About us
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Description
(This profile is best viewed if read while the song in the above YouTube embed [most recent status update] is played during.)
Lifestyle sadist, ethical predator, philosophical libertine.
Just an honest opening before you actually invest time reading this profile: I'm not like them.
I am the reality your most disturbing fantasy can't handle. Think really hard on your desire to read on...no, I'm not likely to message you first.
That being said, I am a literal sadist and human owner. I feel like you should pay special attention to that term, “literal”. Inflicting intense sensations (that I can't share here even in the simplest and most innocuous ways) is a necessity for me to reach a state of arousal. My pleasure is found in less conventional sexual interactions. Rather than fantasies of wild fuck sessions and incredible sexual conquests, my focus in this regard is to push outside comfort zones and into far more extreme activities.
My relationship dynamic is a CNC Owner/property poly triad. For the sake of transparency, I own a live-in slave (together over 14 years, branded as my property after her training in 2019). In addition, I do have several play partners part of my world in various stations, each with their unique commitments. My desired goals would be to find a second live-in masochist/submissive to also train as my slave and would be [chain-sïster] and partner to my current servant. All individuals involved are aware of one another and this goal, and each supports me in their own way.
My modality is structure and ritual driven, a variation of both PRICK and RACK ideologies. As you might have gathered, I use honest expression of my desires and intent to create shared understanding with individuals with preferred base qualities. Prospective individuals that desire to progress begin a consideration process of extensive communication and interactional observation to determine a sense of trust and integrity for no less than a year. If trust is secured by all parties, the potential is collared as my submissive in training for ownership. Training includes behavior modification, pushing thresholds, and solidifying the protocol in everyday life as well as in lifestyle environments and play spaces. This period lasts seven years after which the submissive is branded as my property in a commitment ceremony with the exchanging of our oaths. This is how one becomes my slave. Play partnerships are more based on individual considerations (though, I am currently not looking for any other play partners).
I started my own lifestyle journey as a sadist at the end of the 1990s. In these decades, I've had so many amazing experiences, had the opportunity to learn from some of the most exceptional individuals from all walks of life on a plethora of subjects, and created play and scenes that are often incredible even to myself. Impact play is my happy place - my Florentine flogging skills get me the most attention, but my use of a cane is frighteningly legendary. Mind fuckery is a big part of reaching deeper levels of participation with me, and I'm willing/capable of investing the necessary time and conscious effort to earn the trust and respect required for my desire…even despite how limitless my imagination and cruel cunning. Suffering is my love language.
I have experiences to share. Magical and sensational, dark and disturbing experiences. All you have to do is be the canvas for my art.
If I tell you that I am too much for you, this is not an insult, challenge, or attempt to bait you. Please respect that I do not think our experience/kinks/relationship goals match up and I'm trying my best to protect you from me.
(If you're a racist/homophobe/transphobe or otherwise judgemental of others, little, brat, have issues being honest or making commitments, only want to role play or share fantasies, or believe “the submissive is really the one in control” then it best we don't waste either of our time.)
FORUM INDEX
(My written work in the forum.)
