Sunday, July 31, 2016
Saturday, July 30, 2016
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Saturday, July 23, 2016
=Abduction Under the Sign of the Hummingbird=
The agent, if that is what you call him, carefully examines
the nine sheets of paper she has so far signed, or done her best to sign. Her
signature is shaky; her hand is trembling slightly.
“These look okay,” he says in his pale voice. “Everything in
order. More or less. Enough that is, to get us started.”
“So when do you…” Kathy made a gesture, which, once she
realized what it looked like, she aborted, horrified. “…you know…”
She signed instead the last three sheets.
“Soon,” the man says, somewhat enigmatically, gathering up
the dozen pages.
He stands up, or is going to. First, he packs up everything in
his briefcase and snaps it shut with authority. The briefcase bears a logo, or perhaps
it is a crest, that at least looks official in that vaguely governmental way
that such crests have. The man himself has, overall, the “faded” appearance
typical of spooks, governmental and otherwise. He’s made a lifetime habit of
taking parts in conversations just like this one, where one gets one’s point
across without saying anything, or as close to that as possible. Even looking
at him now, Kathy has no idea, really, what he looks like.
“Okay then,” she says, smoothing, unnecessarily, her
navy-blue skirt, “I guess that’s…” She thinks about having a cigarette but
doesn’t. “That.”
* * *
Morgan is watching him, from the sedan, through a pair of
high-powered opera glasses, while his partner, Talbot, sketches something,
maybe that elm tree by the playground, or is it a linden?
“That’s him,” he says, and adds reluctantly, “I think…”
Talbot looks up from his sketchbook, almost disinterested,
and gazes vaguely off in the direction of the basketball court at which Morgan half-heartedly
directs his attention. “Which one?” he asks, reluctantly, as if prompted by
someone not in the sedan.
“The blonde.”
“Which one?”
“The one in the red shorts.”
Talbot looks confused, somehow, still. So Morgan adds, “He’s
the one who can’t seem, for the life of him, to go left.”
“Ah…” Talbot says, but without conviction, or maybe not
paying enough attention, once again bent intently, even more intently than
before, over his sketchbook, trying to render a fence-post, or, perhaps, it’s
supposed to be a fire hydrant. Let's face it, he's earnest enough, but just not
very good at rendering reality.
* * *
“Hmm?” she says, smiling, pretending she’s still chewing.
“The right thing about what, exactly?”
“About Kenny…you know.”
“Oh yes…oh Kenny…” Alyssa, formerly Beth, waved her fork,
momentarily empty, in a little circle in the air, “…he’ll get used to it…I
guess.”
It was possible, Kathy mused, sipping her white wine again,
that her friend had no idea what they were talking about. Sometimes, she
thinks, I’m not sure I do either. Maybe, just maybe, it’s true that all her
more or less happy friends, like Alyssa, are right when they tell her: it’s
much better that way.
* * *
Mary Pat is holding him, stroking his limp penis, comforting
him, telling him it’s okay to make a mess, they will have to strip the bed
anyway. In all likelihood, they’ll probably roll him right up in the sheet when
they’re finished, to get rid of, as she, rather matter-of-factly, puts it,
“what remains of the evidence.”
“She’ll find out…she knows…she…?”
“Its okay,” Mary Pat says, and Kenny notes the tone of her
voice: tenderly amused. It’s meant to be reassuring and it really does calm
him, momentarily. “Its okay” she repeats herself, and, surprisingly, it really
does seem okay until he decides to ask the next question.
“When…will they…”
“Oh darling…”
Mary Pat’s own penis, shall we say it, is still inside
Kenny’s ass right now, and she is moving her hips ever so slowly, letting Kenny
feel it inside him, filling him, as she kindly strokes Kenny’s indecisive
little member, which harden and softens, hardens and softens, endlessly, as if
he has an entire lifetime to cum, but he doesn’t.
