Madness

There's nothing sexy about my mood today, nothing sexual. I am worn to the bone and so on edge I could cut with a look.
I don't want to play today, don't want to toy with you and enjoy your pretty reactions. I don't want sex, or the taste of your cock on my lips.
Not today.

Today I want blood, and I want the sweet knowledge of pain, and injury.
I want the wet snap of bone and the sharp hiss of the razor, the gentle burble of blood.

I want a body hanging like a side of beef from a hook, the cool darkness and the weight of the blade in my hand. I want to take out this rage on innocent flesh and feel it give beneath my hand. I want the uncontrolled swing of fury, lodging deep in muscle and bone. I want the spurt of blood as it gives, the flow of life from a body spasming in pain and fear and rage. I want the walls spattered with beautiful ruby designs painted by a swinging arc of shining steel.
I want the deep primal screams which only terror give, the scream that means you know that your death is not coming, but here in the room beside you.
I want the shuddering cry as the last trickles of life flow from your throat to the floor.

Predator Sex

The predator is pacing, restless in the cave behind my eyes.
I've been giving her small outlets with teeth and hands and the taste of your neck beneath my lips, but she is hungry now and disinclined to wait longer.

Your small moans at every scrape of my teeth are plenty to keep her attention, and she has been just behind my eyes and nipping at my psyche for hours now. Finally, when we reach the bed, she is tired of waiting. The immediate surrender in your face, the slackness of your jaw and the heavy lidding of your eyes drives her to the fore of my mind, takes control of my hands until you are lying  back across our bed and I am atop you and eyeing your neck with a lust somewhere between blood and sex.

There is no gentleness to me tonight. No soft kisses, and gentle nips. There is no kindness in my eyes or softness in my jaw tonight. Only the weight of my body pressing yours down, the pressure of my teeth in your skin. Tonight, there is only the purring satisfaction at your soft sounds of pain and the snarling pleasure in your tiny gasps of fear.
Tonight, there is the taste of your fear on my tongue and the knowledge that in this state it is easy to go too far, to bite too hard.
In this state, the tight pressure of my teeth around your nipple falls so easily into the taste of blood.
In this state, the soft texture of your belly is an almost unbearble invitation.
In this state, the vulnerability of your cock breeds a desire not to pleasure, but to rip and tear.

I know you can tell. I can see in your face, in the tightness around your eyes when you see the hungry way I eye your erection, that she is angry and hungry and wants to hunt.
You are my Mate, but tonight, you are prey.

I can't bring myself to ease the pressure of teeth scraping just a bare increment too hard against your cock. I can't bring myself to stop biting down- more gently than I desire!- on the round bulbs of your balls. I can't bring myself to be gentle tonight with the most vulnerable part of your body, so I finally give up.

Drawing myself back up your body is an exercise in restraint, an exercise in resisting the temptation to take a chunk out of your skin and revel in the taste of meat on my lips. Only when I reach the top of you and sink my teteh into your neck, do I realize that I am wet. Only when I taste the coppery scent of your fear do I realize that I am hungry for more than blood and meat.

Only when I see the barest flinch and low gutteral moan when I fill myself with you, do I allow the predator to slip her chain a little more. Only when I feel the thickness of you sliding inside of me, do I arch myself over you, the tips of my breasts dragging across the skin of your chest with every thrust of your hips.
Only when I am riding you, filling myself with your heat, do I let myself close my teeth on your throat and growl the predator's hunger and lust.
 Only when I feel your shudder beneath me and harden even more do I let myself smile and ride you to oblivion with my hand around your throat.

Prey Dreams

The woods around me are cool and green, but I don’t notice- not today. Rarely am I prey- I have reminded lovers more than once that I am a predator in my own right- but in this moment I am the frightened rabbit Rush named me for, bounding through the woods with fear hot on my heels.

Fear isn’t the only thing. My feet are pounding, bare into the cool earth, and while I know my own steps are loud, they aren’t as loud as those behind me. So rarely am I the one pursued in my dreams, but today, I am. Branches slap at my exposed skin, leaving welts of their own before you even begin to draw close, and every bush I dodge and tree trunk I leap seems to reach out and exact its own toll for passage… or perhaps it seeks to slow or catch me for your use.

I can hear your steps behind me, over my own labored breathing, and a glimpse back is enough to make me stumble. That stumble is enough to be my undoing, slowing me just enough for an animal leap and outstretched hand to force me to my knees, scrambling painfully in the dirt, trying desperately to rise before… but it is too late, and the full weight of your body lands across me, driving the air from my lungs with a surprised grunt.

