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.

In The Light of Day: Coming To Terms with Our Deepest Darkest Fantasies

When I started this blog and started writing up some rape fantasies – some of them already fully formed, some of them coming to me in dreams, I had received emails from readers who were disturbed by their intrigue in what I was writing. The two sides of their brain – analytical and creative – were wrestling with each other and the result was a morbid curiosity.

Just yesterday I read a comment on a blog post in which the user stated that some of their darker fantasies won’t ever see the light of day on their blog – out of fear of being too weird, too dark, too violent. It could also be that they want to keep that imagery to themselves and not share with the waking world.

I understand that all too well. Just a couple of days ago I posted a rough outline of a story called The Woods, in which a teenage girl is anally raped by a demonic tree. I scrapped it because I thought ‘gee, you’re really pushing it this time aren’t you?’ .

Pushing my comfort zone as a writer and the comfort zones of readers is an interest of mine – because I want to shed light on my own mindset while seeing if it has a place in the mindset of a reader.

I’m fascinated by people’s minds – what they don’t want to say but yet feel so strongly. I do it too, I have ideas I delete because I’m worried – worried that maybe i am too weird sexually after all. And maybe this whole WordPress thing is a fluke. I mean, as of writing this, my outline of The Woods has no response, which could either mean I am too weird and people didn’t dig it, or that it’s still a new post. Being an anxious person, I tend to spiral in thought.

And yet I’m compelled to keep pushing, to see what works and what doesn’t, to see if my weirdness can actually arouse in a primal animalistic way. Maybe it doesn’t work with poor Jen and this mystical tree but maybe it will for another encounter. I’m not sure.

I would love to tell anyone – any blogger here or any reader – to be themselves, to challenge that part of themselves that lives in fear of exposing this part of their mind. Because I know it can find an audience, because I know it can be cathartic to release this dark pressure and side of yourself to others who might secretly be in the same boat. But it’s not easy to confront that side of yourself. It takes courage and acceptance and a willingness to expose something so cerebral and precious with the world that could potentially be rejected.

It’s a risk to be sure, but if it connects with someone it can be a beautiful thing. A really beautiful thing.

To that end, I have an idea. It may not take off, people may not even respond, but I have an idea as of this moment regardless. Every idea a writer has is built around the question ‘What if?’, right? Well what if I created an anthology of darkest fantasies that belonged to readers or bloggers? Hear me out – readers or bloggers could submit anonymously, either through my email or through my tumblr where you can actually submit anonymously to blogs, and I could take the broad strokes of the fantasy to submit a story each month or week.

No one would know who it belonged to, only the person themselves. Everything else could be hidden as it was.

Of course that would mean sharing with and trusting me, which is the only hiccup I could see, but as a writer and reader myself, I’m excited by the idea of this. A way to interact with people and flex my creative muscles.

That being said, far be it for me to say that’s easy – I’ve spent my life fighting to be open. So it’s entirely up to whoever made it this far in this blog! I want to hear from you!

The Run

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It goes like this.

This pretty little thing of eighteen – dressed in a black sundress that runs to her knees, laced with a sunflower print – runs through the forest in the middle of the night, the long grass lashing at her legs, the wind hitting the sweat on her forehead, the tree branches with its gnarled fingers whipping her legs.

There’s a hole torn in her dress, where her stomach is, where he grabbed at her when she tried to run from his kiss.

He was after her – had asked her to come around the side of the house, away from the party, to talk. James, her oldest friend, the one who sat with her on the swing-set at summer camp and listened to her talk about her boyfriend woes back in the seventh grade.

Now they were eighteen and at a friend of a friend’s party twenty minutes out of town in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. Away from the house was where he had tried to kiss her forcefully, his lips wet, and the kiss eager.

Emily had slapped him away, had seen the shock in his eyes as he reeled backwards, but then she had something else in those eyes. Madness, a look possessed. Shock morphed into delight, a devilish grin. He grabbed, tearing that hole in her dress, and she ran.

