#edgeplay

This is the blogger formerly known as dyke4dick. I woke up to discover that my blog had been terminated for hate speech. The email quoted the TOS at me: “Don’t post content for the purpose of promoting or inciting the hatred of, or dehumanizing, individuals or groups based on […] gender, gender identity, […] sexual orientation […]” [my redaction for the relevant categories]

I’m not terribly surprised, of course; kink tumblrs get deleted all the time. I’m definitely annoyed, and kind of embarrassed, so unfortunately we all get to listen to me write a five-paragraph essay aboutkink instead of actually having fun engaging inkink.

I’m not gonna try to fight the termination; I had the blog for less than 2 months and am not emotionally attached to it. I did naively fail to save my original content. I was able to rescue 3 long posts through the magic of google, but I think that my original content has actually been hard banned from the site because it’s not there on blogs that I know reblogged it. Which is fun, feeling like my kinks are so horrible that no one should ever even look upon them lest they also be cursed with being a broken human.

For context, if it’s not obvious, my blog was full of hard kinks, most relevantly misogyny, misgendering, forced detransition, rape, corrective rape, and dehumanization. For me these are definitely kinks and not reflective of actual beliefs I have, but I blog in character (as a slightly more broken version of myself) because personally I find constant disclaimers unsexy.

I’ve been worrying since I started the blog about consistent characterization of the character I play - I said above that it’s a “slightly more broken of myself” and that’s the basic idea, but what does it actually believe about women, men, queers, itself? Will people get mad if my kink blog is not 100% ideologically consistent?

I was able to find and just reposted gender identity for fucktoys, which is part of the answer for myself. My actual gender identity and presentation are related in complicated ways to my interaction with this set of kinks. It also means I want to be careful, because I end up relating to content that is denigrating/dehumanizing of groups to which I don’t actually belong. I’m not a woman, I’m not a trans man, and I’m not a sissy, but a lot of ideas in misogyny porn (being useful only as a sex toy by virtue of my anatomy) and ftm misgendering kink (never able to be a real man by virtue of my anatomy) and sissy porn (being inadequate at manhood, unable to please women, and forced to be sexual with men) resonate with me a lot.

This theme comes up a lot in content I see on tumblr - not all women are rapebait, but i sure am. Trans men are men - buti am a fakeboy. Because decent people don’t want to nonconsensually degrade other people, and there’s also an appeal in “I’m not a fucktoy because I am a woman/have a vagina/don’t have a penis; I’m a fucktoy becuase i personally am broken.”

But there’s also a necessary element of essentialism for me in the kink. I think that’s partially because, while I do actually believe I’m broken in a lot of ways, 1) y’all don’t know me and 2) I don’t know that I am capable of eroticizing all of my actual brokenness, and 3) the pieces that I can eroticize I don’t necessarily want to share with everyone. Or anyone. So in a way “i’m inferior because i’m a cunt” is shorthand, gesturing for me at all the ways that I feel inferior and…. creating a safe headspace for that.

Part of the appeal of the essentialism part of this kink for me is that there’s nothing I can do to change it. Issues of worthiness are important to me, and I have a lot of my self-worth wrapped up in various skills and talents I have, and it is really nice to feel that I am useful because – and only because – of something unchanging about my body. I don’t have to be intelligent or eloquent or thoughtful. The idea of being just three holes is a relief.

For me it’s definitely essentialism along gendered/sexed lines, in a complicated way because of being a trans person. I’m not a woman, even in fantasy - that’s kind of a soft limit. But I am “girl” and “cunt” which feel different enough from woman not to trigger the same feelings.

I guess the coherent worldview at base is that there are real men (normal and cis), real women (normal and cis), normal nonbinary people, and then there’s the trashpile for people like me. That’s not exactly what I believe ooc, but it’s close enough to what the fantasy version of me believes.

Look, I don’t know how you could possibly know this about me, but I kind of have issues about authority figures, and tumblr dot com told me I was naughty and was encouraging people to dehumanize women and trans men, which was definitely not my intention; going forward I’ll try to be more clear that I’m only encouraging you to dehumanize me and others who have opted into the gendertrash pile of cunts, whores, sluts, rapemeat, etc.

I guess that sounds a little glib, and it’s really hard not to be a little bit in character at all times, since y’all are not my therapist. But for real. There are hundreds of folks on here begging to be treated like trash, self included. Take us up on that and leave normal people alone. 