Topical Articles:
- Clash in Kink-Positivity: Triggers versus Fetish;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1374-clash-in-kink-positivity-triggers-versus-fetish/ - Community of Babel;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1440-community-of-babel/- (CoB) Labels are Your Friend, not Life Partner;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1461-cob-labels-are-your-friend-not-life-partner/ - (CoB) Listen and Ask Questions;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1538-cob-listen-and-ask-questions/
- (CoB) Labels are Your Friend, not Life Partner;
- EARN It: The Real Gift;
www.fetish.com/topic/14592-earn-it-the-real-gift/ - The Fallacy of "Easy" Submission (Or: Tiger Taming for Dummies);
www.fetish.com/topic/15053-the-fallacy-of-easy-submission-or-tiger-taming-for-dummies/ - I adore my lifestyle (but I abhor your community).;
www.fetish.com/topic/14311-i-adore-my-lifestyle-but-i-abhor-your-community/ - I'm a cruel, scary sadist, and you should avoid even talking to me! (Or, the Conundrum of Vanilla Understanding Enförced within the BDSM Realm.);
www.fetish.com/topic/13957-im-a-cruel-scary-sadist-and-you-should-avoid-even-talking-to-me-or-the-conundrum-of-vanilla-understanding-en***d-within-the-bdsm-realm/ - No Limits: Fact or Fiction (A Counterpoint);
www.fetish.com/topic/13888-no-limits-fact-or-fiction-a-counterpoint/ - PRE-CARE: Foreplay to Leather Sex;
www.fetish.com/topic/74446-pre-care-foreplay-to-leather-sex/ - The Secret of S/M;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/5058-the-secret-of-sm/ -
Understanding Complex Consent Dynamics and CNC;
www.fetish.com/topic/14091-understanding-complex-consent-dynamics-and-cnc/
Tales:
- ACITOREOHPARG;
www.fetish.com/topic/156276-acitoreohparg/ - Alice and Her Jabberwock;
www.fetish.com/topic/73302-alice-and-her-jabberwock/ - Basement;
www.fetish.com/topic/150982-basement/ - [CENSORED TITLE] (retitled as Hades and Persephone);
www.fetish.com/topic/14107-hades-and-persephone/ - CLA-CHUNK;
www.fetish.com/topic/249730-cla-chunk/ - Content for Him;
www.fetish.com/topic/198798-content-for-him/ - The Crying Game;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1748-the-crying-game/- (CG) Round One;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1769-cg-round-one/ - (CG) Round Two;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1793-cg-round-two/ - (CG) Round Three;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1830-cg-round-three/ - (CG) Round Four;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1954-cg-round-four/
- (CG) Round One;
- Daughter of Suffering;
www.fetish.com/topic/66671-daughter-of-suffering/ - Day One;
www.fetish.com/topic/14498-day-one/ - Do Not Read;
www.fetish.com/topic/151508-do-not-read/ - Hot Box;
www.fetish.com/topic/16860-hot-box/ - "How I want you...";
www.fetish.com/topic/14401-how-i-want-you/ - A Night Out;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1586-a-night-out/ - Objectification of a Vegetarian;
www.fetish.com/topic/13939-objectification-of-a-vegetarian/ - Sacre-licious;
www.fetish.com/topic/13180-sacre-licious/ - The Scorpion and the Frog;
www.fetish.com/topic/14359-the-scorpion-and-the-frog/ - The Shoe Shine Girl;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1364-the-shoe-shine-girl/ - Third Person;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1393-third-person/ - Throw Trash in its Proper Place [Abridged];
www.fetish.com/topic/152612-throw-trash-in-its-proper-place-abridged/ - Train at Nowhere Junction I;
www.fetish.com/topic/246060-train-at-nowhere-junction-i/- Train at Nowhere Junction II (Abridged);
www.fetish.com/topic/248924-train-at-nowhere-junction-ii-abridged/
- Train at Nowhere Junction II (Abridged);
- Trash;
www.fetish.com/topic/63411-trash/ - The Wolf and bunny;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1517-the-wolf-and-bunny/ -
"Yes";
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1711-yes/
Poetry: - Crux;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1550-crux/ - For the Span of a Breath;
www.fetish.com/topic/207140-for-the-span-of-a-breath/ - I Already Know;
www.fetish.com/topic/201162-i-already-know/ - "I know why she cries";
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1416-i-know-why-she-cries/ - In the Shadows;
www.fetish.com/topic/157786-in-the-shadows/ - Life, Less Ordinary;
www.fetish.com/topic/162392-life-less-ordinary/ - The Monster's Trap;
www.fetish.com/topic/152096-the-monsters-trap/ - Must I;
www.fetish.com/topic/154610-must-i/
Limits
CENSORSHIP is a pretty huge limit of mine.