When she pauses to catch her breath, her lungs working overtime, he catches her, throwing her to the ground. She doesn’t have the time to react; she’s down on her aching back, dizzy, breathless, lost on where she is.

His full weight is upon her, his dirty hands lifting her dress, exposing her black lacy boylegs – bought just this afternoon – to the forest. She can feel the cool wind.

She opens her mouth to scream but only a strangled whimper comes loose and she thinks through all this – how pathetic am I?

As she kicks her legs and wriggles beneath him, he’s peeling her panties down with a speed she didn’t know he possessed. He dodges her bare dirty legs, throws the lacy clump aside.

She sounds like a wounded animal as she tries to speak, tries to reason, tries to swat his hands away from peeling the straps of her dress off her slender pale shoulders but it’s all for naught. The energy, her lungs, is rebooting herself from underneath him.

As the dress peels back and her bare tits are let loose, she tries to reason that he’s drunk, that this isn’t the sweet tender James, but she can’t smell any alcohol, only sweat. She licks her lips, tastes the saltiness from the run, the bitterness of dirt.

He throws away her dress with a grunt; it falls in a tangle across the shrub. She lies there, completely naked, on her back, blinking back tears, fighting confusion and madness as she watches James peel off his jeans, exposing his hard cock coated in precum that glistens in the moonlight.

With a steady hand, he grips her thigh – then she feels his stomach press against her, feels his cock stretch her apart and go deeper. She feels a wave of sickness crash over, a spiral of manic energy sweeping across her body like goosebumps.

She chokes out his name but pain erupts through her body, his mouth is on her flesh, clenching her nipple in his mouth.

He’s speaking through his clenched teeth, a mad man speaking in alliteration under his breath.

She’s there but not there, out of mind, out of sight. Watching this happening, finding her glistening pale body, secreted somehow, marked by the forest, belonging to the forest, as he fucks her.

Their bodies find their rhythm. Her body finds the rhythm. They’re suddenly moving, swaying, as one entity. She’s not herself, or maybe she is and she never realised this, that she was, that she could enjoy, that she could belong.

His teeth sink into her neck paralysing her, locking her body into place. She feels her legs stiffen, hears herself as he slips out of her thrusting against her thigh, humping thin air.

She grunts in frustration.

With a growl, she flips him over so that he’s off her, on her back. He watches her, and for a moment she sees a bewilderment in those eyes, can see him, the real him, the sweetest James. His eyes are glassy.

She’s sitting on him now, her legs on either side of him, his cock against her stomach.

Not breaking eye contact, she grabs his cock by the head and forces it down between her. It slides back in with ease.

She can feel him fill her again and something screams inside her, a burning intensity to not stop, because nothing could stop her, nothing at all. This confuses her, makes her feel ill. She wonders if she will vomit, all over him, embarrassing her and the forest. Nothing comes.

She can feel this drive within her, it worms its way across her veins, it possesses her arm, her hand, to pinch her nipples tightly and pull them out. Her desire to feel his cock all the way inside her before ripping it out along her slit is insatiable. SHE is insatiable. An insatiable fucking slut of a girl.

There’s something around her, around them, in the forest. She can’t see it, can’t explain it, but something is there, something is watching the two of them, something is feeding off the two of them, chanting to them in the same maddened vein James was earlier.

The world around her is spinning and she’s caught up in it, up in this delirious and dizzying nightmare of pleasure she can’t wake from.

He pushes her off and she fall backwards, emitting something between a sulk and a moan. In a blur of movement, he whips her around so that she’s on all fours and grips her hips.

He eases into her ass.

It’s unlike anything she’s experienced.

She’s trapped in a dimension of pleasure and pain.

An anal doll.

They scream as one and the forest screams with them.

