

Pink cotton panties. Little bow tie. Lips showing through.

Crudecrudecrude.

No, this isn’t right. My Daddy will hear.

Good little catholic girl. Saintly. Church every Sunday. Good. Proper. Well-behaved. Never smoked. Never drinks. Loyal to God.

A fistful of hair, dragged down degradingly, wet lips trailing his stomach.

Fabric tears. Jeans fall off, no belt, lips trailing, voice muffled, fistful of hair, down on his cock.

A pause. Resistance. She looks, eye contact, raises her mouth to speak. A single string of saliva connecting his cock to her lips.

Resistance. Force. Her mouth goes down. Hits the back of her throat. A gag. She continues. Compelled. Forced. Intrigued.

Time. An age. Her – confused, eager. Well behaved. God will love her.

He pushes her on her back, slick, aching. Throbbing. Pulsating. Wanting.

Pink cotton panties come peeling off down legs with skin like freshly peeled fruit.

Shaven. Fresh. Who’d have thought?

A blush. Burning skin. Ferocious aroma. Slink sleepily into a saintly slumber. Duty. It’s piercing when he enters her. It’s piercing when she stares at him.

dark hair, olive eyes

It’s piercing when he stares back at her. His cock reaching inside, claiming as far as it goes.

She flushed red. Sighs. Moans. Cries.

Vessel for the taking. Well behaved little catholic girl.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Psycho-Sexual

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was how hard I was. I was lying on my stomach, you see, so not only was I pressing it into the bed, aching like I rarely do of a morning, but I could feel, not just the tip of my Cock, but it’s entire length. Pushing up between my stomach and the bed, fighting to get free. Fighting for relief.

The second thing I noticed was the memories. Once aware of my surroundings, they come rushing back. I suddenly felt her hesitance, as I unbuttoned her blouse. I could feel how wet she was when I slid the full length of myself inside her. Do you know how powerful that is? To feel that so strong after waking? I could feel her essence coat my shaft right down to the tip of her balls – and through that, I felt an awareness of her.

I could hear her curse.

The word ‘fuck’ slithered out of her lips in a hushed strained voice.

I remember the way my name left her lips – panicked, wondering, hesitant.

‘They’ll catch us’ she said. ‘They’re coming up the stairs.’

I can feel her urgency even writing this now.

Oh me, the dream me, was not worried. He was alight with a buzz, you see. It was the energy rocketing through his veins, the flip side of cortisol, but he was not scared. Dream me was confident.

She squeaked as I took my stride, sliding out then easing in.

‘Where are you guys?’ Came their voices. The voices of family. ‘What are you doing up there?’

My sister – my dream sister – my not-sister. My sister from another mister’s memories. My sister with someone else’s memories. My doppelgänger of a sister, her features changing, her face shifting into something like playdough, had my memories from another life, how wet she was, how hard she was.

‘I’m here’ she croaked. She was winded beneath me. It wasn’t my weight, you see, but my cock, knocking the wind from her sails.

She was nude beneath me, her body pale, resembling something else from another life. This isn’t her, not my sister. Not really. Who is this woman beneath me, wriggling in ecstasy, feeling that terrible fullness of me inside her, the type that eats at you, the type you feel even after the act. Who are we, that we have given ourselves over to lust, in all it’s frenzied, frantic power.

She, this stranger, will feel it long after dream me is no longer conscious.

I ponder all this, cock ever hard, coated in sweat, the remnants of an orgasm lingering, as I shake off somebody’s else’s life.

12 Days of BDSM Christmas 2017 – #4: Jingle Bells

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“There’s no way,” Katie blurted out.

As soon as she did, she realised she had made a mistake.

I am Katie. Katie the Cat. I am his.

The little mantra she had made for myself when we began dating came back to her lips.

Katie the Cat. I am his.

A note sat on the kitchen bench, scrawled in his busy handwriting.

Sometimes He would leave Katie notes before he left for work.

Sometimes it was little messages, sweet little nothings.

Other times it was tasks, orders. The words were commanding, as if someone else had written them. But Katie knew it was him. She had met both men.

Katie the Cat

Katie stared at the note left for her, anxiety prickling her skin.

My dear little Catty

 

I hope this sees you well.

I have a task for you today. Something to keep you on your toes.

Below this letter, I have written a shopping list. You are to complete it today.