* * *
Across from him, his visitor nodded, politely, accepting the
compliment. J. Loft had a reputation as a man who could please men who were
difficult to please. Unlike some men with a similar reputation, J. Loft also
had the talent to back it up, which was fortunate because such men were often
irascible, unreasonable, and dangerously negative. The man who sat opposite him
was such a man. He had lost his voice, and much of everything else, to what it
is easiest to simply call “cancer” and leave it at that. But it’s much more
complicated than that. He has been
kept alive, marginally, with certain experimental medicaments. The ingredients
to these not-quite-miracle drugs, although not exactly uncommon or even expensive,
were, how can we put this as delicately, as diplomatically as possible?
Let’s just say they are “inconvenient.”
"What is extra pleasing," continued the man in the
armchair (let's call him R.), "is the symmetry of the entire operation.
There is an aesthetic circularity to it all that is rare to find these days. In
evil, I mean. Do you understand?"
J. Loft did not understand, not really, but he nodded, like
a fellow adept at these matters, instead of a businessman, a provider of
special services to those who could pay handsomely for the provision of special
services. He found it a pleasure, really, after so many years in covert work,
not to be pestered with a thousand-and-one unnecessary questions from above:
did you cover your tracks, leave any witnesses, clues, hints, loose ends, etc.
and to work instead, sans supervision, under the assumption that he was
competent enough to do the job he'd been hired to do, to be treated, in other
words, like the professional he was.
"I am a man who enjoys being a man," his employer
continued, "even in my…somewhat…erm… diminished…capacity. Perhaps…"
and he gazed outside, fondly, towards the pool, where three turquoise dolphins
were playing, "all the more so for my diminution."
J. Loft didn't speak; he wasn't paid to speak, so he was
fairly stingy with his words. He wasn't paid to listen, either, but, of the
two, the latter was by far the more appropriate, closer, in any event, to what
he was getting paid to do. Using his time economically, he thought of his next
job as the man spoke, making a mental checklist: silencers, curare, a pear-shaped
vibrator, a chastity belt, and plenty of pink electrical tape. Tools of the
trade.
"It's not exactly as if the boy will be separated from
anything he'll really miss," the man in the armchair was saying. His
voice, naturally not his own, had been programmed and remixed from old movies.
It was a mash-up of the voices of Cary Grant, Robert Mitchum, and, of all
people, Marlene Dietrich. "Well…" he started, but could not go
further. He was doubled over, guffawing uncontrollably, the tears streaming
down his face. Apparently, he’d accidentally pressed the button that activated a
laugh track.
J. Loft supplied what should have been the punchline.
"Not anything except, perhaps, his life."
* * *
The man in the black suit looks at a small pastel-colored
business card in the palm of his hand and says: "Are you Mr. Gregory
Tanner?"
"No," Kenny says, but the encounter has him, admittedly, unnerved. He has been getting
phone calls for the last three weeks, every day, the anonymous voice on the
other end asking the same disembodied question. "No," he repeats, but
without much conviction. As if he knows instinctively it is pointless: he can't
convince anyone of anything. "I'm not this man."
"That's funny," the man in the black suit says,
checking the business card again. "It seems quite impossible from the
information that we’ve gathered that you aren’t Greg Tanner. Are you quite
certain?”
“Why…yes. I’m sure. I don’t even know any Gregory Tanners.”
“How can you be so certain that you aren’t Mr. Tanner then?
If you don’t even know who he is?”
They are in a supermarket where Kenny has gone to pick up
some milk and bread and a few other items Kathy has asked him to bring home.
They are standing, for no good reason, in front of the frozen food section,
where they have the Indian dishes, various sorts of masala and makhani and saag
paneers and whatnot.
"Sir…I really should go…"
"Yes you should."