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It’s somewhere between a wheeze and a squeak, this delicious sound. It comes rushing out of her lips as his slides his cock into her.

He can feel her stomach construct beneath him, her legs tightening beside him

She tries to speak, this light blonde blue eyed darlin’, but all that comes out is a strained whisper. A husky moan.

Her grey dress, a collage of 1980s science fiction pop culture featuring the likes of Marty McFly, Doctor Who and Luke Skywalker, is bunched up around her stomach, ready to be lifted up and over.

Her panties are simple – dark green and cotton. Bought down at plaza at the K Mart. He’s seen her there before a coupla times.

Her dark green panties are pulled to the side, revealing a cunt with blonde fuzz growing back across her lips. It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever seen. The holiest Of holies.

As he pull them down her pale legs, they tangle. He thinks of a scrunchie. He thinks of their bodies strewn across her bedroom floor while the party outside rages on. He thinks of her dumbass boyfriend with the jock friends and the shaved head and the tattoo of 49 on his biceps even though he’s like 30 and no where near that age. Or her age, 23.

But it’s fleeting, these thoughts. His cock aches with an intensity he’s never experienced. It drives him forward, pulling back out of her so the tip of his head teases her lips before he slides back in, her low gasp a sonata to his ears.

She’s telling him they shouldn’t, he needs to get off, they need to stop, this is wrong, this is wrong, but she doesn’t move. She struggles, she kicks her legs, as if her body agrees with the idea of getting away from him but her mind isn’t. Her face is contorted, yet he sees her still, the woman he’s known, the one underneath, locked away.

Her grey dress goes up and over. It’s not as easy as he’d like, some part of her resists,yet he continues. He spots her rib cage as he pulls it over her. Then he sees – she’s not wearing a bra. Her tits are small, even lying down only her nipples remain, pointed, betraying her words.

Her hands so swat at him, feebly, lazily almost, so he holds them above her tangle of sun kissed hair.

With his left hand, he has to see for himself. He runs his thumb along her stiff nipple, a small beautiful nub. Her response is that low wheeze.

He can’t recall how they ended up here, these old friends. He’s conscious of this as he is driven by the need to push and pull, the need to pump. Everything is vulgar. Yet the plunge on the bedroom escapes him. He must have her. He must taste her lips.

She’s insulting him now, spitting her words at him. They come out razor sharp, seething with venom. He’s never heard her like this. Is she crying or is that a moan? But something has him now and he can’t stop. He might never stop.

He can smell her, all around. This rich aroma. It floods his senses. He thanks the universe he can finally understand, can finally breathe her in.

Her cries, her insults, her whimpers quicken. Tangled between a cry and a moan, a wheeze and a breath, she curses him, in front of all the devils and angels and beings watching.

It’s all there – hate, love, rage, betrayal, lust, pain, pleasure. She hits his back hard, once…twice. He barely registers, quickens, frenzied, grunting. All of his life is in that thrust.

As he lowers his mouth and sinks his teeth into her pale neck, she comes. It’s demonic, possessed, traveling from the pit of her stomach up her throat and out her lips. The tail end of her orgasmic cry comes with another curse. With tears, resentment.

He can’t control himself, he slips out as he reaches to kiss her lips, but it’s already in motion – he comes – shooting his load across her stomach, painting her tits in its image. She shrieks out loud, then pauses, panting. She’s frozen.

Though their eyes have stayed locked on for this entire time, he registers her fully now, as she registers him entirely. Her deep blue eyes regard his in the silence.

Language: A Short Erotic Piece

I couldn’t stop even when I knew it was wrong in all of the ways.

I had to have you.

I needed to have you.

I wanted to hear you curse in your native tongue. I wanted to hear the Spanish slip your lips as it rolled ever so smoothly off hold tongue.

I wanted to bury my head in your chest, inhale your scent. Not your perfume, your scent – your skin, your sweat, your hair.