You’ll notice the package beside this note. Open it. I have found you a cute little decoration you can attach to your nipple piercing. Something with bells. ‘tis the season, no?

 

You are to wear these when you go shopping – without your bra. Bring in the new season. Should you complete your task, you will be rewarded. How you’ll be rewarded, you’ll find out in due time.

 

Your Master

 

 

Katie looked down at the package beside the note.

Katie had had her nipples pierced for her 24th. It was something she had always thought about up until that point but had chickened out. Would she always want, she had wondered.

With shaking fingers, she carefully unwrapped the sheer white fabric that had been tightly wound in a bow.

The piercings hidden beneath were metallic in shades of green and red. When Katie – Katie the Cat – picked them up, they jingled, echoing in the empty kitchen.

Without a bra?

(Katie the Cat)

But…

Could Katie even do that? Was she capable of such a thing?

Katie and John had been together ten years, ever since coming out of highschool together and into adulthood for good.

They had started as friends, ended up as lovers and stumbled across BDSM and all its mysteries together.

Katie was no stranger to being daring, she had overcome her teenage shyness for the better part of her twenties.

She knew she could follow an order – when John asked her to masturbate as she drove to work one day, she did. When John asked her to collect the mail from their mailbox in nothing but her collar one Sunday afternoon, she did.

But to go out into public without a bra on? Was she good enough for that?

Was she pretty enough for that? Did she look good?

Should a slave concern herself with the thought of others, came another question within her mind.

And still, Katie (Katie the Cat. Katie, who is His) couldn’t help but wonder.

Without finding the answer to the question, Katie had inserted the new nipple piercings left for her.

Outside, the weather was a blazing 34 degrees C and Katie was likely to cook in this weather, should she not wear appropriate attire.

Rummaging through the clean washing she’d yet to fold, she found on a cotton light blue dress, as comfortable and light as it’s colours were.

She grabbed the shopping list, took a look at herself in the mirror and sighed.

No big deal, Katie the Cat has done quick late night shopping with no bra on before, so no big deal.

No big deal.

The shopping plaza buzzed with voices of all ages. Families walked doggedly on their way to the cinema, mothers held their screeching children, a father and his son walked by Katie, on a mission to find an early birthday present for their mother and wife.

Katie felt and heard everything. Every voice, every turn in her direction, every gentle breeze from a busy person passing by her – every little thing.

Over the buzz of the families, over the stores and their respective music blaring as if in competition, the jingle was soft. It was nothing. You could barely hear it.

Getting out of the parking area was a different event entirely. The ring became an echo, bouncing off one concrete wall and firing off a nearby car.

As Katie exited her own car, a woman in the car beside her was madly texting on her phone, her fingers in a marathon of their own.

A P plate was smacked down on her windshield – a provisional driver.

The young woman had looked up from her phone when Katie closed her door, but something deep down made her wonder if she heard….

Katie the Cat, she did not hear.

Katie hoped she didn’t.

Katie felt and heard everything. The fabric on her breasts, the gentle breeze of the air con snaking its way up her legs and across her thighs. She was aware of the jingle behind the store music, could feel a slight pinch on each nipple where her new decoration hung from her piercing, the bells coming to rise from her dress and fall with each passing step.

Katie was no longer worried about how her breasts might appear to an outsider, she could feel herself growing aroused by just wondering if someone could hear the jingle, since they definitely could see it through her faded blue dress thanks to the outline.

It wasn’t just the decorations that hung from her nipples that fell forward, it was her breasts , which swayed freely as she walked.

Katie the Cat thought Katie. On a secret mission, Katie. You are His.

It took an hour and a half to complete the shopping list that John had set out for her, and though the lady behind the small counter with the auburn hair, smile lines and unkempt eyebrows, looked at Katie (Katie the Cat) with a face that said I know, Katie looked back at her with a face she hoped had said And now I don’t care.

As she pushed the trolley out of the supermarket, the pinching sensation brought on by the decoration tugged at her piercing, pinching the tips of her nipple — and a smile formed across her face

12 Days of BDSM Christmas 2017 – #1: The Little Drummer Boy

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When Vivian pulled into her driveway, she could already hear the sound of it beyond the interior of the car. Drums. Crashing away to a beat she couldn’t place.

She knew who it was instantly: Dave, the rarely seen twenty-something that lives directly across the road from her.

