BDSM Theory

I have no computer of my own, haven't for months. But this cafe is close enough and open long enough for there not to be a need. And I can pretend I am at home or in a better place, such as anywhere you may be, my sweet.

I need to tell you two things: I have discovered I crave to be suspended from a ceiling or on a lofted bed, with hooks in my back or chest while people stare at me, tease me, call me names, tickle me, lick me, fuck me up the ass, sit on my face, eat me out, bite my thighs breasts neck and ass, beat me black and blue.

And you, motherfucker, leading it all, directing them, filming it. I cannot describe what it would be like for us all, especially for you, and finally for me, the vessel for all the energy as I have ever been. Finally feeling complete though I have not given or received one thing I did not have.

And then, it's over, you have them unhook me, press the air from my skin. You hear the hissing, you kiss my back, you take me down and into your arms, drape me over your shoulder, and I am asleep.

You put me in your car, in the back seat, or in the trunk, bind me in, sing to me softly, I am still asleep, but I hear you just fine.

The drive is long enough that we are both rested again. You unlock and untie me, throw me across your shoulders again, drag me to your bed, throw me down hard on the firm softness of your bed.

I am bound again, as I deserve to be. You caress me as you bind me, and hold me with the soft rope, but the braid grates still against my tender torn and bruised skin. You kiss me everywhere and it burns, but I love the hot and cool pain of your lips, your tongue and your breath.

I moan your name softly, you can feel it, but barely make it out, for I am still most asleep.

You hate your name, and you hate me too now, for what I have allowed you to to me and to yourself. You hate yourself.

I trust you now to put yourself in my mouth in the form of the purple ball gag I have held unopened now for months, bought just because it is my favorite color though it scared me. I must have known I was saving this one last cherry for you.

What you can do to me now, bound on my back or my stomach, beaten, tickled, fucked again and again, numb with joy in the pain. I have never laughed so hard, fighting against the gag in my mouth, choking on the saliva and small bits of blood in my mouth.

She is there, your blond bitch of a wife, or any of your other whores. I am treated worst and yet I am your first lady. I have given you nothing if you have everything I am already. They all are there, your women, your men from the unit, the cats stretched across the edge of all this fucking, clawing at you and at me, my thighs, my ass, my sex. They smell it, they lick it away.

I throw the small woden spoon you have had me hold for so long that the splinters have cut and bled my soft white palm, my red right hand, my tiny fingers.

You take out the gag, kiss my hand, then my mouth. This is as disgusting as any kiss has ever been for me, but for this once it is the right thing to do.

"Die, you motherfucker, I want your hard and narrow cock, bursting into my bloody cunt of a mouth!" I cry, blood and tears down my soft, salt-burned cheeks.

You drive it in, no ease for this little bloodtwat of a lady, you know what I am asking for, you know what I can handle. Brutality comes from one thing and that is the contempt of familiarity, the trust.

I am desperate and cannot breathe but to scream out about how much I have always loved you, but that lie is muffled in the back of my engorged throat, engorging your splendid, leaking cock.

I bite down, you cannot feel it for your hardness. I grow more angry and curse you to come right now, down deep my throat.

You do it. I scream and gag with you still in my mouth, choke, the phlegm coating your thickened but stick-like, hard as steel cock. You start to withdraw and I bite the head, keeping you there.

You call me a dumb cunt and tear yourself from my hungry mouth, squirt the last of your white, whipped release over my cheeks, eyes, hair and chest. I laugh and laugh.

You kiss me again, and I laugh still, touching my flickering tongue to yours and giggling hysterically into your soft, drunken mouth.

You let me go, biting hard at my tender white neck. I scream out about how much I hate you. You tickle me until the words have left me but for the little yelps of breath, voiced gasps.

But you can hear the words still, feel them.

"I hate you, Dickless, emasculated fucktube, PUSSY I hate your guts and your stupid skinny scraped cock!"

"Oh, is that so, you little cunt!" You stare at me for seconds in eternity, the menace in your eyes barely mocking, too serious. I am frightened.

It is so, and yet I am yours, and need nothing from you but that you use me like the filthy cunt-slit that I am.