I’m nearly useless until I can breathe again, able only to draw my knees up in a pathetic attempt at something between the fetal position and kicking you away. Your only response is a growling laugh- as much the beast as the man- and a deft yank at my legs to force them back down while I choke and wheeze and try to curl away from the heat and weight of your body across me. I won’t mention the secret whimpering desire to curl into you, instead.

My breath is slowly coming back, gasps of oxygen slowly drawing strength into my limbs, but my legs are already pinned by your weight and my wrists by your hands. Your face is nearly atop mine and I want to snap and bite like the captive animal I am at this moment, but the snarl on your lips is enough to freeze me in place.

I am reasonably certain that if I call a true halt to this, that you will. Reasonably certain that if I call ‘Red,’ that you will stand, help me up, and all will be finished. But there is a kernel of doubt in my mind, and that kernel  freezes my limbs and wets my thighs.

The ground is hard beneath my back, little sticks and sharp edged leaves cutting into my skin and I know I am bleeding from at least one of the scratches that line my body like whipmarks. I know it in a much more visceral sense when your snarl abruptly becomes a growl, your face lowering to my neck, dragging my wrists as you slowly smell down the length of my bare body, causing goosebumps in a strange cocktail of fear and slowly growing desire. The first bleeding scratch you find is along my ribcage, ironically just below the old barbed wire scar and your tongue is oddly raspy against it. For once, it doesn’t tickle and in fact makes me writhe in pain until you clamp down on my skin with sharp teeth, freezing me again with a gasp and small whimper.

In this moment, I feel more like prey than I may have ever before, frighteningly unsure of what exactly you intend but only certain that I have little to no choice in it. I am embarrassingly grateful that your teeth are relatively gentle, and as your cheek grazes my side, my breathing speeds up again but for entirely different reasons.

I know you can hear the change, and the touch of your face against my skin as you explore my body with the most primitive of senses holds a note of cruel playfulness now, knowing that my body will respond to you despite my mind’s screaming fear… or perhaps because of it. Abruptly, the teasing caress is replaced by your teeth again, this time in the soft skin of my belly. My strangled gasp is closer to a barely restrained scream, and I know you can smell the abrupt switch to fear-scent along my body. Your reaction is clear and completely primal as your body sinks into mine, hands tightening on my wrists with bruising force, and your teeth sinking into my skin with enough force to make me writhe and scream against you in something between need, pain, and utter terror.

Finally, finally, your teeth slowly release the now well-marked skin of my belly, leaving behind a scatter pattern of rounded teethmarks and a faint trembling throughout my body. Only now do you move farther down my body, and the trembling is of a different sort when your cheek grazes my exposed hip and your teeth skim the hollow between hip and mons.

I hear your breathing change now, scenting the steadily growing arousal between my thighs and it triggers a change in my own- high, keening whimpers of fear and desire as my mind flips between desire for your mouth on me and fear of your teeth in the most sensitive skin of my body.

The graze of your teeth across my labia are enough to make me cringe, and your growl is closer to a chuckle now, which is less than reassuring to my panicked heartbeat.Twisting my wrists desperately, I am thankful that you are distracted enough by the scent of my arousal that your hands have loosened, allowing me to yank my hands free and scramble from beneath you when you rear back in surprise.

In a second I am on my feet and moving but fruitlessly. Without bothering to stand, you you simply leap at me before I can run, bringing my back down hard enough to see stars. Even more vulnerable now, prone in the crunching leaves I try fiercely to wriggle away, but succeed only in settling your weight more firmly across my body. Your hands pinning my arms now will leave bruises without question, and as I buck against you, I can feel you growing harder against my exposed ass from the writhing kiss of skin on skin and the intoxication of complete power over me. Redoubling my efforts, I only earn myself the sharp, bruising pain of your teeth in the back of my neck.

The force of your teeth in my neck flips a switch in the deeply primal, feline part of my psyche and I drop limply beneath you in surrender. I can feel your mild surprise and confusion in the increased pressure on my arms anticipating a trick, but there is no trick now. Your teeth in the back of my neck give the most primitive aching corner of my psyche a simple message: He wins. This is earned.

With a low moan, my head drops to the forest floor and I writhe beneath you in blatant invitation, arching my neck slightly into your teeth. Despite the lust I can now smell equally clearly on you, your suspicion remains and my arms are dragged behind my back to be pinned one handed while you lift yourself slightly from my body and drawing a whimpering moan from me. Lifting my hips in primitive request, I am surprised by the sharp smack to my ass until it’s quickly followed by one large hand pressing my face back into dirt when I lift it in startled inquiry. There is a potent reminder in the rough force that regardless of any change of heart, initiative today is unwelcome and control of this moment resides firmly and completely in your hands. A soft whimper escapes my throat as I subside back to the ground, fighting my own urge to press into you. Your chuckle is nearly human now, and the hand that runs caressingly down my side is a clear reward for my obedience, which draw another small whimper from my throat, but this time in gratitude for the gentle touch.