She knew this because he introduced himself as she was trimming the garden out the front of the place she was renting.

He had pulled up in some beaten old white Toyota hatchback and as he moved to check his mail, he thought he might has well ought to introduce himself.

That day was a stinking hot Sunday afternoon, and the only thing Vivian wanted to do was quickly trim the tree to appease the landlord and get back into the sweet, chilly comforts of the aircon inside.

Dave, however, wanted to introduce himself. He did so wearing a boyish grin and baring his row of perfect white teeth, which Vivian found oddly off-putting.

He was new, he said. Wanted to acquaint himself with the people of the neighbourhood. Vivian found herself nodding and smiling on autopilot.

 

Vivian remembered this as she stepped out of the car, locked it and turned to check her email.

On the way to the mailbox, her eyes stopped at the open garage door that led to Dave’s place. The drumming was louder now, rat-tat-tat-rat-tat-rah, crash.

Even from here, Vivian could see the sweat glistening off of his forehead. It seemed to light up from the light in the garage.

Her gaze seemed to catch his attention. In an instant, the rat-tat-tat came to a halt, the cymbals fading out to give way to the sound of banal suburbia. Kids bouncing a ball somewhere, someone mowing their lawn up the road.

Vivian could see Dave smiling from here, he rose from the drummer’s seat and began to head towards her, but Vivian was holding a bag full of Christmas presents for her family – presents bought too soon to Christmas. It was the 18th of December and Vivian did not want to waste a second of her afternoon outside making awkward small talk.

She found the keys in her handbag, stumbled to find the door lock – and turned. Dave was out of the garage as she closed the door behind her.

 

Her black-and-white cat rushed to her feet, meowing about her own day.

“Really?” Vivian asked the cat named Chicago that purred at her feet.

In the back of her mind, she suddenly felt like a crazy cat lady. Her mum’s voice came to her from somewhere in the empty house.

Viv, it’s time to find someone. You’re twenty-seven, you’re not getting any younger.

Vivian shook off the thought; there was no time for that. Dinner had to be ordered, she had decided, and while waiting, she’d wrap presents for the family. She was to make the drive to Sydney next week, when her annual leave kicks in.

 

That was when the knock at the door came, and Vivian froze. That could only be one thing, she knew – Dave. For some reason.

Another knock caused a slight spasm in her body. This was weird, she thought, really weird. Rear Windows-level of weird.

She decided to let it go. Later, she would claim she was in the toilet at the other end of the house. Not her best white lie, but it would do. No one would want to stop his or her business just to answer the door.

Yet she found herself moving to the door. Weirder yet, she found herself opening the door. Something pulled her there, a magnetic charge. Something within her that was curious.

Sure enough, it was Dave. He was standing behind the screen door, his black singlet drenched where the sweat had run.

Vivian felt herself smile, to which Dave smiled at her back — and that was when pain exploded across her temples and her world went dark.

 

 

Ears ringing, head burning, eyes watering – Vivian woke.

With a grunt, she tried to move, but there was a weight beneath her chest.

No, she thought, that wasn’t right, that can’t be right. Vivian was on her stomach against freezing cool concrete.

Cool? She wondered a moment, then something else came crashing into her mind – she was completely nude.

Sensations came flooding to her senses then. She could feel her nipple, hardened by the cool cement, propped up at an angle, scraping the cement beneath her. She could feel her legs, suspended in –

Suspended? Why suspended?

Vivian wriggled on the spot and to her increasing horror, realised her legs were bound together, with some kind of fabric itching at her legs.

The itchiness seemed to spread with her realisation, washing down over her arms and wrists.

Rope, she thought, it must be. It feels like.

Vivian craned her neck to see behind her. She was in a garage.

Dave’s garage. It was almost as if she had forgotten.

What has he done to me?

A door opened from somewhere behind her. Shoes echoed on the floor beneath.

Vivian tried to scream but the gag in her mouth muffled her. It tasted like rubber.

The shuffling of the feet stopped, followed by a click, then the room came alive with the sound of disposable pop music.

 

Vivian wriggled on the spot, to no avail.

“Now…I need you to do something”

His voice was near her ear now, his breath sour.

“And you’re probably gunna want to scream, but I cannot allow that. So, no tricky business, eh?”

His voice sounded young – how young? Was Vivian wrong to think he was twenty-seven?