And maybe having written out that gigantic pile of words, I’ll be able to get back to the fun part of having an nsfw tumblr?

My tits are covered in marks from my knife and they feel so fucking sensitive

At dinner on Sunday night, I was out with Reaction Junkie, The Unknown Quantity, Cunt Destroyer, and some other new friends. I slid my phone over to Reaction Junkie so he could read the post I’d written about the Saturday night party. He started to read it out loud, but when I whined at him, embarrassed, he stopped and read it to himself. I explained to everyone what he was reading, and talked a little about my tumblr. Reaction Junkie must have decided to keep exploring once he’d read the post I’d intended for him to read, because the next thing I knew he was saying, “I’m at a play party and I just had an unexpectedly excellent scene with someone I hadn’t played with before, The Unknown Quantity…”

“Stop!” I said, feeling my face getting hot. I grabbed the phone and checked what I’d written. I knew I hadn’t said anything mean, and nothing super embarrassing, but I’m not confident about my writing. I gave it back to him, kind of okay with him reading it aloud, but didn’t leave tumblr open for him because I wasn’t that enthusiastic about the idea. He went online, found the post that way, and continued reading. I immediately got incredibly embarrassed again and changed my mind about letting him read it.

“No! Don’t! Please stop?” I said in a pathetic little tone. He kept going. “Please don’t. I don’t want you to read it out loud. Stop!” Nothing I said was making him stop reading. Of course, nothing I said was a safeword. I don’t often safeword for psychological things, but I was super uncomfortable and I’d been being a bit toppy (emphasis on “a bit”) earlier in the day. “Red!” I said, expecting him to comply immediately. He didn’t stop. I tried again. He let me know I couldn’t stop him, that I was powerless. I felt a little flicker of panic. “Safeword!” I said. Surely he’d stop. He just kept reading. I could feel myself getting hotter, and now it wasn’t just from embarrassment.

He finally did stop when I hopped up and grabbed the phone. Cunt Destroyer turned to Reaction Junkie and said “That’s not cool,” about his ignoring my safewords. He responded, “I know how far I can push her.”

That made me feel exposed, vulnerable, embarrassed, and it made my cunt twitch. It was also accurate. The whole thing was ridiculously hot. The feelings of being helpless, controlled, and having my wants disregarded combined with the twin embarrassments of having my tumblr read aloud and having my safeword ignored in public to create a recipe for arousal. He wouldn’t ignore a safeword in a situation with actually serious potential negative outcomes, but the reminder that he could do so, that he could decide to continue and I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, that when he stops, it’s not because of something I’ve said or done, but because he’s choosing to stop…Just writing about it has me incredibly turned on.

Part 2

Reaction Junkie started in on my beaten and already beginning to bruise thigh. He brought his open hand down on the spot, slapping hard, and mixing in punches that made me groan and gasp. Then he began throwing elbows again, his weight slamming into me behind the elbow. With the rope now gone, I had to exert more control over my body to fight the urge to struggle. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to change what was happening, and the attempt to get away or stop him would only result in my situation getting worse. As he hit me deep and hard, I wanted to safeword, at least to say “yellow” to make the pain lessen or maybe move to a different part of my body. But at the same time, I was hesitant to test him. There was the chance that he would ignore my “yellow” again, or even ignore a “red.” To be completely honest, I can’t say which outcome would have upset me more – if he had ignored them, or if he hadn’t.

Before I could put that to the test, the pain from the impacts and the racing thoughts about safewords and not being able to stop him and the fear all became too much and I began crying. Reaction Junkie continued hurting me as the tears started to fall. I tried to stop being a little bitch, but wasn’t able to stop crying. Rather than risk breaking his favorite toy with too much intensity, Reaction Junkie decided to stop beating my thigh. He lay next to me, arms around me, and held me. This break from the physical abuse didn’t mean I was free to relax, however, and Reaction Junkie began to talk.

He told me he was going to take a melonballer to my eyes to blind me. Then he would put drops of molten lead in my ears. Not enough to damage my brain, mind. Just enough to destroy my eardrums, making me deaf. Next, my tongue would be cut out and all of my teeth pulled. After he removed my septum, he would burn every inch of my skin, except maybe my tits. When I went to say something about dying, he stopped me and informed me that he would do all this with me sedated and give me painkillers during all of it. The different mutilations would be performed over the course of a few years, giving me time to heal in between. Reaction Junkie promised that I wouldn’t die from shock, adding, “You can’t get away from me that easily.”