I revel a little now in the vulnerability of my position- naked, prone, wrists pinned in one of your hands at the small of my back, and your body easily pinning mine. The heat of your skin and scent of it rubbing into mine is enough to make me moan and ache to arch into you, even as your legs roughly part mine and I can feel the hard length of you pressed against my ass. No fear of punishment or desire for obedience is enough to stop my hips from rising to meet you, and even your free hand roughly pressing me back down elicits not the slightest contrition.

Finally, finally, I feel the head of you nudging me, opening me, and when my inner lips finally part and you slide inside of me the sound pulled from my throat is matched only by your low sound of satisfaction.

I am physically incapable of stillness now, not with the heavy heat of you inside of me, stretching and filling me, and shortly I am writhing beneath you and matching every pump of your hips. I can feel you stroking my g-spot with every thrust, but your hand forcing my face back into the ground reminds me once more that my input here is not encouraged, and for the moment I am simply prey to be taken and enjoyed. I can’t not rock my hips to meet yours, can’t stop the steady stream of moaning whimpers spilling from my parted and dirt-covered lips. I may not be able to control any of this interaction, but neither fear nor obedience can stop me from responding to it, can stop the steady stream of pleading sounds ripped from my throat as you fuck me.

I have no idea how much time passes, no idea when  my body finishes adjusting to yours and the movement of my hips roughens, deepens and matches yours. I have no idea when the painful pressure of your cockhead against my cervix becomes almost pleasure, or if I just stopped caring due to the endorphin rush. I have no idea when sweat and arousal mixed to create the potent, slippery scent permeating the air around us, or when you released my hands and let me brace myself for your thrusts.

I have no idea when the last shred of control fell from us both, or when your teeth found my neck again. I have no idea how much time passed before I felt the telltale speeding of your hips, the change of your thrusts to cross the line into pain, or the clenching of your hands on my hips. I only know the effect on me, only know the anticipation that rocked my hips to match every painful pleasurable stroke. I only know the tightening of your hands on my hips- another set of bruises I anticipated with pleasure now- and the growling roar pulled from your throat as you spilled yourself in me.

I only know the mini-orgasm that tightened my body as my lover’s orgasm always does, and the heated collapse of your body across mine, spilling me again into the dirt. I only know the tight wrapping of your arms around my body, pinning me close to you and ignoring my half-hearted attempts to move. I only know the chuckling, raspy words spoken with an effort and growled into my ear, “Who says you’re done yet?”

Fetish

I spoke with a friend today,and we spoke about our loves, our needs, our fetishes.

I described a scene to him:

Your eyes, wide and begging and fearful and glazed with arousal.

Your lips, pink and round in an 'O' of wanting.

Your face drawn in fear and desire, your high cheekbones stark as bright spots of fear-color draw my avaricious eyes.

Your throat, bared to the blade and your body lifting convex from the bed and against my hands and my knife. Pressing yourself into the possibility of death with a mixture of sex and suicide.

Submissives speak of the confidence they have in their master, the gut knowledge that he'll never harm them.

You don't have that. You know I will harm you if the psychopath in the back of my brain slips her leash, for even a moment. You know that I want to let her, know that we can smell the blood beneath your skin and crave the taste of it on our lips and the stickiness on our hands that hold the blade.

But you arch into me, and into the blade, anyway.

That.

That suicidal desire.

That overarching need that doesn't care if it ends in death.

That is my fetish.

To be continued

He looked at me with his eyes wide, his lips making that cute little 'O' of surprise.

'But I thought you were still mad at me and didn't want sex?'

I smiled, or at least I bared my teeth. Sometimes, he can't tell the difference.

'I've changed my mind... sort of.'

That was when the first nervousness entered his eyes. The first vague concern, not quite real fear yet. 'So...'

'Shut up, bitch,' I cut him off.

He started a little and fell silent, his eyes getting wider. I'm usually extremely lenient, to the point of spoiling him. This tone, this attitude, was new.

'Get on your goddamned knees, boy,' I told him, and smiled inside as he scrambled to obey, wondering exactly what he'd gotten himself into.

I unzipped my jeans, freeing my cock- 8" of beautiful opalescent silicone- and smiled when he licked his lips.

I love owning whores.