Our roles
I like:
- 24/7 (Active)
- Anal Beads (Active)
- Anal Plugs (Active)
- BDSM (Active)
- BDSM Branding (Active)
- Biting Fetish (Active)
- Ben Wa Balls (Active)
- Bizarre Fetish (Active)
- Breath Play (Active)
- Chains (Active)
- Dildos (Active)
- Discipline (Active)
- Domination (Active)
- Double Penetration (Active)
- Electro Sex Stimulation (Active)
- Violet Wand (Active)
- Erotic Art (Active)
- Erotica (Active)
- Extreme Bondage (Active)
- Fisting (Active)
- Genital Torture (Active)
- Goth (Active)
- Rough Sex (Active)
- Hentai / Anime
- Humiliation (Active)
- Enema (Active)
- Clitoral Pump (Active)
- Nipple Clamps (Active)
- Orgasm Control (Active)
- Paraphilia (Active)
- Cock Ring (Active)
- Pinching (Active)
- Polyamory (Active)
- Porn (Active)
- Sadism (Active)
- Sapiosexual (Active)
- Scratching (Active)
- Sensory Deprivation (Active)
- Sex Toys (Active)
- Spanking (Active)
- Strap-on (Active)
- Submission (Passive)
- Sybian (Active)
- Vibrators (Active)
- Wax Play (Active)
- Watersports (Active)
Fetish.com gives you…
...something completely different! Find plenty of fascinating people to play with on Fetish.com. Looking for a hot third or sex party? Check out our free kinky dating area or our BDSM and Fetish Events to find the perfect play partner. Check out our sexy forum for kinky sex confessions. So, what are you waiting for?
CLA-CHUNK
Laying on white sheets that perfectly match white walls only found in hotels and hospitals, she feels the cool, crisp linen as an anchor on her back for her frantic mind. Naked and legs splayed affords her not an ounce of humility as I stand at the foot of the bed, casting scrutiny on the pathetic Read more…slut's offering: that quivering quim presented for my cruel cunning. Years of desperate pining and agonizing to be my victim has finally paid off - every careful step she has taken like the moves in an elaborate game of chess has led her here.
She could not imagine she would be fōrced to sacrifice her queen mid-game, but she also knows I intend to take far more.
Anticipation turns her stomach like when drūgs come on too strong, and I watch the rise and fall of her breasts to time my āssāūlt with her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In with the good, out with the---
SMACK!
The loud slap to her most sensitive flesh causes a gasp that burns her throat. But she does not scream from the sudden and sharp pāin; she knows better. She knows not to provoke the ravenous beast. She knows as I spank her pussy and inner thighs mercilessly, this is me showing kindness. This is me waking her flesh.
Just as sudden, the spanking stops as she inhales deep, trying to process the pāin. Agony aflame in her crotch, she also knows she should cry and beg me to stop, for mercy she, beyond doubt, doesn't deserve. But to her betrayal, her body misses the heat of my palm and the weight of my hand, what she wants to beg for was just one more taste of that excruciating caress.
That memory of human touch is replaced with the stinging strike of my cane over her thigh, in a rain of rattan licks that stripes her from knee to knee - no courtesy shown to her already tender vulva, of course. I grace her with the intensity only my 5mm canes can deliver, aptly named the "Stinger" for being able to give the sensation of being stung by bees with each strike. A swarm of angry bees attack her labia as my hunger peaks; she moans long and low as some form of release as much as to just get a cool breath into her tightened lungs and chest.
As if by magic, the bees disappear, allowing her the chance to regain composure as she huffs to catch her breath. The composure would be short-lived however, as the sudden change in my energy - from ravenous beast to controlled authoritarian - gives her one serious case of mental whiplash. I sit comfortably and casually between her legs, thighs lined with the sensitive welts and bruising only a seasoned sadist could inflict. The supportive smile on my face as her breathing returns to normal feels strangely surreal compared to that of the Devil that was just here.
“We will be doing a series of vaginal staples,” my tone is sterile and steady, perhaps exemplified by the set of examination gloves I don with a snap of rubber. I open the sealed packaging containing the medical stapler as I continue, “The staples will be placed horizontally, crossing from left to right labia majora. Since this is a new experience for you, we will start with one,” tearing open an alcohol prep, I use the damn tissue to clean her vulva, “then go from there. Any questions?”
Stumbling over second thoughts and the alarms sounding in her head, she shakes off the deer-in-the-headlights stare to finally respond. “How many do you think I can take?” It was immediately clear she regretted the query.
I glance briefly at the stapler and chuckle. “There’s 35 staples…so…I know I can give you up to 35.”
She audibly gulps in the way you might see and hear a cartoon character swallow when frightened. She inhales sharply and in a sacred and intimate whisper to her God, she says, “I’m ready.”
“Let’s begin.” My smile makes her think of a wolf trying to flirt and entice a rabbit to come out for a bite to eat. Seductively, I slide my fingers over her labia, bring the lips together and ensuring balance before I press the tip of the stapler over the area the clit would be.