He continued, saying that after he’d done all that, mutilated me and destroyed my body, after that was all done, one day he would gently lead me to the car. He would drive me out to the woods, carefully take me out of the car, and then just drive away. I wouldn’t have any idea where I was or what had happened. He might even do it somewhere where if I got lucky and went in the right direction, I could have a chance to wander into civilization. If I did, someone would find me and take me to the hospital. People will try to figure out some way to communicate with me, but it’s going to be difficult, what with me being blind, deaf, mute, and without fingers. Because of course, he’ll remove my fingers before he lets me go. Scientists will want to study me, trying to figure out how I could have survived the trauma. They’ll assume I was in some kind of horrible car wreck. Who could even begin to fathom that someone might inflict such damage on another person?

I was done crying well before he was finished speaking. At the beginning of the story, I’d been amused by the seemingly over-the-top threats, but as he continued describing the mutilation that would be coming my way, amusement turned to some kind of fucked up enjoyment. It wasn’t arousal, exactly, but I got into the narrative and felt strangely comforted. The level of dedication that it would require to keep me like that made me feel wanted and valuable. A favorite toy. A well used, beaten up, and almost entirely broken toy. But a favorite nonetheless.

Reaction Junkie saw that I had recovered from the beating. He asked me, “Do you know what’s going to happen now?” “No,” I responded with some trepidation. Leaning in closer, Reaction Junkie said, “I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to hurt you until you yellow. And then I’m going to keep hurting you. You’ll probably try to say red, but I’m not going to stop. I’m not going to stop until I feel like it.” As he spoke, I thought about how it felt when he was slamming his elbow into me, about taking more of that, about it not stopping until he decided it should end. Ignoring my “yellow” earlier in the scene had made it clear that I was in a position of powerlessness. It drove home my utter lack of control of my situation. “Red” wouldn’t work, “safeword” wouldn’t work. Nothing would work. I curled into myself and started sobbing uncontrollably.

After making me cry with his words, Reaction Junkie cuddled me close again. He whispered into my ear that there was a DM standing right over us. I don’t like the idea of someone getting the impression that I’m not okay with what’s being done to me (I know, I know. Maybe not the most rational thing in these circumstances, just from crying after being beaten.), so I turned my head and kissed Reaction Junkie. I later found out that the DM had been there for a while and had heard Reaction Junkie talk to me about ignoring my safewords. Thinking about that fact makes me shudder. Of course no one would interfere. He’s my owner and I’m his property. What he does with me is no one else’s business.

Reaction Junkie comforted me and then began beating me again. I begged him not to hit that thigh any more, and he kindly agreed. Just as he was starting to hit me in the tits, a DM came over to us and let us know that time was up. Reaction Junkie had been abusing me for too long. Or, from my perspective, not long enough.

Part 1

Just as quickly as the knife had become the focus of my attention, it was gone. My trials and tribulations were far from over, however, and Reaction Junkie began to use his hands. He started hurting me, hitting my tits and my stomach with open and closed fists, making me breathe heavily and gasp with the impacts. Still blindfolded, I was taken off guard when the first slap hit my face. Then there was another, and another. These were hard slaps, and as I yelped, he told me to be brave and take them, making it clear that he’d read the post I wrote about wanting face marks. Everything I said in the post is true, but imagining how painful and difficult it would be to handle enough impact to get a mark, and thinking that he meant to leave one on me during that very scene was enough to freak me out. My whimpering intensified. Then, suddenly, bright light hit my eyes, making me squeeze them shut. There were tears in the corners of my eyes from being poked with the knife and from the face slapping. I peered out from half-lidded eyes and saw Reaction Junkie’s grinning face. I grinned right back, and he leaned down for a kiss.

The blindfold now gone, the scene continued. Reaction Junkie began smacking my outer right thigh, warming it up. Then he began punching it increasingly hard. What had been controlled movement on my part turned into writhing, and then thrashing. Grabbing my leg, Reaction Junkie held me down and still and began elbowing me. The first time he did it, I was unprepared for how much it would hurt, and I cried out in surprise and pain. He repeated the action, kneeling next to me and dropping his elbow into my thigh, putting some of his weight behind it. I felt a deep pain each time, like he was hurting me all the way to the bone. I started whimpering, and felt the tears starting. Reaction Junkie made fun of me, asking, “Are you going to cry like a little cunt?” I nodded, and began crying. Just like a little cunt.