'Suck me, slut.'

I didn't need to say anything else, he was already leaning forward, licking his lips and wrapping his hot little mouth around me. God he's pretty like this! His full lips wrapped around my cock, his whole body arching into every pull of his mouth and throat.

I stroke his head lightly, drawing his attention with the unexpectedly gentle touch. 'Make sure you get it good and wet, baby, because it's the only lube you're getting tonight.'

I watch his eyes widen and feel something like contentment as his efforts at swallowing me redouble.

Such a pretty little whore.

Abruptly, I'm done with it, done with being sucked, and all I want is to fuck him- deep and hard and fast until he whimper and squeals and begs because it's too much.... because it will be.

Don't wanna

You told me in an email, "No one has ever been able to break me, and I think you could be the one."

Stupid, arrogant little boy.

Break you? I barely fucking know you.

Breaking you implies I give enough of a shit to put you back together afterwards like a good little massa.

Let's get something straight- I don't.

So I don't give a fuck if I 'break' you.

I just want to fuck you up.

I want to watch you flinch when the cold chains wrap around your wrists... ZOMG chains on wrists you might get bruises and then DIIEEEEEEE.... and then hook 'em to the eyebolts in my ceiling.

USB20 put them in for my birthday last year. They'll be a year old soon.

Maybe I'll give him a birthday present to say thank you.

I digress. Reading his pr0n does that to me.

I want to wrap the chains around your wrist and watch you shiver involuntarily from the cold against your hot skin. Watch your face go tight as you realize I've seen you flinch, watch you buck up and try to pretend you didn't because oh noes I might think you're not a big and tough and scary!

You're not, bitch. Right now you're a hanging chunk of meat.

Go be scary to someone else in your pretty digital uniform and shiny little gun. They're not here, and I am.

I and a length of chain link from Home Depot. It was your idea, and that makes it all your fault.

Tiny little links leave a lovely trail of welts.

Maybe if I were a Good Dominant I'd be able to make pretty patterns with it and take pretty pictures.

But, well, I'm not and I can't and I don't.

Also, I don't take pictures.

So I'll just hit with it instead.

The first blow, winding up my arm and down my hand with the snap of the wrist that makes a lunge whip crack, is across your chest.

Across your chest and trailing across one nipple while you grunt and groan and try to be A Twue and Stoic Mas-o-cast.

Bah. Boring little twat. I want you to make some noise for me.

Another blow, wrapping around your torso now like the flogger falls everyone says Do Not Do but it's soooo pretty wrapping around you and kissing your ribcage while you grunt and strain a little against the chain.

Another one, diagonal now across your back and your making a low keening sound but it's not enough and I want to hear you scream so it's time to switch chains, to grab the heavy links designed to hold rabid pit bulls inside their swept-earth yards even when the census man comes to knock at the door.

This one bruises, this one can break bone if I hit you wrong so I shove you around and let it fly against your back until your spine bows and a strangled scream rips from your throat.

Mmmmm, much better.

I haven't had a boy beg me for mercy in a long time.

I think you're going to.

I think two more blows will do it.

I'm suddenly debating in my head.

Good Dom, Bad Dom.

One good blow over the kidneys won't kill you, but it will have you pissing blood for a few days and blubbering.

Two good blows to the sweet spot where thighs meet ass will have a similar effect but I don't wanna be good, Mommy, I wanna hurt him....

Gay Bar

It's dark here, hot and smoky like an old-school description of Hell- but if so, then it's a Hell where I am one of the demons. I can feel the smoke getting into my sinuses, irritating the contacts I've taken to wearing again, but it only adds to my mood.

Over my shoulder as I walked in hung the Moon, her sharp-edged smile the inspiration for my own. I'm androgynous tonight, the boy and girl in my head sharing equal space, but even as a boi I'm a child of that bright orb.

It's loud here tonight, the bass is pumping through the walls, up through the floors and buzzing into my feet and every throb is like a violent heartbeat.

Violence. It's what I want tonight, what I crave, and it's why I've come here tonight, flagging heavy top with my leather pants and blood-red tank top. Androgynous as I am feeling, I still savor the curve of my breasts beneath the shirt because they are bait even for gay boys, drawing them into me so that the violence that I want can be possible.

I want more tonight than can be found in the straight clubs, with their careful lighting and watchful dungeon monitors. I want the gay bars, where force and cruelty are wielded like loving weapons, side by side with kisses.

