mary-masked

Sexy Filter!

Published: July 22nd 2019, 7:44:54 pm

Welcome to the sexy filter. It's not really based on tiers, it's just so my parents won't see it.

I haven't been posting much and I feel bad about that so here's a photo I took after a session last week, and an old story I wrote. Though, reading it now, it's not really a whole story, just a recorded experience.

My erotica publisher was sending me a royalties check (yay passive income!) and asked if I'd be interested in publishing a story collection. I'm definitely interested, but didn't think I had enough stories published to have a collection. My interest in writing erotica has dwindled, not really sure why. I still like writing sex scenes and am still pretty confident that I'm good at them. I still have a fair amount of adventures to draw on. But the fascination required to write a full plot and to find an angle to make *this* sex story worth telling has fallen away from me.
I'm also not spending 16 hours a day in front of a computer at jobs with a lot of down time. That probably also has something to do with it.

I went back through the old erotica files on my computer and sent him some things that might be worth publishing, after some editorial feedback and rewrites.

I did not send him this story, even though I still think it's hot.

As I said before, it's not a full story. But it also feels irresponsible to publish because it's about my abusive ex and he definitely used kink to open the door to other forms of abuse. I strongly believe that people should be allowed to have any fantasy they want. You're going to have them. Shame about it is just going to make you hate yourself and obsess about it more. But I also believe that the stories we tell are *very* powerful. They shape the way we think about things and the way we expect the world to be.

The most sexually explicit stuff I had access to as a developing tween was Elf Quest comics and Stephen King novels. And now I'm a pansexual polyamorist with some pretty disturbing kinks. That...doesn't seem like an accident. Maybe if I'd had access to more wholesome forms of porn, I wouldn't have wanted to have sex with this guy. 

That's why I was so mad about 50 Shades when it came out. It's about a man who uses kink as a very thin excuse to abuse his partner, but that's never said out loud or even really implied. It's just supposed to be a hot and sexy relationship. And I worried that people who liked the book would search for their own Christian Grey and end up with someone like my ex. And my ex makes Christian Grey look like little mary sunshine.

This is not a story to be released into the wild without a lot of context around it.

But there's still something in this story that interests me. This idea that I keep circling and cautiously poking at but don't quite have the words for it. Something about having a kink that's a hairsbreadth from a deathwish. Why did I want to have sex with someone who scared me this much? Why was that fear the MAIN reason I wanted to have sex with him? How and why did that become love? Where and why and how did it cross from kink to abuse?

Most bafflingly, Did I really date someone who talked like this?!?! I did. The language is not embellished.

So content warning for choking, objectification, general creepiness, and stilted dialogue that I swear is real. Don't try this at home. Or, like, have a really long talk with me first.
 

******************

"What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?" his message reads. "My birthday's this wednesday. Would you like to come over?

It's not surprising that he's found my myspace page. How many girls on myspace have my name? I probably would have done the same thing if I could remember his name. My friends only know him as “The Werewolf” because when he comes, he growls, he roars, he makes sounds I didn’t know a human could make.

And now he's found me. It's the latest form of infatuation. We google someone. We comb their profiles. As if their favorite book or movie would somehow tell us and only us that a part of them fits a part of us perfectly.

It's a ridiculous idea, and not one that anyone admits to, but we all believe it. Thousands of people have searched myspace in vain, hoping their intended’s profile song might hold the secrets of their soul. 

He's listed Discipline and Punish as his favorite book. I'll give him the play that's based on it.

I get to his apartment late. Not as late as every other time I've been there, but late. Late enough for my motives to be apparent to the doorman. At about the same time I realize that there's a doorman, I realize that I don't actually know the Werewolf's last name. I swear doormen are only there to make sluts feel bad. They raise their eyebrows at our walks of shame. They remind us that we don't know our lover's last name. I manage to give a vague description of the name and where the apartment is located in the building and he's calling what I think is the right apartment when The Werewolf comes out of the elevator. I've caught him doing laundry.

The whitewashed sterility of the laundry room is softened by the warm smell of the dryers. There's something so comforting about the smell of a dryer, don't you think?

He reaches into the washing machine and pulls out a shirt.

"Did you ever notice how doing laundry is like the south?" He winds up and whips the shirt, overhand, into an open dryer with surprising force. "I mean, you've got your whites all separated out" 

WHAM! Another shirt in the dryer. 

"And then you've got the colors all jumbled together." WHAM! A pair of socks this time.

"And you don't want the reds mingling with any of them." I add, following the joke.

"Well, now," 

WHAM! 

"We don't have to get too literal about it." 

SLAM! 

"It's not like we have to round up all the reds and give them syphilis" BAM! "Or small pox. Was it small pox? We gave them one they gave us the other, which was it?"

"We gave them small pox." I add helpfully.

"So they gave us syphilis." BAM! "Of course," BAM! "We had penicillin." SLAM!

"Eventually." I remind him. WHAM!

"Yes. It took us a while." WHAM!

"I've never seen anyone do laundry quite so violently." I comment and neglect to add "sexily."

"It's pure laziness, I assure you." He replies, but I'm not so sure. Things like this belie his studied, almost painful, nonchalance; the way he does laundry, the heat behind his eyes, the deep scars along his neck and jaw that are only visible in the right light.

In the elevator he kisses me and grabs my ass in much the same way he presses the floor button or unlocks his door; as though he's using something that was always his in the manner it was meant to be used.

Before I can put down my bag he's on me. A grab and a kiss and when he's done he pushes me back against the doorframe of his room.