As he knelt down beside her, he came into her line of sight, wearing that boyish grin he had on his face when introduced himself all those weeks ago.

“And no biting” He said, his voice smooth.

Gently, he lowered the ball gag around Vivian’s mouth –

“Somebo-“ Vivian went to scream but pain shot across her back, stiff and fierce.

Don’t do that, hm?”

Dave’s voice was wavering. “I need this, okay? Just…just do this, or…”

His deep brown eyes looked her in the eye. “That pain will continue, hm?

Vivian found herself nodding. She didn’t know why she felt the need to be silent, she just felt compelled to. The sensation startled her.

 

“Now, suck on these…”

Dave’s hand came into view, clasping his drumsticks, which had the appearance of a terrible rotten yellow colour. Old, they seemed. Ancient.

“Gently” Dave cooed, as if instructing a child.

He slid them carefully into her mouth one at a time. Vivian ignored the taste of sweat that filled her mouth, and sucked on them as was asked. All the while, thoughts of rage swirled around in her head.

Carefully, Dave rotated each stick in her mouth, lathering them up in her saliva.

For what purpose, she did not know, but the unanswered question frightened her.

When she was done, Dave put the gag back into her mouth as he smiled and disappeared out of view, leaving Vivian alone with the pop music. She trembled at the thought of what he had in store for her.

 

Suddenly her body seized in a mix of pleasure and pain as something thin and rigid slid into her. Her legs trembled where they were tied back overhead and her arms began to sting.

The pain that had begun the sensations gave way to pleasure. Vile, unwanted pleasure that defied her thoughts.

Vivian felt her hair drop around her eyes, and she was blinded, unable to remove the strands.

With her eyes beginning to get irritated by the intrusion of her hair, she squeezed them shut.

The drumsticks sliding into her, the object coated in her spit, felt queer inside her.

A thought came to her in her madness of her coating her own finger as she began to touch herself.

When was the last time I touched myself? Was the thought that came barrelling into her mind as she trembled under the sensation of the drumstick working her.

“I’ve dreamt of how you’d tremble” Came Dave’s soft voice. “It was wrong of me to, perhaps, but I did.”

She could hear him take a breath. “It doesn’t compare…how could it?”

Vivian could feel the drumstick stop. Its presence just sitting inside her, waiting to continue, her madly waiting for it to continue agitated her.

When she felt the other drumstick slide into her ass, her face fell against the concrete floor. Pleasure gave way to pain. The ball gag stifled her cry.

Her thoughts fell through her mind as if on fast-forward –

I haven’t done anal not really   I tried experimenting once in my teens but never saw the appeal   I don’t see it now   Why are you doing this?

 

Vivian’s face grinded against the concrete, her nipples dragging along the floor as the drumsticks simultaneously pumped in and out of her cunt and ass.

Pain and pleasure traded places back and forth, sea-sawing between the intense levels.

She could feel her own saliva, the saliva she had coated the drumsticks with (why didn’t you try to scream more?), spill out of her mouth and run down her chin.

It continued to run right down to her breasts, falling down across her nipples.

Vivian so desperately wanted to wipe up her own drool, to ease the sensation of it running down her nude body. She wiggled to try and manipulate its movement to stop.

The act went unnoticed by Dave.

 

Vivian wanted to beg, wanted to plead, wanted to scream a string of vulgar insults, but the gag held her lips in place, her moist lips that started to ache with the twisted position they were with.

I need to get out of here I need to get free I need to

I need to

I need to

Vivian found herself wiggling back against the drumstick in her cunt; she needed to reach her clit. She needed that desperately. The desire surged from within her, threatening to come out full force, tightening her chest.

She was close, she was close, she was so close she could feel a moan come out through the gag when –

 

The drumsticks stopped moving. Everything – her desire, the pain, and the pleasure – it all came crashing to a halt.

Vivian swore through her ball gag, trying to kick her legs back out at Dave fruitlessly.

She could hear him laugh.

“I have to practice”

 

Vivian felt he drumsticks slide out of her cunt and ass, another act that brought her dangerously close, yet so far. She grunted, it came out guttural and animalistic.

When she felt the drumstick slap on her ass once – then again, she flinched.

Rat-tat-tat-tat came the sound of her skin being struck. The pleasure swept through her restrained body. Her cunt was achingly wet.

 

Vivian whimpered, Dave practised. She was his instrument.