"That's right, little girl. Tickle slut, mermaid of pain. You are mine, I own you."

"I can't be owned. I am a person."

"No you are not. You are my slave. My pussy and the willow tree on which she pees."

"If it is so, then so it is. But I cannot believe it."

I will make you believe, heretic, gyspy whore."

"No, no."

Yes, cunt."

"I hate you."

"You love to hate me."

"I do."

"I hate you to love me."

"I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"Only because it is all you allow me to do. I hate it!"

"What if I love you?"

"You don't."

"But you want me to."

"No!"

"I will, just to hurt you."

"Thank you, dickhead!"

You shut your sweet and streamlined mouth, put your hands on my body, tickle, tickle every inch of me until I am screaming in pain and near orgasm.

"I hate, you, I hate you!" I scream, as we both giggle the way we can, your face disappearing once again between my ticklish thighs, lower lips, the crack of my sweet and full, slim ass.


A Fantasy, so much more than I have yet known.

Alexandra

A best friend once told me not to make it so. I couldn't quite figure out why she would say such an asenine bigoted thing, especially to me.

But, I know now. For the same reason Dr. Flora Gozales of Yale and Emerson College tried to have me hospitalized last time, and the reason Joss Whedon won't work with me, despite our similar vision.

They are american academics who want this stuff to be their own private fantasies because they don't think they and especially not others deserve to have all this as their truth.

Fuck you guys, seriously. Don't you shitting screaming babies know that pain is pleasure, pleasure is pain, and life as we call it, as we know it is suffering, but we being as strong as we are, like to suffer?


And so I am raped and murdered several times each night in the spirit. This is the work of a whore, the work we all do, but I do it more easily because I know that in the end it is sex, shit and blood, no more, no less. And so, I am well paid, but not well enough, and this is how it begins my friends, and this is how it begins.

And ends.

What does bdsm stand for? Bondage, domination, sadomasochism? Well it's all that sort of stuff! When you say theory what do you mean an explanation of why these things interest us? Why they happen? Or do you mean the theory of their practice? A whip is just another way of touching a women. The one which interests me is masochism. Answer me this? Do masochists really exist? It is like asking if someone can really commit genuine suicide. To want oblivion is to want something you cannot experience. Not just wanting something you cannot have like a million million dollars but actually wanting something you can't ever actual know. The suicider is trying to change the future in some way where as true suicide would be a negation of all possible futures for the suicider. To want to be punished and humiliated - well can we enjoy pain when by definition pain is what we don't enjoy? But we do in fantasy and there is the rub. Are masochists individuals who act out their fantasies trying to achieve something in reality, actuality, that they know they can enjoy in fantasy? So the fact that people get themselves whipped or whatever doesn't prove anything. But what is even deeper is that I think it would be terribly sad if masochists don't really exist. Why I have this feelings about masochists I don't know. Did you ever read the Story of O? It is about a sex slave who is a masochist. It still remains the definitive text at least on female masochism - Venus in Furs is the definitive text - novel - on male masochism written by the guy who gave his name, Leopold Von Sacher-Masoch, to masochism. These novels work but all this can ever prove is that masochists are at least creatures of fantasy. It still does not prove they exist however much we are left feeling they do after reading these books. For me wanting them to exist, why do I want them to exist? Perhaps others - like yourself - want them to exist. This question of why some of us want them to exist is as interesting to me as the question as to do they actually exist. Some of us may even want to be a masochist. Or we identify with them. As there is a fundamental contradiction in being a masochist - how can you enjoy what by definition is unenjoyable? - perhaps truly what is sought and strived for is to make actual, as close as possible, what cannot be. Perhaps the definition of what is a masochist is someone who genuinely tries to be one, tries to be as close as possible to the real thing with the real thing never being actually achievable. How about that for a definition as to what a masochist is, then? Me wanting there really to be such a thing as masochism, such that if someone could prove to me that they really did not exist, it would leave me empty, feeling that life was just a futile waste of time - perhaps I might then become the first real suicider. How do you feel about it? Is there any bit of you which wants to be a masochist?