CLA-CHUNK.
She yipes in surprise, the all-too-familiar sound of the stapler catching her off guard, but the intense pinching of the piercing staple was distinctly sharp. That wasn't unbearable, she thought, and when she opened her mouth, “Can I have another?” fell out. Bring her lips together over the shimmering orifice, I slip the tip lower on her cunt.
CLA-CHUNK.
A slight jump as the needle-like ends dig into her sensitive genitalia, the pāin intensified by anticipation. “Can I have another?” she speaks the words before her brain even has a chance to catch-up. Nor do I.
CLA-CHUNK.
The staple feels like it enters the mid-way point of her cunt in slow motion, abruptly fōrcing perspiration out of every pore on her body. She feels proud that she didn't shout, the building distress in her crotch brings new fēārs to mind. Focusing on her legs, she worries if she spreads too much, if she'll tear the metal crimps in her pussy lips. “Can I have another?” The words confuse her, but somehow, no other words would come to her vacant mind.
CLA-CHUNK.
What is left of her melted, mushy mind is washed away in a deluge of dopamine, adrenaline, endorphins and serotonin. She stares off into some unimaginable distance - seeing I know not what - as violent tremors possess her body. Her thighs quiver in a spectacular display of masochistic inebriation, shivering uncontrollably as if she was dropped into icy waters. Swimming against the rushing rapids, she fights to regain conscious awareness for a long stretch. Still in a daze, her voice slurs as it rushes from her mouth, “That last shtaple waz a lot.”
My words seem to float to her on bubbles. “Are you ready to continue?”
Who can predict what thoughts violate the masochist psyche when it's all doped up on its drug of choice: suffering? Reading her body language, there was little doubt in my mind that she was done, just some dumb slut with shrink wrapped eyes pushed to her limit. No, this one was ready to beg for a reprieve, any escape from this piercing genital ābūsē. Certainly, I didn't expect her to regain control, slowly bringing her quaking flesh still once again. “Can I have three more, please?” Just a minute earlier, I wouldn't have thought her able to handle the staple removal process; now as we lock eyes, her gaze reasserts her endurance and determination to impress me. It did, in fact.
I am impressed.
CLA-CHUNK.
CLA-CHUNK.
CLA-CHUNK.
Staple number seven was the magical tack that coaxed a scream from her throat. I sit upright to survey my work, birthed from skill and artistry. The staples shimmer in the low light against her red and swollen vagina, evenly spaced along the line of her perfectly flushed slit and ensuring that orifice is out of order. My proud thought: Had it been another kind of gash, it would definitely heal without scarring due to my handiwork. Not allowing my vaingloriousness distract me too long from my patient, I break the news to her with all the cold detachment of a well-practiced bad surgeon.
“You're a virgin again.”
Without missing a beat, she strains in reply, “I guess this makes me anal only…” Gingerly, she begins shifting to roll over.
“Your trashy ass will wait,” she bites her lip hearing my tone turn sinister. “I have something else in mind…”
She could not imagine she would be fōrced to sacrifice her queen mid-game, but she also knows I intend to take far more.
Anticipation turns her stomach like when drūgs come on too strong, and I watch the rise and fall of her breasts to time my āssāūlt with her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In with the good, out with the---
SMACK!
The loud slap to her most sensitive flesh causes a gasp that burns her throat. But she does not scream from the sudden and sharp pāin; she knows better. She knows not to provoke the ravenous beast. She knows as I spank her pussy and inner thighs mercilessly, this is me showing kindness. This is me waking her flesh.
Just as sudden, the spanking stops as she inhales deep, trying to process the pāin. Agony aflame in her crotch, she also knows she should cry and beg me to stop, for mercy she, beyond doubt, doesn't deserve. But to her betrayal, her body misses the heat of my palm and the weight of my hand, what she wants to beg for was just one more taste of that excruciating caress.
That memory of human touch is replaced with the stinging strike of my cane over her thigh, in a rain of rattan licks that stripes her from knee to knee - no courtesy shown to her already tender vulva, of course. I grace her with the intensity only my 5mm canes can deliver, aptly named the "Stinger" for being able to give the sensation of being stung by bees with each strike. A swarm of angry bees attack her labia as my hunger peaks; she moans long and low as some form of release as much as to just get a cool breath into her tightened lungs and chest.