But the man in the black suit, his name, what he claims his
name is, anyway—Talbot, wasn't it?--doesn't move and it's clear that he doesn't
intend to let Kenny pass either, not yet. Instead he lifts his left hand to
Kenny's face, and lays it almost paternally against Kenny's right cheek. What
Talbot says next, he says in a very soft voice, "You are warm,
sweetheart…"
Kenny imagines, wildly, that this anomalous gesture is some
kind of signal to hidden cohorts. That he is about to be arrested, thrown
against the freezer doors, cuffed, driven away to an undisclosed location.
"I want…to buy…wildflowers…" he says, desperately,
and gestures, feebly, towards the front of the store, where the exit is, and
the floral bouquets, both of which are impossible to see from where they are
now standing.
"Yes,
naturally, but they must be red carnations," Talbot says and allows Kenny
to think that he's finished with this unsavory encounter by the frozen foods
for some blessed seconds before he adds, "no, white. The red will show
wonderfully against your alabaster skin. "
* * *
Pam is looking at her right nipple, squeezing it between the
thumb and forefinger of her right hand, examining it, as if seeing it for the
first time, wondering what it was doing there or, as if she weren't really
seeing it at all and trying to convince herself of its presence.
"Sweetie?"
Kathy prompts.
Pam looks up, pouting, automatically, and for some reason
Kathy thinks of her husband, standing in front of a full-length mirror, on
painted tiptoes, following with his similarly feminized hand the delicate curve
of his arched spine and pantied tush. The photograph, taken, supposedly, at an
oceanside hotel resort, did not seem to be of Kenny at all, but when she
questioned the man who slid it, along with others, across the glass-topped
table in the atrium of the downtown Marriott, she remembered him saying,
"Oh, but it will be."
"Huh?" Pam says, looking, with her new haircut,
remarkably like Alyssa, who looked like red-headed Beth, only with her hair
pinned up and blonde; Beth, who was, of course, her mother. "Did you say
something?"
"Yes…no…never
mind…your mom, she's in Bucharest, isn't she? She told me last Tuesday."
"No, I think its Gdansk."
"Hmm," Kathy hums. "Well, anyway, I guess I
should be getting…" and she notices just how spacey the hashish, or the
champagne, or the sex, or all three are making her feel and sound. "…Somewhere."
"I haven't come yet," Pam says, sounding
unashamedly spoiled, petulant, childish. She picks up a joint, already lit,
from somewhere, from a small change pocket in the side of her neck is what it
seemed like, but, of course, couldn’t be. Her eyes look, somehow, inverted.
Kathy absently strokes the girl's soft white belly, just
below the navel, pierced, as expected, and the intention, clearly, is to return
to licking her moist, very lightly furred pussy, now oozing chocolate chiffon,
but that's not what's in the cards, so to speak.
"Lick my toes," Pam says urgently. "That will
get me off quick."
Kathy, who knows this kid's body as well as her own, never
suspected this about Pam, but the idea excites her, and she immediately thinks
of placing halved strawberries between the girl's notoriously perfect white
toes, the image reminding her, effectively, of strawberry shortcake.
"Could you please," Kathy says, thus inspired, her
breath hitching a little, "ring the kitchen?"
* * *
He is aware, of course, that he may have been followed, or
that the room itself, as improbable as it might seem, is being monitored, and,
how improbable is that really, nowadays? Is Kathy having him watched? Does she
suspect something? Is she preparing papers for divorce?
He slips his hand over his soft tummy to the front of his
panties, silk, impossibly cool, under his trembling fingertips. He isn't hard
at all, which makes perfect sense; it comes as no surprise. He’s been taking
those pills that come in the mail, sent, by god knows who, to his office. The
packages come on the sixth, ninth, fifteenth, and twenty-seventh day of each
and every month since he can't even remember when.
* * *
The man in the black suit is standing against the railing of
the boardwalk, his back to the colorless ocean, which lies flat and dull behind
him, like a razor blade used too many times. He puts the cigarette case back
into the breast pocket of his black suit, returns the light to the pocket of
his black pants, and folds his arms, looking down at Mary Pat with a false benevolence.