I want force, violence, the red-eyed streaking of tears down some hapless boy's eyes while I'm hurting him. I want my hands tonight, want to press him into the wall while he smirks, confident of his ability to take anything a 5"3 woman can dish out. I want to press my knuckles into his sternum, watch the first bloom of pain in his eyes like nightshade and see him sag into the knowledge of his mistake, of his realization that I will hurt him tonight as deeply as any of the muscle-bound men around me.

I was born in a woman's body, into the world of men. I know pain, and humiliation, and I will give it tonight with the skill born of intimate knowledge. My hand on his throat, my knuckles in his breastbone, my thumb in his wrist. My fist in his stomach, doubling him over while he looks at me with wide eyes, this unknowing boy who offered himself up for my pleasure.

Scenting our prey

He is apprehensive but aroused. I can smell the curiosity on him, the desire wafting from his skin and mingling with the lightly acid scent of his nervousness.

The predator in the back of my mind wakes: yawning and stretching, her claws flexing. She has been napping since the loss of Actaeon, only waking briefly when I play with Diablo. But now she is padding along the hallway of my mind, moving steadily forward until she looks out through my eyes and fills my senses.

Suddenly, everything is sharper. I can smell the perfumes of every woman in the room and how the clash with the shampoos, the colognes of every man and which ones are compatible with their deodorant.

Every color is brighter, and the individual hairs on his exposed chest are suddenly fascinating. I want to straddle him and pluck each one while he squirms and whines.

My clothing is confining, rough, and I want to strip and rub myself against him to disguise my predator's scent with his of prey.

She, the predator, looks out through my eyes and scents him. We look at him and watch the fascination grow in his face. He knows he is prey now, knows the predator has his scent. I watch him realize it, accept it- and want it.

His hug to me is brief, but tight, intense, and I can feel the desire in him- taste the scent of it, rolling it on my palate like a fine wine.

Soon, there will be a meal to accompany it.

The Whys and Wherefores

"Do you know why I'm doing this?" I ask him.

His eyes are huge, brilliant green, and locked onto my face as she shakes his head a little, whispering hoarsely, "No, Mistress."

I smile. He cringes when I smile like this. He hasn't known me long,but he already cringes when I smile at him tenderly.

He's a fast learner, my little Diablo.

But he hasn't learned this quite yet. He is accustomed to photo shoots, pretty lights and photogenic welts.

I'm not photogenic- I tried modeling once, but I hated every moment of it. I don't care what I look like when I'm hitting you. I just want to see the fear in your eyes.

But the fear is already there crinkling the skin around his eyes, so I decide to be nice and explain it to him.

I lift the little evil stick- a replacement for the one I bought last year at SouthEast LeatherFest which mysteriously disappeared after using it on someone who hated it- and his eyes widen even more. It's interesting, I didn't know he could manage that- it's rather amusing, so I tap him lightly on the nose with it, enjoying his cringing.

"I'm doing it because I want to, boy."

Another tap, another flinch.

"I'm hurting you because I think it's fun."

The next tap is to his balls, drawn up tight in arousal, and he keens a little in terror.

"I'm going to do awful things to you because I like the way your eyes get all wide and scared.

Another tap, another keening sound.

"I don't have a camera. I don't care what this looks like for the website or for any other fucking reason."

A harder tap, a high-pitched keen.

"I'm doing this because I'm just a little bit of a sociopath, and you're the stupid little whore who let me tie him up and hurt him."

His eyes are beautiful- wide and terrified and just beginning to understand....

Priests and geldings

I’m reading the “Dexter” novels again, reading about my favorite serial killer and his Dark Passenger. Reading about his moonlit Need and his playmates.

I like Dexter.

I envy Dexter.

And tonight, I want to be Dexter. I want to find a bright, cool place- and I, who usually hates cold!- and I want to take you there. I want to press steel hooks through your pretty ankles, behind the Achilles’ tendon, and lift you up, whimpering and sobbing, the blood from your ankles running up your legs and to your groin, passing over your taut buttocks and up your back, mixing in with your hair like tears in the back of your head.

You talk about wanting voluntary castration sometimes, and tonight I want to give that to you… not that it’s likely to be very voluntary once I start.

I want to take the knife in my hand, a pretty, curved gelding knife, and run it along your thighs while you squirm and twist and beg me not to. I want to open your thighs and follow the smooth line of your sartorius, and the fat rector femoris with my fingers. I’ll drag the knife down and open up the skin of your scrotum, letting the testes pop out like two fat eggs while you scream and try to thrash. The testes are only attached to the body by the vas deferens- the long tube from which ejaculate moves from the testes to the penis- otherwise, they’re simply held to the body inside the scrotum. It would take only the slightest effort to cut through it…. It barely even bleeds.