I took as much of the elbowing as I could, but after only a few impacts like that, I felt like I was going to break. “Yellow, ” I panted out. Reaction Junkie just looked at my frightened face and pointedly ignored my request to dial things back. He slammed his elbow into me again, just as hard as before. As he set himself up to do it again, I started to breathe faster and faster, half-panicked at the thought that there was nothing I could do to stop him. I watched him dropping his weight into me again, his elbow landing hard, and groaned loudly in response, the tears rolling down my face. He hit me again, and then again. Finally, he decided to stop. It wasn’t anything to do with me wanting him to, of course, but because he felt like it.

Just because he stopped hurting me that way in that location didn’t mean he was stopping altogether. He straddled my legs, sitting on them. That put weight on my now battered thigh, making me grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut from the pain. He started slapping my tits and my face. I struggled, but my arms were bound and now my legs were held in place, so it was even more futile than usual. When he paused for a moment, I realized that my thumb felt numb. Not an emergency, but also not something I care to experience for longer than necessary. I opened my eyes and asked Reaction Junkie if the rope could come off. He sat me up and obliged me, wanting his toy to be fully functional. By the time he finished untying me, my thumb was back to normal.

When the rope was off, Reaction Junkie allowed me a few moments to rest. He comforted me, telling me, “There, there. You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay.” By the end of the night, those words would provide no solace. To the contrary, because of the way he was saying them, and because he would tell me such things in the midst of frightening me and hurting me, each time he said them, I became more and more certain that he would do the very things he was saying he wouldn’t. Promises not to hurt me meant pain was imminent, guarantees of safety meant certain danger. In my mind, reassurances turned upside down into threats. In fact, Reaction Junkie eventually had to switch to telling me “You’re not safe. I’m going to hurt you. You’re in mortal peril.” to convince me he meant me no harm. My mind was thoroughly and deliciously fucked.

When I stopped crying, Reaction Junkie resumed his lesson about what it means for him to own me. He made a comment about the horrible things he could do to me, and I replied that he probably shouldn’t do some of them there, at the playspace. He looked at me and, using that voice, he said, “I don’t think you understand how much power I have when it comes to you.” He reminded me that I’m his property, that no one else cares, and that he could kill me and no one would even notice until it was too late. Then he began to hurt my thigh again.

I now have a fantasy that is all but guaranteed to give me a strong, high quality orgasm. Of course, it’s fucked up, and I’m a dumb cunt for wanting it to come true.

The idea of a man or, preferably, men, beating me, tossing me around, raping me, and then cumming in me while I beg them not to has been getting me off like crazy. I want them to fuck my cunt, no condom, not caring that I’m not on birth control. To slap me around and choke me. To tell me they don’t care about my begging, that what I want doesn’t matter. That they know my preferences, listened to me talk about them, understand them, and are now just fucking ignoring them.

I want them to laugh at my tears, my attempts to bargain, and especially at my shouts of “Red!”, as if they give a fuck about my little safeword. I want to hear them talk to me about filling my cunt with their cum, about how they’re going to use me over the next 48 hours, and tell me that if I’m good, maybe they’ll let me have EC. Maybe.

I want to be forced to cum as they pound my unprotected hole, to hear them laugh and tell me how pathetic I am for getting off on being violated so intimately, on being marked like this, on having every part of me taken away from my control and used for their pleasure. I want them to force me to look into their eyes as they empty themselves into me.

I want it all recorded on video. I want them to use my hole again while they make me watch my face as I stop fighting back physically within the first few minutes, realizing how futile that is. Then to see myself just give up, see the fight go out of my eyes. To see where I accept that this is going to happen and simply sob quietly as I’m used like the cumrag I am.

And then, maybe not the first time, maybe not the second time, but eventually, I’ll stop resisting. I’ll even stop accepting. I’ll start craving it, start asking for it. I’ll beg them to fill me, leave me with cum dripping down my leg. I’ll fuck them back, moaning as I think about the risk and imagine the shame of getting pregnant from this, shuddering as I think about how I’m just a cumdump, a set of holes for them to use. They don’t give a fuck what I want. I couldn’t stop them, even if I tried. This was going to happen from the moment they decided they wanted to do it.

