We do the dance online for quite a while.
She is always a challenge for me. I am powerfully attracted to her for all the usual reasons I am attracted to anyone, but she is clearly afflicted with a self-loathing that goes beyond anything I have ever experienced in a partner. She writes about things I am hesitant to admit I want, and she writes about things I definitely do not want. She writes about things that make me wish I could hold her and tell her I loved her, and she writes about things that make me wish I could get her a good therapist and then never talk to her again. I never know how to react to anything she writes.
Where I am looking for understanding, connection, love, even healing, she is simply... not. At least not yet. When I reach out to her, there is a spark, but when my touch becomes gentle or potentially helpful, her walls come flying up.
Heh. Walls flying up. Better to say her walls come up, then giant mechanical arms emerge from behind them, seize me squarely by the nuts, slam me against spikes that suddenly emerg from the tops of those walls, then cast me down into a large moat at the bottom filled with syphilitic alligators. But I digress.
So I learn not to be gentle or helpful. Instead, I talk, tease, deride, describe, analyze, poke, and prod. The dance continues. One night I drink too much, get online, and gush a bit in her direction. During the next week, she writes three well-crafted, sexy stories in which men who fit my description are either killed, conned, or have their spirits crushed. It isn’t subtle. It isn’t supposed to be. I get the message, but I’m not willing to take it, not completely. I still hold out hope that there will come a time when she will want what I have to give. The next time we message, I pretend to be distracted by my fascination with a nonexistent submissive play partner. She forgives me for my slip of human caring, and our dance resumes.
She challenges, I respond. I reach out, we spark. We dance. I engage, she rejects. I attack, she warms. I soften, she distances. I rage, she purrs. She writes, I despair. On and on, cha-cha-cha.
Then comes the day she announces that she will be traveling to my city for several days on business. If I am interested, she wants to meet at the beginning of her trip for coffee. I am. Of course I am. So we meet.
I have seen her pictures online, of course, but, as my father used to say, Jesus H. Christ on a mountaintop in Tennessee. She is a fever-dream, or at least my fever dream -- the sexiest woman I have ever encountered in person. Her clothing is perfect, her skin is exquisite. She even smells sexy. I want her desperately. But I know the dance. After all, it was she who taught me the moves. So, of course, I pretend indifference, telling her all about the various places in town she could go for fun and listing some of the men who live nearby and might give her a good time. I keep checking my phone, reading my email, looking at my social media apps.
We haven't been sitting there twenty minutes before she asks me to fuck her. Just like that. Believe me when I say that I have trouble containing my shock and excitement. This is literally the first time a woman has asked me to have sex with her. And it is this woman, this insane artist's blueprint for an erotic protagonist.
I take a moment to compose myself, then look up and ask her what she wants me from me. She smiles, showing her teeth a bit too long, and says "brutality."
I smile back, but inside I am dying. You see, she knows me. She's read every word of my work on the site we share. She knows exactly what I am about, and what I am not. I've written extensively about my slow, halting, difficult, soul-wrenching efforts to talk the violent side of myself out into the open. It is the hardest thing I have ever done, and I have only just started the process. For her to ask me for this, for her to describe her agenda for me with that one word? It is the biggest gut-punch she could possibly deliver. It is a test, and it is a challenge. I have been hoping for an opening with her -- a chance to see her true face and provide her (and myself) a large dose of pleasure and a small measure of peace. This is not the invitation I was hoping for.
This is her sticking in the knife. This is her putting on her devil mask and showing me where to sign the contract.
But perhaps there is still hope. I give her my predatory grin and say "of course." We set a time and a place, and I tell her there will be instructions forthcoming. She leaves without touching me, and I make no move to hug her goodbye. That would be gentle. That would be weakness. Not part of the dance.
As promised, I leave her instructions that are tantalizingly specific but give virtually nothing away. I arrive at our rendezvous point early to set things up, and I think long and hard about what I want to do. What I am willing to do. People love stories about deals with the devil, mostly because we like to feel superior. We sit there are pass judgment on the poor fools who are stupid enough to bargain away their immortal souls for something transitory, like fame or money or success. But the only reason we can laugh is because it's not our dream that's being offered up by Mephistopheles. What if you wanted something with all your heart? What if you had wanted it your whole life? And what if it was right there for the taking, and all you had to do was betray everything you knew was good and right about the thing you wanted? No, seriously. Let that sink in. What would you do? What have you already done in your life for considerably less reward?
By the time she arrives, everything is where it needs to be, and I have made a series of decisions. If-then statements. Dreams weighed, costs considered. Three knocks on the door, as instructed. Confident knocks, not hesitant at all. Knocks that say "I've done this kind of thing before, you know." I open the door, and there she stands, blindfolded, in a short silk sleeveless dress that leaves no doubt at all that she is wearing nothing underneath it. Her nipples are proudly erect and clearly enormous, and in spite of her confident arrival she is breathing heavily.