You’re a eunuch now. In some ancient temples, particularly that of the goddesses Cybele and Artemis- who most anthropologists consider related- a male had to be castrated to become a priest of these powerful, gender-queering goddesses. Artemis was my first patron goddess, the first deity to whom I felt true kinship and a desire to serve as priestess. And now you, my pet, are qualified to serve as one of her priests. How did one do that, I wonder? Was the boy-child taken, castrated, and left at the temple steps? Or was he raised by the temple, a serious young man who chose to give his manhood to the goddess for the privilege of entering her service? Did he choose this? Did he make the cuts himself? Was he held down on the altar, screaming and flailing as you are?

It bleeds up your stomach, your chest, pooling at your neck and dripping from your hair. It’s strange how untouched your face is left, contorted and red from screaming and light-headed from too much blood around the brain….

I’m doing you a favor like this, baby… every basic first aid manual says that to control bleeding, ensure that the wound is above the heart….

Scream

You told me this morning that you look forward to my making you scream.

Instantly, my entire body tightened with pleasure, with need. You laughed last night about psycopaths: "Eat, kill, fuck- it's all the same," and I only smiled.

It is all the same.

I can't fuck. But I can sink my teeth into you and rip away flesh.

It's like sex, only better- messier.

Oh yes, darling, I will make you scream. I wonder how you will scream.... you with your dark, dark eyes and little-boy smile. Will you start out groaning, and then yelp? Will you whimper until it becomes a single, high-pitched woman's scream? Will you try to hold out, try to be brave, until the screams are ripped from your raw and aching chest?

I'll think of it as an experiment, gathering data about your screaming style- everyone has a different one, you know.

Mine are silent.

I'm going to make you scream.

Betrayal

LtCol David Grossman refers to interpersonal violence as the “universal human phobia”. He says that it scares people more than spiders, more than snakes, more than *gasp* public speaking. He discusses, in chapter 2, how betrayed we feel when we are confronted with interpersonal violence, because it doesn’t fit out world-view.

I love that look of betrayal. I love that expression of shock- the widened eyes, dilated pupils, open mouthed shock and betrayal- when I am violent to them. I want that betrayal right now.

I want to see you kneeling on the floor for me, to stroke your skin gently, speaking lovingly, just before the open-handed smack across the face- the one that I put my whole arm into, that snaps your head to one side. I want to watch your eyes fill with involuntary tears behind the shock and betrayal. It isn’t supposed to be like this, your eyes will say. You’re supposed to warn me before you hurt me.

No, I’m not. Not today. Today I want to watch you recoil from me, watch your fear and confused not-quite-anger-yet, watch you search your mind frantically for anything you might have done to explain this sudden pain, to legitimize this violence.

Silly boy, search for a way to legitimize my violence. You understand now how a rape victim feels when she searches her mind for what she might have done to invite her attack.

Legitimize my violence, while I watch you. I can see the thoughts racing through your mind, searching for a reason why I’ve hit you.

You don’t get it yet. I’m hitting you like rape- it’s because I like it, because I like the power and your response, and because I like the violence.

I want to hit you, and I want to watch your face go tight with shock and betrayal.

Anatomy Lesson

I want you today.

Want you stretched tight, wrists bound to ankles in a reverse hogtie, want to watch it slowly set your hips to aching. I want to put a gag in your mouth so that you can't protest, can't safe, can't tell me, "No."

I hate it when you tell me, "No".

So here, in my head, you can't.

I want to straddle you, put extra pressure on your wrists and ankles and watch the way your eyes tighten with the pain of it.

And then I want to start to play with you.

I want to run my fingernails down your chest, extra pressure over your nipples, and watch the lines turn red. I want to take a knife to those same nipples and press the serrated edge to the tender flesh and watch your eyes grow wide.

I want to cut them off, cut out your piercings just for fun.

I feel a little mad today, a little sociopathic. I feel the darkness in my the back of my eyes swimming to the forefront, and it makes me want to touch you.

To hurt you.

To break you.

I want to flip you over, watch you strain to open your legs for me, and press a plug inside you. I want to turn it on and feel it buzz through your hip bones when I flip and straddle you again.

I want to run my knife down your chest again, want to watch the dark line of blood well up in its wake, and draw pretty patterns on your skin.

Or maybe I'll just write: "Slut." "Cunt." "Whore." "Bitch."

"Meat."

Words, words naming you, words identifying you. Words telling you your place in my world right now.

Right now, in my head, you're not my lover, not my sometimes-Dominant, not my friend or my partner.

You're meat, and I want to play butcher.

