Dominating a female

October 13, 2019

He had been so close to the scene, caught up in it for so long that its simplicity struck him deep down inside. Dominating a female, totally: training her daily to a life of submission. There was no end to it; it knew no boundaries; and he had arrived at the point of convergence where pleasure and the inflicting of pain were one and the same. In the jungles of his dreaming he saw his world drawn in flat dark lines on fine white paper, converging in the middle of a final ceremonial ritual – which rolled over him, over and over again, and he was simply debris caught in a red flood of unbridled sensuality.

Escape was quite impossible.

September 29, 2019

There was a platform in the centre of the square of each village, and when the Queen went inside the house of the Lord of the village to drink a cup of wine with him, I was left on display.

But I was not to stand gracefully as I might have hoped. And the villagers knew this, though I didn’t. When we reached the first village, the Queen went away, and as soon as my feet hit the platform, a great roar went up from the crowd who knew they were to see something amusing.

I had my head down when Princess Lynette removed the phallus from my anus. Of course the crowd cheered at this. I was then made to kneel up, hands behind my neck on a turntable.

Princess Lynette operated it with her foot. And telling me to spread my legs wide, she turned the turntable. I was perhaps more afraid in these first few moments than ever before, but never once did the fear of rising and trying to escape come to me. I was helpless. Naked, a slave of the Queen, I was in the midst of hundreds of common people who would have overpowered me at once, and cheerfully for all the sport it would have given them. It was then that I realized escape was quite impossible. Any naked Prince or Princess fleeing the castle would have been apprehended by these villagers. They would have given no shelter.

Now Princess Lynette commanded me to show to the crowd all my private parts that were in the service of the Queen, and that I was her slave, and her animal. I did not understand these words, which were spoken ceremoniously. So she told me politely enough that I must part the cheeks of my buttocks as I bent over and display for them my open anus. Of course this was a symbolic gesture. It meant I was ever to be violated. And nothing more than that which could be violated.

But my face aflame, my hands trembling, I obeyed. A great cheer went up from the crowd. Tears slipped down my face. With a long cane, Princess Lynette lifted my balls for them to see, and pushed my penis this way and that to display its defenselessness, and all the while I had to hold my buttocks apart and display my anus. Whenever I relaxed my hand she commanded me sharply to pull the flesh wider apart and threatened me with chastisement. “That will infuriate her Highness,” she said, “and amuse the crowd immensely.” Then to a loud approving cry, the phallus was shoved securely back into my anus. I was made to press my lips to the wood of the turntable. And I was led back to my position beside the Queen’s coach, Princess Lynette pulling my bridle over her shoulder as I trotted with my head lifted behind her.

A. N. Roquelaure [Anne Rice]
The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty

be dominated

June 9, 2019

I’m an Indian girl who lusts after black women. I love light skin women to dark chocolate strong, independent black women. I think they’re beautiful, and sexy and so dominating. I want to serve one and be dominated by her, and to satisfy her womanhood.

SOURCE

I watch skinny girls in tube top skirts and six-inch heels call out to the white men strolling past. High above them and the food vendors they share the street with, carts filled with pork and fried fish and fresh young coconuts, neon signs sell something else. Massage by Model. Hottest Girls in Bangkok. Free Blowjob with 1 Drink. Bar girls in tight red dresses clink glasses with dazed and happy college boys, moving asses to laps, hands to faces, whispers to ears.

This is Bangkok.

The girls can cost upwards of 10,000 baht (roughly $300) or sometimes cheaper, much cheaper. I imagine, even when they don’t call, even when they’re not wearing skirts, but jeans, not six-inch heels, but flip flops, that they must have a price too.

There is shame in thinking this thought. I shove it around in my brain, hoping it’ll seep out through my incessantly stimulated ears, flooded now with car horns and subway ads and undecipherable conversation, but nothing seeps out. Even more seeps in.

A man who looks to be in his sixties is talking to one of the girls. She can’t be older than nineteen or twenty. She squeezes his arm and, seconds later, they are swallowed up by the building behind them. I imagine her applying oil and making her way up his legs. Maybe he told his wife he was going for a nightcap. Maybe she pretended to believe him. The girl takes off her clothes and stands before him. She is his now. She’s shy and he sees that, so he smiles at her gently as a token of reassurance. He’s not a bad man. He won’t hurt her. He rubs the back of her head while she obediently takes him into her small mouth.

I see it all, in a dozen different ways, and I haven’t even reached the end of the block.   