"We understand," he says, as if speaking for the
majority of people in the world. “You might even say it is the very reason that
we chose you."
"He is my friend, goddammit…" Mary Pat dragged
nervously on the cigarette, which tasted, surprisingly, normal. He shifted his
weight on his long legs, his short skirt riding upward, almost over the tops of
his stockings. His white blouse, partially unbuttoned, showed a pink bra, and
not as much in it as he would have liked, but that was a situation he was in
the process of correcting, even as he spoke. "It's just not fair…what you
are doing…to me, to us…"
Talbot,
or whoever it was, nodded. “Duly noted.”
* * *
When he resumes speaking his voice might be coming from a
different person altogether. In fact, it is. His head, immobilized for his own
safety, doesn’t move, but his eyes flick left-right, right-left, left-right,
right-left, etc. to the two photographs pinned side by side on the light-box.
Kenny-Kathy, Kathy-Kenny, Kenny-Kathy, Kathy-Kenny, etc.
“…which confirms,” and he struggles to form the words out of
the poisonous phlegm thickening his windpipe, “that we only love ourselves.”
* * *
On a canvas lounge chair, on the porch, Kenny lies, his
thin, tanned, well-toned body barely dressed, he can't help but notice, in a
royal-blue bikini, very skimpy, and a needle stick in the back of his left
hand, an IV dripping into him, slowly. What is dripping into him, however, is a
mystery, and although he could theoretically ask one of the nurses, or whatever
they are, who come by occasionally to change the bag on the metal pole, he is,
in practice, either asleep when they come, or somehow, he forgets to ask.
"Don't I need to get back…to something?" he asks
someone, maybe it’s Mary Pat, who sits beside him, reading an old fat novel.
It’s not the sort of book anyone really reads, although it’s
creased and worn as if a thousand hands have flipped its pages. Something she
must have found in the day room, something by someone named…oh, he can't see
the name, what's the difference anyway?
Mary Pat, if it’s her, lowers the book. Her eyes are hidden
behind very dark glasses. She smiles.
"There’s no hurry," she says.
The way she says it brings tears to Kenny's eyes.
"I'm very tan," he says irrelevantly.
Just for the
hell of it, he tries to remember when the last time he ate might have been, but
he can't think back that far. "And very thin. I guess…" and his eyes fall
level on the ocean, swollen and blue, over the porch railing. Suddenly he has a
thought: "…will they drown me, then?"
Mary Pat pretends not to hear, or maybe she really doesn't,
but some time later, in response to some other dreamy half-sentence that Kenny
utters almost without knowing it, she chuckles affectionately, and says,
"You're so silly."
* * *
That woman in the photo looks so much like me, she thinks,
it’s a good thing they found the body in a motel room where…?
She checks the article again.
In Minnesota.
The glass door slides open and Kenny stands there with two
tall frosted glasses of lime-slush and gin. He’s wearing a tiny bikini bottom
and a pink pair of her rubber thong platform sandals. His oiled body is smooth
and slender and tan all over. Looking up at him, she knows the news story of
the murdered woman is all wrong, full of misstated facts, faulty deduction, and
wrongly arrived at conclusions, but that doesn’t make it any less eerie.
“Mojitos, sort of,” he shrugs and smiles with the forced
cheer of someone with a gun at his back.
Then, mirroring Kathy’s troubled
expression his demeanor suddenly changes to something slightly less faux, “…is
something…wrong? You look…” but he’s waiting for Kathy to fill in the blank,
which she never quite gets around to doing. Or maybe she can’t, and she’s
waiting for him to…what?
Whatever it is it remains unspoken, a blank space, but
underscored, highlighted, set off in parenthesis, to remind them always that
something, some crucial something, will always be missing.