I want to drag the knife from the hollow of your throat straight down your sternum- past that spot you love to bruise on me!- and down your belly, over the abdominal muscles: the rectus abdominus, down the linea alba, to the pyramindalis. I want to stop just above your groin, just above that cute little cock that I know will be hard for me now.

I want to watch you whimper and squim, watch your fantasies of castration light up your eyes, warring with the fear of what you see in my eyes- the thought that this time, I just might not stop.

Even in my head, my hands are shaking now, shaking with eagerness, anticipation, the desire to do it.

To cut you open and expose the most intimate parts of you to light, to slice through skin and expose muscle to view, and to stroke it while you shudder like a fly-stung horse. To conduct an anatomy lesson on your body: here the hip flexor, here the serratus anterior, below it the tensor faciae latae, the adductor longus, the sartorius and gracilis.

I want to find the nerves and name them, stroke them with my fingertips: inside the groin the anterior branch of the obdurator nerve, which gives you sensory input from the medial thigh. The femoral nerve, hidden beneath the iliac fascia muscle and temptingly close to the femoral artery.

I want to cut you open, my love, and suck the blood off of my fingers.

Hurt me

'Hurt me?' he whispers, and his voice is high, breathy and soft in that tone which means that he wants it. 

I am glad to oblige. I have felt insecure with him, recently. More so than usual, that is. There is something about this boy that affects me, makes me fear the power he has over me. Something about him that makes me misstep, misinterpret, mistake.

Something about him that makes me hesitate. 

But not now. 

Not with that tone to his voice, not with that softness to his eyes.

That's what I look for in a horse, you know. A certain softness to the eye, that shows a willingness, a desire to please. 

I see that now in his eyes, and just as it attracts me to a mount, it makes me ache for him. 

I bring my hand down on his bottom, sharply, and he makes a small sound of pleasure-pain. His little ass is perfectly shaped, perfectly formed for my hand. A perfect heart shape, a perfect texture for spanking, biting. 

That beautiful little ass wriggles across my lap, and I can only laugh at his shameless antics... even as my hand comes down again, again, again. Directly across each cheek, just under, a little to each side, finding one spot over and over... varying my blows, stopping to rub and massage, leaning down to bite. 

But my hands are soft now, uncalloused, and grow red and sore quickly, so I switch to toys. The rubber loop paddle, the evil stick. My teeth in his back, his shoulder. He is so beautiful when he writhes for me, groans, yells.

The redness growing along his ass, his thighs.

Light, stinging blows. Hard, heavy ones. 

Holding my hand still. 'Relax for me,' the warning before the evil stick applied to his inner thighs. 

He'll get me back... he always does the next time we switch... but right now I don't care. I just want to hurt him. Want to give him what we both want, what we both need. 

His blood is close to the surface now: his pretty little hips, and long, graceful thighs are red with blood flow and blows, and I want to take my knife to him, want to cut his soft skin open and lay my mouth to the wound, drink his life into me. 

Soon, I will. Soon. But not tonight. Not yet. 

When the crimson droplets bead up along his skin, run in slow waves across skin and the scent rises up coppery, sharp, and sweet, it will be done right. Done with the time to savor his skin, the edges of the cut, the flavor of his blood like fine wine. Done with care, rolling the flavor around my mouth and across my lips. Kissing him with the taste of his blood on my mouth. 

Not tonight, not yet. 

Instead, I drag his mouth to my cock before fucking his beautiful little ass.  

For Lucivar

The quote I told you about, from The Magic and the Healing by Nick O'Donohoe:


"New-spilled blood is liquid jewelry, ruby incarnidine."


I want to spill yours. I want it to run over my fingers while I smear it across your skin like a child with fingerpaints. I want to wear it like liquid jewelry.

This was supposed to pu

I like knives. And I like blood.
Yeah, it squicks some people. If you're one of them, then, well, skip this post.
There, you've been warned. I don't have to be guilty if you go and get all nauseous about the shit I find sexy. :-p

I really, really like knives.
Friday night, I was chatting with Terry after playing with the boys (really, that post is coming soon. Really. I promise.) and for whatever reason I pulled out my carry knife. It's this one: a Gerber Ripstop.

I like it. And so did Lucivar.
Terry laughed when she saw his eyes drawn to it over and over. She told me that he has some castration fantasies. My eyes lit up. I could feel it. I watched him shiver and her smile.
I explained how I liked the edge to it, with both the serrated and the fine edge because it gave me more flexibility. And how despite the different shape, it reminded me of a gelding knife.
Those aren't used anymore. At least, not usually. They usually use rubber bands, but I'm old-fashioned.
Lucivar's eyes got bigger and bigger. I smiled wider and wider. His eyes are pretty when they're huge, with his eyeliner smudged and the way they turn paler green than usual.