When they finally decide they’re done with me, I imagine them buying EC and taunting me with it. Making me humiliate and degrade myself further, desperately trying to earn it from them. When they finally give me the pills, it will be far too late to be anywhere near as effective as I need them to be. Then, to drive home the extreme violation and the ownership that they, not I, have over my body, when I find myself pregnant, they’ll force me to get an abortion.

Maybe they’ll accompany me to the clinic, and whisper in my ear in the waiting room. Other people will think they’re being reassuring, but they’ll actually be telling me how I asked for this, how I’m a stupid cunt for being in this situation. They’ll be describing what they did to me, making me relive it. And they’ll know how wet I’m getting, imagining what happened that led me to be sitting there, waiting to be called in.

Or maybe they’ll be even more cruel. Organize a protest on the day of my appointment, forcing me to walk past angry, shouting people who call me a murderer and a whore. I’ll have to sit in the clinic with other upset women, and I’ll know it’s my fault that those protesters are out there.

Of course, they aren’t monsters. They’ll be there to take me home afterwards. And then they’ll do it all over again.

I sit in my Ann Arbor apartment, waiting for you to text me and tell me you’re here. I’m excited, since I haven’t seen you in weeks, and nervous, for the same reason. I fiddle with the hem of my dress. It’s a red, clingy thing. The sleeveless cut, and tight fit make it suitable for going out to a club or a party, not for sitting around in my apartment, and I feel a bit silly. But I didn’t pick it out because it would make me comfortable. I picked it out because I think you’ll like it. At least I hope you will. Standing up, I walk to the bathroom, walking in heels I’ve finally mastered in order to wear them for you. They’re the black ones with the heels I say are ridiculously high, but I know you’ve said you liked my ass in them. I look in the mirror and make a face. I never wear makeup, but I am now. Not much, just some eye shadow, eyeliner, and lipstick, but to me it feels like a lot.

Finally, my phone buzzes. You’re here! Taking a deep breath, I walk out my door and up the stairs to let you in. I grin when I see you waiting in the entrance, and you smile back. I open the door and you put down your stuff to give me a big hug. We go downstairs and into my apartment, talking about things like my drive up to Ann Arbor and who we’re going to see the next day and all the vegan food I plan to eat. We sit on my couch, still talking, and when I finish what I’m saying, you look at me and say in that voice, “I do like that dress, the way it shows off your tits and your ass, but didn’t you offer me something, cunt? Something about not wearing any clothes while we’re in this apartment together?” I jump a little, feeling myself grow warm. “Oh, shit. Yes. Sorry, sir.” I stand up and start to take off the dress, but you tell me to stop and give me a push. “Bedroom. Now. Crawl.” I get down onto my hands and knees and crawl in my dress and heels to my room.

“Take the clothes off and sit on the bed.” I comply, pulling the dress over my head and slipping off the heels. I sit on the bed, arms up, hands behind my head, completely naked now. You can see that I’ve clearly shaved my armpits, and I open my legs wide, exposing my freshly shaved cunt. I look up at you, and lick my lips, waiting to see what you’re going to do next.

You run your hand up my smooth, hairless leg. “I see you’ve finally figured out how to groom yourself properly, fucktoy. To make yourself as appealing as possible to men, especially to the men you pretend to hate. The ones who know women are inferior, only good to pump cum into. The ones who think body hair on women is disgusting, and that all women are obligated to shave. Who think women’s bodies are disgusting. Even the useful holes.”

I lowered my head and looked down moments after you started talking. Now I’m staring at the floor, feeling a combination of arousal and shame. I know that what you’re saying is actually part of the play we do, and yet…I did shave. And doing that makes me more attractive to the very men I like least, just like you said. I’d always claimed I wouldn’t shave for any man, and now I’ve shaved for every man. So how much is really just pretend?

“How did you feel like you were shaving?” you ask. I take a deep breath. My answer here doesn’t require pretending “Turned on. And like a traitor to feminism. To my feminism.” “Oh?” you say. “Why is that, little feminist bitch?” “I was doing it because you told me to, yes. But deeper than that, I was doing it because I understand that my purpose is to please men. What I want, what I prefer? Those don’t matter. My personality and intelligence? Just emergent properties of a life support system for a set of holes.” You smile at my reference, “You’re clever, although I’ve heard that one before. That’s what so pathetic about this. You’re supposed to be this intelligent, strong, independent woman. You pretend that this is all about playing. About your pleasure. Like you’re doing this because of what you get out of it. But you know that’s just a front you put up to your friends. So they won’t think less of you. But you and I both know that you’re doing this because of what I get out of it. What other men get out of it. Because you’re a thing that belongs to me and you’ll do anything I say. Isn’t that right, stupid slut?”