I wanted to lose myself in the dark tangles of your hair, riding the edges of ecstasy, my hands gripping a fistful as I thumb the straps of your dress.

I had to see them. I just had to.

I had to tear your dress down, couldn’t do it gently, couldn’t save myself, couldn’t help myself from saving your strapless black bra for my eyes to feast on.

I gorged quickly, spilling your breasts free from their places, running my mouth across your darkened areola’s.

I had to flick my tongue along your nipples, dark, puffy, soft.

There was no taste…and yet…something faint. Light. Different. I wanted more. I needed more.

You don’t understand how long I’ve wondered. What you looked like beneath. How your breasts sat freely, how your body reacted to touch. How you smelt.

I had to hear you curse, I had to hear the rolls of the tongue, the beauty of the language in the throes of something wild, no matter the cause.

I had to know whether you were shaven, trimmed or natural. I like natural. The darkness, the untamed beauty. What meaning is this, what of nature. Heritage. Personality. Atmosphere. Of the world. I don’t know.

It wasn’t enough to see it, your coarse, unrefined mound. I had to taste, had to rub my tongue along the shape of your lips. I had to hear you – disgruntled, ferocious.

I needed you.

________________________

This one was born from an attraction to all things Spanish – the language, the women, the culture, the history – but also from the darkest corners of my mind. Specifically a wandering mind at 3am.

It went on longer in my head, becoming darker, weirder. But I decided to end it in the middle and leave some things to the imagination. I hope you enjoy!

L

Her body was thrown against the earth.

Slick with sweat and peppered with dirt, she rested in the dirt.

Her lungs began to work again, bringing sweet cool air down her dry throat.

She licked her cracked lips and, tasting dirt, leaned to her right and spat.

Sweat was pooling on her back, she could feel. The gentle breeze around the open plains was cool.

She had no time to dwell long on it though, he was heading towards her, not missing a beat.

With one swift dart he lunged at her, grabbing her neck.

The man spoke to her in an ancient tongue as she gasped, robbed of the cool air.

His other hand tore at her feet singlet, tearing it off and revealing her plain black bra underneath.

She struggled, kicking her legs, but the man, dressed in a light grey uniform she couldn’t recognise, forced himself upon her.

His full weight now on her, her chest felt tight.

The man spoke again, his voice guttural and raw.

His free hand moved down to her dark brown corduroy pants, his fingers slipping underneath the waistband and dragging them down.

She felt the earth in her dark hair, she felt the gentle breeze start to hit her thighs.

Kicking did nothing. He tore her pants off relentlessly, revealing her plain black panties, the ones with the cute little black bow she had picked just this morning.

Throwing her pants aside, the man’s free hand returned to her chest and it was only a matter of strength for him to pull it off.

She felt like her back was going to explode before the man grunted in annoyance, speaking again as he forcibly rolled her to her side to unclasp the bra.

Dizzy from the fall, and from the choking, she forgot to scream until her small breasts were bare, catching the breeze.

He silenced her with his free hand across her face before she could emit a single sound.

She didn’t give up though. As his free hand traveled back down her body, she squirmed beneath him, fighting to urge to gag from the smell of sweat off his body.

The man shouted something roughly, his throat crackling.

The tangle that was her black panties came off as he lifted her ass, now bare, up to free them off her legs.

She swore at him all the way.

When she was fully nude, he stood up slowly, uttering something quietly.

For a moment he watched her, panting and swearing and sweating and nude, her clothes strewn around her.

When she stood up, she felt young. Humiliated. Vaguely ashamed. This was not the way she was taught.

He spoke once more and laughed. It was a bitter laugh. Vaguely sympathetic.

As he turned to leave, she swung at him, letting loose a string of curses.

He simply backhanded her, leaving her reeling, leaving her feeling something she couldn’t quite make out.

After she dressed and made her way back to the edges of town, it came to her – the last thing he said before he disappeared, as if he were an illusion.