As if by magic, the bees disappear, allowing her the chance to regain composure as she huffs to catch her breath. The composure would be short-lived however, as the sudden change in my energy - from ravenous beast to controlled authoritarian - gives her one serious case of mental whiplash. I sit comfortably and casually between her legs, thighs lined with the sensitive welts and bruising only a seasoned sadist could inflict. The supportive smile on my face as her breathing returns to normal feels strangely surreal compared to that of the Devil that was just here.
“We will be doing a series of vaginal staples,” my tone is sterile and steady, perhaps exemplified by the set of examination gloves I don with a snap of rubber. I open the sealed packaging containing the medical stapler as I continue, “The staples will be placed horizontally, crossing from left to right labia majora. Since this is a new experience for you, we will start with one,” tearing open an alcohol prep, I use the damn tissue to clean her vulva, “then go from there. Any questions?”
Stumbling over second thoughts and the alarms sounding in her head, she shakes off the deer-in-the-headlights stare to finally respond. “How many do you think I can take?” It was immediately clear she regretted the query.
I glance briefly at the stapler and chuckle. “There’s 35 staples…so…I know I can give you up to 35.”
She audibly gulps in the way you might see and hear a cartoon character swallow when frightened. She inhales sharply and in a sacred and intimate whisper to her God, she says, “I’m ready.”
“Let’s begin.” My smile makes her think of a wolf trying to flirt and entice a rabbit to come out for a bite to eat. Seductively, I slide my fingers over her labia, bring the lips together and ensuring balance before I press the tip of the stapler over the area the clit would be.
CLA-CHUNK.
She yipes in surprise, the all-too-familiar sound of the stapler catching her off guard, but the intense pinching of the piercing staple was distinctly sharp. That wasn't unbearable, she thought, and when she opened her mouth, “Can I have another?” fell out. Bring her lips together over the shimmering orifice, I slip the tip lower on her cunt.
CLA-CHUNK.
A slight jump as the needle-like ends dig into her sensitive genitalia, the pāin intensified by anticipation. “Can I have another?” she speaks the words before her brain even has a chance to catch-up. Nor do I.
CLA-CHUNK.
The staple feels like it enters the mid-way point of her cunt in slow motion, abruptly fōrcing perspiration out of every pore on her body. She feels proud that she didn't shout, the building distress in her crotch brings new fēārs to mind. Focusing on her legs, she worries if she spreads too much, if she'll tear the metal crimps in her pussy lips. “Can I have another?” The words confuse her, but somehow, no other words would come to her vacant mind.
CLA-CHUNK.
What is left of her melted, mushy mind is washed away in a deluge of dopamine, adrenaline, endorphins and serotonin. She stares off into some unimaginable distance - seeing I know not what - as violent tremors possess her body. Her thighs quiver in a spectacular display of masochistic inebriation, shivering uncontrollably as if she was dropped into icy waters. Swimming against the rushing rapids, she fights to regain conscious awareness for a long stretch. Still in a daze, her voice slurs as it rushes from her mouth, “That last shtaple waz a lot.”
My words seem to float to her on bubbles. “Are you ready to continue?”
Who can predict what thoughts violate the masochist psyche when it's all doped up on its drug of choice: suffering? Reading her body language, there was little doubt in my mind that she was done, just some dumb slut with shrink wrapped eyes pushed to her limit. No, this one was ready to beg for a reprieve, any escape from this piercing genital ābūsē. Certainly, I didn't expect her to regain control, slowly bringing her quaking flesh still once again. “Can I have three more, please?” Just a minute earlier, I wouldn't have thought her able to handle the staple removal process; now as we lock eyes, her gaze reasserts her endurance and determination to impress me. It did, in fact.
I am impressed.
CLA-CHUNK.
CLA-CHUNK.
CLA-CHUNK.
Staple number seven was the magical tack that coaxed a scream from her throat. I sit upright to survey my work, birthed from skill and artistry. The staples shimmer in the low light against her red and swollen vagina, evenly spaced along the line of her perfectly flushed slit and ensuring that orifice is out of order. My proud thought: Had it been another kind of gash, it would definitely heal without scarring due to my handiwork. Not allowing my vaingloriousness distract me too long from my patient, I break the news to her with all the cold detachment of a well-practiced bad surgeon.