My face is hot and my pussy is wet. Shifting uncomfortably, I say quietly, “Yes, sir.” You grab my chin and lift it to make me look at you. “What was that?” I take a breath and say “Yes, sir. I’m a toy you own and use for your pleasure. A toy you loan out for other men to use. That’s my purpose. It’s what I crave. To be used, degraded, and hurt by men, for their enjoyment. I belong to you and I’ll follow any instruction you give me, no matter the consequences to me.” “Good,” you respond, “Now that you’re done pretending to be a strong woman, a “feminist,” I’m going to use you exactly how I want. And you’re not going to stop me. Toys don’t get to tell their owners they don’t want to be used a certain way. In fact, they can’t tell their owners anything. I’m going to tie you face down on your bed, and then I’m going to cane you and whip you. I’m going to keep doing it until you safeword. And then I’m going to keep doing it. When I get tired of watching you react to that, I’m going to fuck your ass. I’m not going to use lube. I’m not even going to spit on you. Once we start, I’m not going to stop until I’m done with you. Nothing you say or do will stop me. Do you understand, cunt?”

I look up at you, then away, then back. “Yes,” I say, afraid but determined. ”I understand, sir.” “And why are we doing this” “To show the depth of my submission. How completely you own me, body and mind. I’m making a decision to allow you to do anything you want to my body, even if I can’t take it. Even if I’m sobbing, pleading with you to stop. I want to completely give myself over to you. Making the decision to remove the possibility of being able to stop what’s happening shows how fully I belong to you. In the middle of things, my body might force me to safeword, even if I was mentally willing. Now that can’t happen. Your ownership of me is complete.”

“Good.” You reach over, smiling when I flinch, and ruffle my hair briefly. Then you grab a fistful of hair and pull hard, forcing me onto my stomach. You tie my wrists and ankles to the corners of the bed, and I’m left unable to move, completely at your mercy, or lack thereof. I hear you move over to your bag, and I try to relax my body and mind to prepare for what’s coming. I’m breathing fast and trembling, though, fear and arousal combined. I’m afraid to look at what you’ve decided to use on me first. I hear a noise and then feel the sting as the cane hits my ass. It isn’t hard, not yet. You get into a rhythm, striking my ass and the backs of my thighs, but just as I’m getting into it, you switch it up, not letting me get adjusted. You’re hitting harder now, and I struggle not to try to move out of the position I’m in.
I’m breathing faster now, trying to keep it slow and steady and starting to fail. Just before I would have safeworded, the painful hits cease. I’m not sure what you’re doing until I feel something way worse hit me where my ass and thighs meet. You’re whipping me now, which I can’t handle anywhere near as well as I can take the caning. You don’t start out hitting me softly with this, and it’s only a minute or two before I don’t think I can take any more. I take a breath to say, “Red,” not thinking clearly enough to know that won’t work, when again, you stop.

I think maybe you’ve changed your mind. Maybe you’re done now. Then you put your phone in front of my face, video recording. “Tell the camera what’s happening and why. You won’t be able to lie to yourself or to your friends anymore about what you are. If you don’t decide to tell them the truth, I’ll just show them this at some point.” You start with the cane again, landing a couple of blows hard enough that I start to cry. I look at myself in the screen, my makeup completely ruined, tears running down my face.

I start to speak, seeing my winces and grimaces as you continue caning me. “I’ve given myself completely over to MLAM. To my owner. He’s going to hit me with this cane and whip me until I say “Red” and then he’s not going to stop. When he’s bored of that, he’s going to fuck my ass without any lube, except maybe blood. I told you I was going to do this, but I don’t know if you really believed me. I don’t know if I really believed me, at least at first. You suggested having emergency safewords. I gave up all control. There’s absolutely nothing I can do to make this stop, and I don’t want there to be. I want…No. Need to be used like just a piece of fuckmeat. I told you, ‘He says he’s not going to use lube. But I’m going to talk to him for real and make him.’ I didn’t even try to change his mind. He’s going to use me with absolutely no regard for what I want, let alone my pleasure.” I’m crying harder now, but I continue, stopping to sob every so often, “This is happening because I asked for it. I literally asked to be treated this way. I pretend that it’s because I like it. That it’s about me enjoying myself, about me having fun. I tell you that the reason I like MLAM is because I know he doesn’t mean the things he says about me, about women, that we’re playing. None of that is true. He just showed me that those things he says, the ‘fucking with my feminism?’ It’s just the truth. I’m three holes and a heartbeat, and this is how I deserve to be treated. I crave the feeling of being used, degraded, and hurt by men. Anything else I say is the playing. This is my reality.”