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Saturday, July 16, 2016
=My mouth is your pussy, Daddy=
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Monday, July 11, 2016
=Survivor=
You’ll have to forgive me
I’m not in my right mind
anymore. By now
I’ve had a lot taken out of me.
It was inevitable, I guess,
considering how it started.
All those years of lying
have left me hoarse
like Babe Ruth
with cancer
a whole stadium hushed
to hear death
whispering.
I’ll show you the scars
if you like
where they cut the song
right out of me
and if you don’t like.
Go now, its best if you do,
there’s nothing here to love,
just a lot of holes
where someone has been before.
What’s a survivor, anyway,
but a map of mistakes,
of paths best avoided?
Am I here to teach you something
do you think,
to inspire you
to comfort you
or am I just a sideshow freak?
I didn’t come through the fire
for you,
for anyone,
not even for myself.
Truth is, when it burns,
you just go to the place
where it stops burning the most.
That’s all.
That place is here.
I’m talking now because it still hurts
and won’t stop
and though its quieter
and sounds almost reasonable
please understand
that I’m not talking to communicate anything
that what you’re hearing is nothing
but the fading of a scream.
Saturday, July 9, 2016
=Dreams don't just come true=
Friday, July 8, 2016
=Sunday in the Village=
A seagull, having stolen a consecrated wafer directly from
the chalice of a nearby church, flew to the beach and dove beak-downward into
the sea and never resurfaced. The officiating priest declared this to be a
miracle, men reportedly grew breasts, and the tree in the courtyard exploded
into a thousand apostolic flames. That night, woken by the sound of all the
graves in the village cemetery opening, a little boy in pajamas walked sleepily
into his parent’s bedroom and asked, “Mommy, why is the big angel in the
backyard carrying the flag of Switzerland?” Poor kid. He didn’t see his father
hiding behind the door with the wig in his hand, not even when it was too late.
=Sissie Day Camp!=
Thursday, July 7, 2016
=A Childhood Memory=
“I’ve got no more,” she says, and turns her cup upside down
to show me. She’s sitting up in bed, reading, where she once had sex with my
father. Her eyes catch her reflection in the mirror on the dresser across the
room. “Not a drop left. See?”
“But, Mom, I’m thirsty.”
“Go ask your father.”
He’s sitting there in his easy chair, looking wise and
benevolent, but straight through me, at the TV. He seems to know why I’m here already, doesn’t say a word,
just mutely turns his cup upside down without taking his eyes from the
television, a really elegant gesture.
I’m so distraught, so distraught I’m no longer even thirsty.
But what can I do?
I run away from home, but after a while I realize the
obvious: there’s nowhere to go. So I return home. I see our house in the
distance, over the hill. No one has come after me. They knew I’d have to come
back. Where else could I possibly
go? I feel like I’ve dropped a burden I didn’t even know I was carrying,
lighter somehow, like I could walk without bending the grass, freer, like it
never really mattered.
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
=Girl with a hard-on=
Tuesday, July 5, 2016
=The Perversities=
(for Cyndy)
“What will follow is the psychopathology of sex,
relationships so lunar and abstract that people will become mere extensions of
the geometries of situations. This will allow the exploration, without any
taint of guilt, of every aspect of psychopathology.”
--JG Ballard
1.
…so, yes, there are people who would love to have us
together. still, i want to be the one to ruin you. nobody can handle that the
way i can
hmmm...i was thinking maybe you could cut & bleach my
hair & have me pierced...
these other people are just a community that will accept you
and treat you as my little…
i think most of
the really freaky, sexy destructive things will be between you and me.
i've come to learn there is no shortage of sexy freaks in this area.
2.
i do have a thing for your blood. i can see craving it so
much, i might bleed you every day. i'll slap your face until your pretty lip
bleeds, then passionately kiss you, tasting your blood on my pink tongue.
speaking of tongues, i've been thinking of having yours pierced.
i luv the idea that other people would accept us for what we
are!!
i always laugh when i think of my diapered little sissykins
at "work". how cute! i'm sure they take you *so* seriously, you
precious pretty baby.