Her beauty is so wild, so raw and needy that I almost lose my nerve, almost forget the dance entirely and embrace her warmly. But this is not that kind of meeting. Instead, I greet her with the hardest slap to the face I have ever given anyone. I can tell it shocks her. This is not what she expected. Barely keeping her footing, she staggers backwards. I release a low growl, and begin to circle her. Her breathing becomes ragged, and I can see the fluttering in her throat. She can hear my footsteps, and her head swings back and forth, trying to follow my movements.
With a quick step, I press my body up against her back and wrap my left arm around her throat from behind. She stiffens, and I can tell she has just realized I am naked. I tighten my arm across her throat, almost lifting her body up off the ground, and she becomes still. The peril she is in has suddenly become clear to her. I am so much larger than her, and so much stronger, and I have her by the throat. With a small movement, I can render her unconscious or much worse. The thing is, the moment she realizes all of this, she relaxes. She is home. I lean down and whisper in her ear.
"Good little whore. I see you understand your place. Now stand very still, or you're liable to get hurt so badly that I won't be able to fix you." And I bite her shoulder so hard that she screams and I taste blood. But she has played this game before, and she doesn’t move. With that test having been passed, I relax my left arm a bit, allowing me to move my body far enough away from hers that I can bring the knife in my right hand to bear.
I let her feel it on her face first, the flat of the blade gently on her cheek. I take my arm from around her neck and use it to grab her hair roughly, and I allow the blade to float lazily down her face to the base of her throat. She moans, and I feel myself smiling. Gripping her hair tightly, I move around in front of her and use the knife to force her legs apart. “Now, little whore,” I say in a very stern voice, “very still.” Then, with the flat of the blade, I reach up under her dress and touch her cunt. Her upper body shivers, but she stays still enough that nothing moves down below. I move the knife subtly, back and forth, up and down, teasing her lips and opening up her cunt. Her mouth gapes open and her head cocks to one side as if she is listening to a silent melody, and the knife begins to make loud noises as she begins to drip uncontrollably.
I press the blade harder into her sex, and she gasps. Moving with great deliberation, I draw the knife slowly through her cunt, as though I am cutting her, until only the tip is left poised at the very entrance to her hole. Then, again very slowly, I rock the tip up until it is resting directly on her clit. Her legs start to shake, and her breathing becomes ragged. Carefully, carefully, I press the sharp tip into her clit, then draw it back ever so slightly, then press it again. She is captivated and captured by it, terrified to move but also stimulated by the movement of the knife. Just as the rhythm becomes painfully arousing to her, I flip the blade over and use it to cut through the front of her silk dress in one bold stroke. This time, she really does scream. I was not overly cautious. There are shallow cuts and scratches on her skin from the knife all the way up the center of her body, and a couple of them are beading with blood. I ignore them entirely.
Dropping the knife, I rip the remnants of her dress off of her and slap her face again, hard. Using only her hair, I haul her roughly over to the high bed I covered with cheap, dark sheets. Without mercy, I bend her over and shove her face down into the bed, using my other hand to encourage her to climb up onto it and stick her ass up. She obliges, and I quickly lock her hands and feet into the manacles I attached to the bed earlier. Now she is face down, ass up, legs spread, and almost completely immobile. I walk up to her head, grab her hair, and force her face up.
When she feels my cock against her lips, she gobbles it up like she’s drowning and it’s the only source of air she can imagine. I let her suck me for a few minutes, and then fuck her face selfishly until she starts to gag on me. I withdraw from her then move to side beside her on the bed.
Now, the road will fork one way or another.
I reach out and grab her throat with my left hand. With my right, I start spanking her, hard. The choking and the spanking are something she clearly likes, so I don’t hold back. I’m marking her ass pretty thoroughly with just my hand, so I decide to move on to the next stage. I stop spanking her, and insert a vibrator into her cunt, one of those two-pronged kind that clips inside and outside. I set it to the lowest possible setting, and turn it on. She makes a low, needy noise in the back of her throat.
“Shut the fuck up, whore, I haven’t asked you to speak yet,” and I squeeze her throat a little tighter. At this, she starts dripping again. I turn the vibrator up a notch, and reach for my cane. It is a thing of beauty, red leather handle, wood slightly darkened with the oil with which it was lovingly infused. It will not dry out, and it will not become stiff. I lean in and whisper to her. “Now, little whore, I am going to ask you to speak. I hope you remember the knife. If you refuse at any time, I will go get it, and I will cut your fucking nipples off. Do you understand me?”
“Yuh-yes.”
“What?” I scream directly into her ear, tightening my hand around her throat.
“Yes, daddy.” Good, she remembers what I instructed her to call me at all times. I get a small, hopeful feeling.