As I say the last bit, you hit me with the whip, hard, and it’s the last straw. “Red,” I manage to squeak out. “What was that?” you ask, and I say more loudly, “Red. Red! Please stop!” You pause for a moment, then laugh derisively, “No.” and bring the whip down again, even harder this time. It hurts, and the fact that I can’t stop it really hits me now. “Please? MLAM, come on. Red!” I’m sobbing hard now, pleading, begging, and cajoling. You grab a handful of hair and pull my head up. “No. I’m not done. Shut up, pisswhore.” You let go of my hair and start caning me. I stop trying to say anything, and start to struggle, but I’m not going anywhere. I start to float up into my head, but you keep switching the rhythm, pattern, and tool you’re using, making it impossible to get away mentally. Finally, I try one last time. “Please, sir? I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just please, stop.” You stop hitting me long enough to say, “That’s cute. But no. We both know you’d do anything for me anyway. You’re just that eager to please. Dumb bitch.” You go back to hitting me, and I start to feel spots where the skin has opened up and I’m bleeding. I’m not crying anymore, mostly just breathing loudly and roughly.

I register that you’re not hitting me anymore, and I’m relieved until I feel you roughly push a finger into my ass, add another, and pump in and out a couple times. You move to start fucking me, and I manage to say “I thought you were going to use a condom. You said you didn’t want unprotected anal because of the risk of pregnancy.” You reply, “Oh, honey. No. I don’t give a fuck about what happens to your body. I’ll just make you take EC, or get an abortion, or just drop you. You start pushing your cock in, no lube, not even spit. Just like you said. Lately, I’ve been having my ass used more, and more roughly, than I ever have before, but this is uncomfortable, painful, even, in a way none of that has been. I try to relax, just let it happen, but my body is tense and tight, and I can’t get away from the feeling. Finally, I hear you groan and say into my ear, “Look at this, you slut. You took my whole cock in your ass. No lube. Good job. I guess you’re good for something.” I shudder at the combination of praise and degradation.

You fuck my hole for what can’t be more than a minute or two, but seems like much longer, and then I feel you pull out. “I know you think that the fact that I’m not using lube is a perfect illustration of the idea that this is all about you. I’d enjoy it more with lube, right?” I try to answer, but can’t really manage words or much complex thought. “Well, that’s true,” you say, and when you push back inside me, I can tell there’s lube on your cock. You grab my hair again, and pull my head back to look at you. “This isn’t about you. This is about my pleasure. So I’m going to use lube to get the best use from your ass as possible. Just remember, though. You are so fully owned, so fucking pathetic, so thoroughly desperate for male attention, for my approval, that you were willing to let me fuck that tight hole of yours without lube.” You fuck me hard and deep, and the lube doesn’t do much to stop it from hurting.

Despite, or because of, the cruel treatment, the pain from the rough anal, and the pain from everywhere I’ve been hit, I realize how hot and wet my cunt is. I moan softly and push back against you briefly, then freeze. “Not about you, fuckhole. Shut up.” you say, and as you slam into my ass, you push my head into the bed so I can’t speak and can barely breathe. I lay there, quiet and still, a sextoy, here for you to stick your cock in and fill with cum. I belong to you, all I want is to serve that purpose. After I don’t know how long, you thrust in deep and cum inside me, making me shiver happily, feeling like I’ve finally managed to be useful.

You collapse on me and lay there, collecting yourself. When you stand up, I expect to be untied and cuddled. Instead you put on some clothes and look at your phone. “I posted an ad on craigslist for you. I’ve gotten a couple texts from men who are going to come and use you, and I’m going to get 25 bucks a hole. One of them just got here, so I’ll go let him in.” You walk out of my room, leaving me dazed, used, frightened, uncertain, excited, and deeply satisfied.