I’ve become judgmental of all the gray-haired white men in Bangkok, whether they are following girls into buildings or simply sitting across from them in restaurants. I eye them, doggedly, a cold glare resting on them and what I imagine their story to be, an obvious arrangement of sorts.

I cannot look at a man and a woman together in this city without picturing her body beneath his. A naïve girl hungry for semen and a new life, and a sick man hungry for domination. It doesn’t take long before I feel sick because it’s exactly the kind of thought that gets me wet. The imagined story, and the unjustified fury I feel over the story, quickens my pulse and piques my own hunger. Soon I am the man desiring the girl, desiring the power and possibility of it all.

Then I remember. I am not a man. I am a mere woman. And something’s wrong with me.

I walk by a “massage parlor” once, then twice, then three times. First I’m glancing over. Then I’m staring. I bump into somebody and have to say, “I’m sorry, excuse me,” but I don’t feel excused.

I feel ravenous, pitiful, and full of troubling and familiar justifications: I’ll just go have a look. This is their job; maybe they like their job. It’s not that much money. I’ll just do it once and get it out of my system.

But the girls don’t call out to me and I can’t help feeling like the balding narrator in Eliot’s Prufrock.

“I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think they will sing to me.”

A lover once told me, early on, before I could judge him for it, “It’s easy to get happy endings in Thailand. They’ll notice your erection and all you have to do is lean into it.”

I envy that ease. That straightforward declaration of desire that only a penis can give. If ever I had the courage to walk into one of the seedier parlors, I imagine the clues I could give her. I could soak the massage table with my excitement, but she’ll probably just think it was spilt oil. I could moan, but she’ll probably just think my shoulder knots have found relief. I could tell her. Ask her. Beg her.

When I endure enough neglect from the massage parlours and my quota for rejection is met for the day, I return to my hotel room and make a nest of the pillows and duvet. I turn on the laptop and close it shut. I put it away in its bag and then retrieve it minutes later. I check my mail, browse the news sites, scroll through Twitter, watch YouTube bloopers, anything and everything but what I really want to watch: three-minute cell phone clips filmed by men not unlike the ones out on the street being serviced by the girls who never see me.

Unable to sleep, I head back out to streets on another maddening hunt. Mixed up in it all, I now notice something else. A woman on her knees praying to a dancing Ganesh. The image seems like a holy sin, a riddle, a dream. How can one pray here?

I stand there, fixated, before the unexpected occurs. Relief. Even if just for a moment, there is an opening, a full breath, a sensation of calm. On the walk back to the hotel, I buy slices of fruit from a vendor, letting the sweetness of mango invigorate my tongue. The fruit vendor’s baby is sitting on the pavement, feet black from dirt, fingers in mouth. She looks up at me and laughs the kind of laugh that is contagious. One that makes her belly jiggle with joy. I can’t help but laugh back.

This too is Bangkok.

Erica Garza 

Pump and pump and grind

December 23, 2018

Straddle the beast you masterful bitch: thighs awash with your intimate potions, and your eyes reflecting flames from the fire. Hell fire. Pump and pump and grind on me. Tits bouncing wildly, drunk on disgust, you whore-child, you witch – such foul words in your mouth as you cum and cum again over me. Then wriggle, then wrench, pulling me free. One rough movement, practiced and sure, and prick enters arse-hole – ‘Cum now, you bastard,’ her cry, her demon voice. ‘Cum now, or I’ll rip it off!’ And ever obedient, I give off this earth-ending whimper, and shoot my load where no sun ever shines –

Accomplices

July 29, 2018

Accomplices in darkness, we were united in the taste of tears

take from her soul

July 24, 2018

It begins. And you must take from her soul. Palm against palm. Button after button, untying the dress of her spirit until you touch and possess that hidden skin with your eyes.

in the mood

November 19, 2017

Not gonna lie…

Really in the mood to watch a boy whimper while he plays with himself for me. Seeing him wiggle and squirm, hearing him moan and beg. Watching him pull his legs together when he has a moment of embarrassment…before he loses himself in the heat of serving his Mistress…

(Beautiful Trash Angel)

Sunday Morning Pastimes

October 8, 2017

True bliss follows a good whipping…

You are going to burn in the lava of my soul…

What is an hour or two of torture among such close and intimate friends…?

Grip hard and rub fast. Faster…!

Was it a dream, or did we really do that to each other…?

The casualties of love lay all around us…

She said to me, ‘What is life for? What’s it all about?’

And I replied, ‘It’s so we can love other people. So we can love…’

Give each other the gift of time…