“Good girl,” I say. I start to hit her ass lightly with the cane. She freezes. We had talked about caning online. She has never done it. The pictures she has seen fascinate her, but they also frighten her. The marks. The blood. The bruises. I begin to strike her harder, slower. She lets out a noise that is part pain, part joy.
“You’re my fucking whore now, aren’t you? Say it.”
“I’m you’re fucking whore.” The words roll off her tongue like I’ve asked her to describe a work of fine art. But she made another mistake. I strike her once with the cane, very hard.
“Excuse me?”
“Aaaah! I’m your fucking whore, daddy!”
“Good girl.” I turn the vibrator up another notch, letting my fingers linger slightly inside her cunt. Then I begin caning her ass again, slower and even harder.
“You belong to me now. I own you. Say it.”
“You own me, daddy!”
“Good girl.” I pause in caning her to rub her ass lightly. I can feel the welts starting to form. The line between where we are now and blood is very thin.
“You’re a dirty, filthy, perverted cunt who likes to be beaten by strange men, aren’t you, my little whore?” I give her three strokes with the cane that just barely avoid breaking the skin. I can feel her whole body quake. She is very, very close.
“God, yes, daddy! I’m a nasty fucking cunt.”
I drop the cane for a moment and shove three fingers into her cunt. She gasps so loudly it is almost a scream. “You are beautiful, my little whore. Say it.”
Her reaction is considerably less enthusiastic. She pauses, so I give her the voice that brooks now intolerance. “Fucking say it!”
“I’m beautiful, daddy.”
I piston my fingers in and out of her cunt, and she begins to moan loudly.
“Good little whore. Do you feel that, slut? Do you fucking feel that?”
“Oh my god, daddy, yes. Yes, I do.”
I grip her throat so tightly I’m not sure she will be able to speak. “Yes, little whore. I’m going to cane you until your ass bleeds, and I’m going to do it because you are beautiful and I care about you. You are a good person and you deserve to be loved, little whore. You deserve to be loved. Say it, right now.”
And that’s when she freezes. “What?” her single word, barely audible because I am choking her, carries surprise, shock, and the beginning of irritation.
“You fucking heard me. Say it, right now.”
She turns around to look at me as though she’s not wearing a blindfold. “What are you doing? What is this?”
And that’s it. The road has forked, and it’s now clear which path we’re on. I sigh. Dreams weighed, costs considered. I get up, put my clothes on, and gather my things. It doesn’t take long. She realizes what’s going on, and starts yelling at me.
“Hey! Hey! What are you doing? What the fuck?” I turn the vibrator off and gently remove it from her.
“There’s a dress that should fit you at the foot of the bed. That’s why I asked you for your size when I messaged you.” The last thing I do is unlock her cuffs and remove her blindfold. Then I start to walk toward the door.
“Stop, you fucking asshole!” I turn around, and there she is, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, naked and enraged, bleeding in several places, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. Which, even I have to admit, seems likely.
“Why are you leaving?”
“It’s my fault,” I say, smiling sadly. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t give you what you wanted. It’s entirely my fault. I’m a complete loser. Please accept my apologies.” I start to turn away again.
“That’s not fucking good enough!” she yells. “I felt that. I felt what we were doing just now. You loved it. You were completely loving it. Don’t tell me you couldn’t do it. You were doing it. That was some of the best sex I’ve ever had, right up until you walked away. I need to know why.”
“No you don’t.”
She throws the vibrator right at my head, missing by only an inch or so. “Yes! Yes I really do. Tell me.”
“Fine!” I drop my bag and walk back toward her. She must see that the part of me I have worked so hard to talk out into the open is driving the bus now, because she visibly flinches as she sees me coming. “You want to know why, little girl? Because you’re a fucking coward. Because you’re so goddamned brave that you look down on me all the time, like you’re strong and I’m weak, but the truth is that you’re the weak one after all.”
I grab her by the neck and force her down onto the her back. My face hovers inches above hers. “You think you’re brave because you’re willing to fuck strange men and let them hurt you. You think you’re brave because you hate yourself and you think you’re worth nothing.” I’m so angry that I’m spitting on her, and there will certainly be bruises on her neck, but I’m not completely in control anymore. “But that’s not bravery, little girl, that’s cowardice. You’re such a fucking coward that you turn tail and you run the minute I tell you that I care about you. You’re such a fucking coward that you flinch if I even say the word ‘love,’ like you're a vampire and I’ve got a silver cross.”
I lean in and I kiss her full on the mouth. I give it everything I have. When I’m done, I look at her, and I’m crying. “You’re a coward because you can’t let me love you. You can’t even let me care about you. And I’m done being afraid of your false fucking bravery. I’m done being ashamed of being human. If you ever decide that you want to be something more than this... whatever you’ve let yourself become, then contact me. Until then, I don’t want to do this dance. anymore.
I get up off the bed, I wipe my eyes, and I turn to look at her one last time before I leave. “You wanted brutality.”
The door makes a hollow sound as it closes behind me.