3.
theyd see the outward signs of what you were doing to me
& theyd wonder and whisper...but only we'd know for sure....and finally
only you'd know
…bite my lips until the flesh breaks, oozing blood as you
kiss me, sucking my bloody tongue into your mouth and biting that too, holding
me tight so i cant pull away...
...only you would know...
4.
i have a lot i'd love to share with you, if you get the
notion to talk or write a bit. some of what i want to tell you is just stuff i
want to complain about, but there's also hot real and fantasy stuff. i didn't
sleep last night. i'm sooo tired. unfortunately i can't sleep because my
shoulder hurts like crazy.
you could smack me until my mouth bleeds, or just bite
5.
they'll see the results of my influence on you- your loss of
control, your diminishing use of anything but…
--honestly, you wouldn't be able to maintain your fake
"normal" exterior for long.
i'm in L.A. right now.
i'm in L.A. right now.
6.
i think its so cool you told someone else about us. i like,
tho, that you'd keep some things just between us :) & some things i wouldnt
even completely know for sure. i luv that
baby-talk to communicate, your total dependence, all that.
but they won't know the secret things i do to you to make you my helpless
little…
maybe kayte….
......thats totally hot,
7.
ugh! i'm supposed to film that movie beginning tuesday, but
i can't even lift my arm. very weird! i think i'll go to the hospital in a
little bit.
i'd luv her to see me lying in your arms sucking your pretty
tittie...
8.
......well im at work right now (can you imagine?) so its hard to call back, but i'd luv to:
i think i need to be much more "relaxed" when i call you until youve
completely broken down my resistance & fear...then i'd happily call you all
the time from anywhere :)
oh, my trip to brazil...very freaky.
.....you cut the veins above my ankles & let the blood
drip over my trembling toes as your pretty hands tighten around my throat...
9.
well, i understand you being a litle scaredy-cat about
calling back, but i know in time you'll need to call me *all* the time.
adoration, dependence and sweet addiction will overcome you before long.
&, no, i dont struggle at all, too weak, too submissive,
& wanting to be the picture-perfect victim for you...
10.
could tickle your little peepee with the stud, & my
speech would be all messed up, & o the little click-click as the stud hit
my teeth...
and then there's the night i spent with this ultra-freaky
chick named kayte on thursday before coming here. kayte would love us together.
i know that 100%. i tell her about you and she gets totally hot hearing about
what we're into. she also has a ton of freaky friends.
& oh its so sexy to think you'd be "abusing" me behind the scenes...destroying me...and making me weaker and weaker...and totally dependent on you...
& oh its so sexy to think you'd be "abusing" me behind the scenes...destroying me...and making me weaker and weaker...and totally dependent on you...
making me your helpless hopeless addict: ruin me!!! make me soooooo sick......
i'd really want you to have my tongue pierced...& my
slavemouth
11.
ive been having the most intense fantasies of that: of you
drinking my blood every day. sometimes i picture you biting me, and other times
cutting me, letting the blood trickle over my skin before licking it and then
sucking the wound.
i'd just lie
there with my arms thrown over my head as you positioned me however you wanted
& drink from me, bleed me...
…but begin to suspect and whisper about changes in you and
how i might be making those changes come about.
12.
oh wow, i just took two codeine tablets about 30 minutes ago
and i'm feeling kinda creamy. ha ha, now would be the perfect time for us to
talk.
i wish i was splashing around in the babypool where you are.
are you in the mood to starve me or fatten me up? would my belly be shrunken or
protruding over my diaper & little swimsuit bottoms? :)
...sitting on the floor in my diaper making a messy while
you talked to your friends...
13.
i can barely keep my eyes open and i feel kinda
"floaty" and dum.