Let me digress really quickly. I work with horses. Or at least I used to. I have done gelding before. These days, it's done with the little rubber bands, but one vet I worked with did it the old fashioned way with a gelding knife. To me, it's a farm necessity, and I can't really eroticize it. But cutting in general works for me, and his responses were really fucking working for me. In fact, cutting really, really, really works for me. I love blades. I love the way they press into skin and the beautiful red lines they leave. And I seriously have a thing for blood. Like, seriously. I love the color, the taste, the texture. It's beautiful. Nick O'Donohoe, in The Magic and the Healing, referred to it as "ruby incarnadine". And I like scars. "Scars are like tattoos but with better stories." (No idea who to attribute that to, but I love it).


So I put the blade to his balls pressed the serrated edge to them just a little, still being very careful but enough to let him feel just how sharp it is. He gasped and I had to fight back a moan of pleasure. Terry just smiled.
As we sat later, his eyes kept being drawn to it- even in fetishwear I carry it, clipped to my pants pocket. At one point he crawled to me and stroked it with his fingertips. He never touched my skin, never even touched my pants! but I felt that caress in my cunt.

The next day, Terry was doing random stuff around the house, and I was having fun hurting Lucivar. Little things. Pinching, biting, grabbing his hair. Terry has an awesome toycase, and she's better with their toys than I'll likely ever be. So I don't even try to compete. I play with what I'm good at, and work on improving the rest.
I'd already showered and dressed and so of course I had my knife.
It goes everywhere with me. It's in my pocket right now, as I write this. I have a mental list I check for when I leave my house: wallet, phone, keys, first aid kit, knife. The rest were in the bedroom they loaned me, but I had the knife clipped to my pants.

So I pulled it out. His eyes got big. I opened it up. His eyes got bigger.
Here's where I digress. I like Lucivar, I really do. He's pretty. But I have specific things on specific boys I love. Jack's face and ass (he seriously has the best ass I've ever seen or played with). Kat's chest. Lucivar's eyes. They're fucking gorgeous.
And they opened up wide for me, and I grinned like a cat in the cream.
He told me a little later that he loves the look on my face as I'm holding the knife to him. I can only imagine.

I've mentioned this before and I'll mention this again. I fucking love responses. Seriously. I get off on them. And he's as responsive as a pre-St George level Lipzzaner.

Now here's where I have a memory gap. I don't really remember much of what I did or said with that knife. I'm sure I ran it over his skin, and I'm sure I played with the textures of serration and fine edge in various vulnerable spots.
But my memory works in flashes. Full color Polariods of my life.
The tip running along his inner arm while his hands were over his head and the way he shivered a little.
The blade slipping between his lips while he whimpered softly. The tip pressing lightly into his bottom lip.
Pressing it lightly against his balls again, watching him fight not to squirm.
Pressing the tip into this chest and drawing it down slowly, just enough to leave an incredibly fine line with a bare hint of blood. So careful, I had to be so careful, because what I wanted to do was more than mildly sociopathic.
Running it across his throat, using my hand to hold his chin in place just in case, pressing it in watching his face go soft.
And then I kissed him very, very gently.

Lucivar has some very dark places inside him. Jacqueline Carey refers to them as "fault lines of the soul". I love that term.
As I held the blade to him, I could feel hear those dark places in him calling out to my own dark places. I could hear them whimpering, or maybe that was just him.
He whispered to me, "If there were no rules, you'd cut me wouldn't you?"
And that rough sound went straight through my body, forked like lightning to my soul with a stop on the way at my cunt.
I whispered my answer against his lips with the blade still tight against this throat. "You know I would." His eyes closed tightly then reopened, wider than ever and I could feel everything in him straining up toward me and the blade.
I whispered in his ear, "Yes, love, I'd cut you."
He gasped.
"I'd cut you and I'd lick the blood away."
He made a small sound in the back of his throat.
"I'd work my tongue into the cut so that salt from my saliva stung and I'd swallow the blood."
He bit his lip, which drew my attention to it and I kissed it very lightly."
And then I'd kiss you and let you taste your blood on my lips."
His breath sighed out.

I don't remember much more after that. Perhaps when he reads this, Lucivar will fill in the gaps. I remember those Polariod moments and those are enough to make my entire body clench.
It's a damned good thing that boy isn't mine.
Because I'm not sure I would trust myself with him if I were the one who made the rules.

He wants a scar from my knife. And I want to give it to him. Terry, please can I break your toy? I promise I'll fix him again...