"The girl who rents a room from me is the shoulder her friend cries on at four in the morning. Which obligingly leaves the apartment to us." His teeth scrape the skin of my neck as he smells me.

"We can continue unfettered." he pushes me onto the bed. Well, he pushes me onto the smaller bed. His room, it seems has a bed for sleeping and a bed for fucking. The latter is smaller and recessed into the wall. It looks like a child's bed and I wonder if he slept here once, under his parent's watchful eye. Did he lie here rapt in wonder as he listened to a bedroom story?

If he did he shows no sign of it as he throws me down and strips me.

He tosses the script I’ve given him on the bed.

"You're going to read it to me." He explains

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you gave it to me. And what good is a gift you don't share?"

"If I'd known I would have brought a sexier play."

"That's not necessary. I'm sure this will provide ample entertainment." I begin to read as begins to enjoy my body. A tiny snarl escapes his lips as his hands explore me. 

He touches my skin greedily but with an air of detachment as though admiring the craftsmanship that made me. My body is a machine to him; one he's learning how to manipulate. To him pleasure is something one takes and no matter how willing I am he will take it from me. He bites me. Hard. And I stop reading to process the pain.

"Continue." He growls. I do so. It surprises me how much he's actually listening. He’s actually listening and he notices when I stop or when I falter and he insist that I read it perfectly and clearly. Even when he’s fucking me from behind and locks an arm around my throat. I can't quite breathe.

"Continue." He growls. Gasping for breath, I do, face pressed to the paper, straining to speak, pleasure overtaken by pain. I continue till even I can't tell if my screams are of agony or ecstasy. 

With a satisfied thrust he slows to give me a break. He leans forward to rumble into my ear. "You're tighter when I choke you. That's good to know. Good and useful." A bite from him. A gasp from me. 

"Continue." 

I do.

Somewhere in the second act he seems to tire of taking his pleasure and tries his hand at pleasuring me. His fingers inside me, his thumb working my clit, he examines my reaction while forcing me to continue to read. It's an experiment for him, another test of the machine's function, another way to see how much I can take. With detached interest he studies my pleasure. Skin glowing with sweat, eyelids fluttering, limbs thrashing. He leans in to my thigh and bites me. Hard. I breathe to process the pain but it doesn't stop. He continues. I press my hands to him, gentle hint that he's going too far.

"Ow." I concede. "No. Please. Stop. It's too much." But I don't safe word. I've safe worded exactly once in my life and I'm not about to do it for him. And I'm really not sure it would help. 

He lets a moment pass after my pleas have run out before releasing his teeth and with a satisfied pride he strokes his newly imprinted dental record on my flesh. 

"Continue." He growls. I do. With a faint smile he moves to the other thigh. He does this four times. Each time I take it till I beg, then take it a little bit more. Till I realize the begging only makes him do it longer.

When he finishes he brings my thighs together looking intently at the marks to see if they’re symmetrical.

"Damn." he whispers. "I knew I was off."

I ask him to choke me, when the play is finally over and we're simply fucking. He obliges. Not in the normal way (as if that word can be used in this context) Not the way my last boyfriend did it, mostly just pressure on the vein and artery, leaving me in a reddish haze that brought me to my knees. Not in the way pretty much everyone else has done it, a soft squeeze that makes the breath run ragged. He chokes me with an intent to kill but lets go after a few agonizing seconds.

"This would work better with the belt.” he says and, even now wondering why, I consent. He threads the belt around my neck and says "But you'll have to be clearer with your signals."

Ah, finally, safe territory. The normal kink world of safewords. He's going to give me scarf to drop or tell me to knock three times on the wall when I really want to stop.

"What signal should I give?" I ask as he bends me over and wraps the belt around his hand.

"Whatever you like." He says as though it's none of his never mind. "I suggest you try to pull the belt off your neck."

Have you ever been on a roof or a cliff or, say, at the Grand Canyon with your family and thought to yourself that you could jump? It just crystallized in your mind exactly how fragile your body is and how easily attainable mortality is and some part of you wanted, with a passion you could never understand or explain, to just take a running leap?

Yeah.

He pulls on the belt and I feel like my head is about to explode. The tension in my veins, in my lungs, every bit of me screams for release but I let it go. To see how far he'll push. To see how far I'll go. He lets me go then does it again. And again. And again. And my body is fighting him this whole time, not for freedom or safety, just for his cock to enter me at a better angle. I've told him that straight on is best for me and, with him, is the only way it’s pleasurable but he continues to try to get above me.

"Does it really feel that different?" I ask.

"Of course." He states as if I'd asked a stupid question and throws me on to my back. "Besides if I'm not hurting you there's so much less screaming and begging." 

If he wants begging I can give him begging. I've been acting for 20 years I can play any game he wants.

"You want me to beg?" I tempt.

"No." He laughs. Once again I've asked a stupid question. "It's not like it'd do you any good." 

And now I'm almost certain he only likes it when he's hurting me.

The belt is still around my throat and while he fucks me he wraps it around his hand and then around his elbow, like a sailor coiling rope. A rope whose end happens to be wrapped around my throat. 

Do I wonder why I don't stop him? Yes.

Do I come up with any answer other than the fact that I'm extremely turned on? No.

But there's something awfully gratifying about when he finally comes. When he snarls and bites, making noises I never thought a human could make. It curls my toes and gives me something to think about in the lonely hours of the night. So does everything else he does. 

And that's what scares me. If I didn't like it, I'd have nothing to worry about. I'd walk away and probably would have before things got this far. 

But here I am. And here I stay.