Now you are reduced to nothing.

On some nights it was a nightmare, on other nights she clawed at her clitoris, moaning in both relief and frustration, frustration at what everything meant and why.

But no meaning came.

Canadian Purr

Your skin feels cool to the touch.

As I trail my hand up your thighs, darting under your skirt, I can feel the goosebumps raise beneath my open palm. 

My other hand, my free hand, is against your throat. Your cool threat, your throats clenched tight under my grip. So tight I can feel you try to breathe. You might be panicking.

Panicking for the air, for saliva to coat your tongue. 

All I want is to hear you purr. 
Canadians are quite lovely, I had been told before I arrived. Quite lovely indeed. 

Friendly, as the cliche went. Polite, lovely and friendly. 

And when I sat by myself on the tour bus, nestled into my assigned seating, I must admit I was taken aback by the sight of you, miss tour guide.

You, with your almond coloured eyes, sandy blonde hair, the way you say ‘pardon me?’ which just rolls off your tongue with cute accent. 

As soon as I laid my eyes upon yours, upon your slender frame, your white turtleneck hugging your neck and breasts, I knew. 

I knew I wanted to hear you purr.
That was five days ago now.

Now, we’re quite acquainted with each other.

I mean why else, on the night we’ve hit Banff, would you swing by my room, even when I asked politely?

And here you are, with your white skirt and grey woollen jumper. Laid back. I like it. 
I also like the warmth radiating from your cunt. From behind your…oh…oh my. Black lacy panties? Beautiful and classical. 
You struggle now but I hope you reconsider. I really do want to purr and I don’t really want to force it out of you. This is my holiday, after all.
Behave, will you? I surely hope you will. You struggle as I reach down to peel your panties back, but I have you under control. You try to bite at me but that just makes me harder. 
‘Open your mouth’ I say. 

You refuse.

I ask again.

You refuse. 

I squeeze tighter. 

You relent.

I stuff your panties into your mouth. Taste yourself. 

You spit it out instantly but I’m giggling. Don’t give me that look, it was worth it. Lighten up.

It takes a little longer to remove your jumper, even longer to remove your blouse. 
When I see your round full breasts, threatening to bust out of your bra, I can’t help it. My hand wanders, trailing up your thigh.

I start to curl my finger around your trimmed pubic hair. You whimper, something animalistic and guttural. 

You’re shaking by the time my index finger is curling along your clit. You’re slightly wet, whether you like it or not. 

You don’t, of course, judging by your muffled cries. But I don’t mind. 

I take my index finger from your clit, slip it under the cups of your bra and rub it in your soft nipple till it hardens.

You grunt in disgust. 
Your scream is stifled. No. Don’t do that again. 

I drag you across to the bathroom sink of the hotel by your neck, tearing into my back pack with my free hand. 

It takes some digging, some juggling to keep you under control, but I’ve found it. The maple tea leaves you made for the people on the bus.
We’re gunna have some tea.
As I boil the jug, I tell you to kneel. 

As I prepare the cups, I tell you to stay still.

You glare at me, with a fire so bright in your eyes, but you relent. 

With the jug boiled, I pour into the cups, stir it around. 

The scent of maple fills the air. 

You start to sob but I tell you to hush, with a finger to my lips. I can taste you. 

With the same free hand, I take a sip. It’s smooth but intoxicating. Honestly the best blend I’ve ever have. 
I then take out the tea bag, push you back into the bed and put my weight against you. 

You struggle. 

I run the tea bag across your cheek.

You struggle.

I run the tea bag across your breasts, past your hardened nipple.

I leave a trail of hot maple tea down your stomach, your body seizes at the touch, at the unknown invader. 

I rest the tea bag on your clit – and what looks like a fierce spasm jolts your entire body.

You freeze, gasp and let out a low cry. 

Will you purr for me now, I wonder, as I lower my mouth to taste your maple flavoured cunt.