14.
i luv getting thinner & weaker cause of your sexy
neglect. oh ...how perfect to feed me xanax so i get too sleepy to fuss over
food! how wonderfully sexily dysfunctional!!!
oh well, do call. or if you want i can call. i think i have
unlimited weekend minutes. that was a problem before i got this cell phone. for
some reason when i changed my home phone company i didnt get long-distance.
...is flying to california in my traveling sissy outfit:
overalls rolled up at the ankles, cute pink sleeveless t, & flipflops...
15.
god i'm just in
a completely blah, blah, blah mode right now. i feel really sexy and stupid at
the moment. haha. my fingers arent too coordinated right now so i'd better send
this. i love you,
o i'd be easy to hook, & very easy to corrupt, & i'd
give up very sweetly, i think :) i luv to think of you orgasming at the signs
of my dependence...i'd like you to orgasm again & again over my pale
addicted-to-you body...
16.
when i say i
have plans for you, i'm serious. hope to hear from you. ciao,
...my ribs and hipbones showing clearly, & my pale arms
and legs getting almost twiglike...
your baby literally starving to death in your arms...
your baby literally starving to death in your arms...
17.
i like the way
you cant enunciate at first because your pretty tongue is swollen. then the
lisp with the little clicking of the stud against your teeth. oooo!
orgasmically hot!!!
18.
hi cutie,
so yes, i told kayte some of what we talk about and she got
really hot. she'd be totally into watching, or more. she's freaky like that. i
didn't tell her everything because i like to keep some secrets between you and
me.
it turns me on for some reason when people don't know for
sure,
19.
i sit in the airport someplace, looking lost, sipping a diet
pepsi, so you can have a look at me & if you like me, you approach, drive
me to the motel ive reserved...
...and for the next week or 2 you begin my 'breakdown' as your fake-asian-diapered-sissyslave, taking away my resistance, keeping me drunk, drugged, bound, starved, diapered...
...and for the next week or 2 you begin my 'breakdown' as your fake-asian-diapered-sissyslave, taking away my resistance, keeping me drunk, drugged, bound, starved, diapered...
so my shoulder still hurts, but i've gotten some good
painkillers that make me feel really dreamy. i emailed the director and told
him i couldn't go tomorrow. i'm half-disappointed, because i wanted to be in a
movie and maybe make a lot of money from it, but who cares. i'll figure
something else out. besides, the script sucked. it seemed like it was written
by an eighth grader.
i want to lick it off your pale skin. nearly all my cruel
images of you involve blood dripping from you, especially from your toes.
21.
i want to be your pale, bleached, blooded, fake-asian,
sissy-slave...
oooo!
oooo!
22.
so i'm just lying around today, my little arm in a sling,
popping vicodin and codeine. yay! :) if you're around, let me know, my
diapered, bleach-blonde fake little asian girl. i may not be totally coherent,
but i think i can be sexy/fun. kisses,
23.
& you kiss my mouth, frothed with spittle & blood
& lipstick, my lips blue, my breath gone...
& my hands lie open & limp at my side...
24.
& my hands lie open & limp at my side...
24.
i'm yours...
25.
maybe i should have a little wine with my vicodin...i like
thinking of filling your baba with red wine, seeing you suck it until you're
stupid.
i always make little plans to have you out here, then gradually get you hooked on pills. you're so fun/sexy to corrupt. i could orgasm just thinking of you beginning to show little signs of dependence.
i always make little plans to have you out here, then gradually get you hooked on pills. you're so fun/sexy to corrupt. i could orgasm just thinking of you beginning to show little signs of dependence.
mmmmm, that makes me want to suck your sexy toesies.
26.
so that by the time i fly back here im already changed,
bleached and pierced, diapered continuously, already yours, & i fly back
& forth for a few more sessions until i'm 'done' &
27.
your deepening dependence to me and addiction to my freaky
desires makes me so hot!! i have my cell phone with me, if you want to call,
i'm out by the pool. if not, write
more and i'll check back here in a little while. you're so much sexier when you
crave my attention. love,
28.
28.
i love the thought of you in your cute little bikini weakly
splashing around at my feet while i lay in a long chair languidly reading a
fashion magazine and drinking red wine.
...uhhhhh...you have me panting, waiting on your emails
already :) i'd luv to do things for you & earn your sexy cruelty in return.
…as much as it turns me on to see your body overfed, i think
i'd want you your tummy to be shrunken and your delicate ribs starting to get
conspicuous.
29.
my shoulder has long since bothered me, but i kinda like the
affect of the wine and codeine. sorry, baby, if i'm too lazy to order out for some food or *gasp* cook it
myself, i've taken to just giving you a xanax when you get fussy with hunger.
& you take me closer & closer to the edge each time
& one time i'll go over & i never know when...
i'd luv to feel your beautiful hand around my skinny pale
throat & feel myself totally at your mercy. i would luv to feel your teeth
marks all over my white flesh...
30.
you're the best kind of slave. i can make you do things for
me, or i can be sweetly cruel and do all kinds of sexy, destructive things to
you. such a hot little plaything you are. hope you're not saddled with too much
responsibility at work today...i have a feeling you won't be able to handle it.
smoochies,
31.
ive barely eaten for a week or so, following a special diet
youve put me on to "get me ready," sending you photos of me by
internet...
my life is completely yours...
32.
32.
...i'm spaced-out a bit on xanax...
33.
i definitely not proud of this, but i can't help but be
turned on by the thought of making you my pretty little addict. you wouldn't
even realize fully what i was doing to you until it was too late and you were
completely hooked. i have twisted little fantasies like that.
...its silly, huh, me acting all 'growed up?' i know it could be pretty simple to become totally dependent on you. i think that was more or less about to happen when we talked last time. god, i was really far gone that day!!
...its silly, huh, me acting all 'growed up?' i know it could be pretty simple to become totally dependent on you. i think that was more or less about to happen when we talked last time. god, i was really far gone that day!!
34.
that's sooooo weird that you said this...i was thinking
exactly the same thing…
35.
what a yummy image of you lounging by the pool reading
fashion magazines & sipping wine while i splash around!
… i like biting you and all this talk of cruelty made me want to taste your blood, cut you or bite you hard. i just love the thought of your blood on my lips.
36.
now you've planted the thought of my soft hands tightening
around your slender throat. too hot!! i love that you gasp, but you're too weak
and submissive to struggle, your lips blue beneath the sensuous red lipstick.
37.
i wish i could feed you with my blood!!!
38.
& i luv you totally!
39.
xxxxx
40.
...thats what im dreaming of now...
(This piece is based on a long-running series of internet chats that I had with a dominant t-girl named Cyndy. We never met—primarily because I was too frightened that she might be unstable—an ironic & arguably unfair assessment inasmuch as I was an enthusiastic & active participant in these dark fantasies—albeit as the victim—& I don't consider myself any more unstable than the next person. There was also an entire country between us making a real life meeting problematic. Yet even when I was in California for several weeks in the early 2000s & staying only 50 or so miles away from where Cyndy was living I still chickened out of her proposed meeting. One of the few things I regret not doing in life.)
(This piece is based on a long-running series of internet chats that I had with a dominant t-girl named Cyndy. We never met—primarily because I was too frightened that she might be unstable—an ironic & arguably unfair assessment inasmuch as I was an enthusiastic & active participant in these dark fantasies—albeit as the victim—& I don't consider myself any more unstable than the next person. There was also an entire country between us making a real life meeting problematic. Yet even when I was in California for several weeks in the early 2000s & staying only 50 or so miles away from where Cyndy was living I still chickened out of her proposed meeting. One of the few things I regret not doing in life.)
Cyndy, wherever you are now xoxo. Without you, I'd never be where I am now, which is to say, I'd never have become myself or found happiness & love. You'll always have a place in my heart.
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