“You're a virgin again.”
Without missing a beat, she strains in reply, “I guess this makes me anal only…” Gingerly, she begins shifting to roll over.
“Your trashy ass will wait,” she bites her lip hearing my tone turn sinister. “I have something else in mind…”
Starbucket Damn... Damn...
LikeCade
· 16.09.2026 9:16:32
(This profile is best viewed if read while the song in the above YouTube embed [most recent status update] is played during.)
Lifestyle sadist, ethical predator, philosophical libertine.
Just an honest opening before you actually invest time reading this profile: I'm not like them.
I am the Read more… reality your most disturbing fantasy can't handle. Think really hard on your desire to read on...no, I'm not likely to message you first.
That being said, I am a literal sadist and human owner. I feel like you should pay special attention to that term, “literal”. Inflicting intense sensations (that I can't share here even in the simplest and most innocuous ways) is a necessity for me to reach a state of arousal. My pleasure is found in less conventional sexual interactions. Rather than fantasies of wild fuck sessions and incredible sexual conquests, my focus in this regard is to push outside comfort zones and into far more extreme activities.
My relationship dynamic is a CNC Owner/property poly triad. For the sake of transparency, I own a live-in slave (together over 14 years, branded as my property after her training in 2019). In addition, I do have several play partners part of my world in various stations, each with their unique commitments. My desired goals would be to find a second live-in masochist/submissive to also train as my slave and would be [chain-sïster] and partner to my current servant. All individuals involved are aware of one another and this goal, and each supports me in their own way.
My modality is structure and ritual driven, a variation of both PRICK and RACK ideologies. As you might have gathered, I use honest expression of my desires and intent to create shared understanding with individuals with preferred base qualities. Prospective individuals that desire to progress begin a consideration process of extensive communication and interactional observation to determine a sense of trust and integrity for no less than a year. If trust is secured by all parties, the potential is collared as my submissive in training for ownership. Training includes behavior modification, pushing thresholds, and solidifying the protocol in everyday life as well as in lifestyle environments and play spaces. This period lasts seven years after which the submissive is branded as my property in a commitment ceremony with the exchanging of our oaths. This is how one becomes my slave. Play partnerships are more based on individual considerations (though, I am currently not looking for any other play partners).
I started my own lifestyle journey as a sadist at the end of the 1990s. In these decades, I've had so many amazing experiences, had the opportunity to learn from some of the most exceptional individuals from all walks of life on a plethora of subjects, and created play and scenes that are often incredible even to myself. Impact play is my happy place - my Florentine flogging skills get me the most attention, but my use of a cane is frighteningly legendary. Mind fuckery is a big part of reaching deeper levels of participation with me, and I'm willing/capable of investing the necessary time and conscious effort to earn the trust and respect required for my desire…even despite how limitless my imagination and cruel cunning. Suffering is my love language.
I have experiences to share. Magical and sensational, dark and disturbing experiences. All you have to do is be the canvas for my art.
If I tell you that I am too much for you, this is not an insult, challenge, or attempt to bait you. Please respect that I do not think our experience/kinks/relationship goals match up and I'm trying my best to protect you from me.
(If you're a racist/homophobe/transphobe or otherwise judgemental of others, little, brat, have issues being honest or making commitments, only want to role play or share fantasies, or believe “the submissive is really the one in control” then it best we don't waste either of our time.)
FORUM INDEX
(My written work in the forum.)
Topical Articles:
Clash in Kink-Positivity: Triggers versus Fetish;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1374-clash-in-kink-positivity-triggers-versus-fetish/
Community of Babel;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1440-community-of-babel/
(CoB) Labels are Your Friend, not Life Partner;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1461-cob-labels-are-your-friend-not-life-partner/
(CoB) Listen and Ask Questions;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1538-cob-listen-and-ask-questions/
EARN It: The Real Gift;
www.fetish.com/topic/14592-earn-it-the-real-gift/
The Fallacy of "Easy" Submission (Or: Tiger Taming for Dummies);
www.fetish.com/topic/15053-the-fallacy-of-easy-submission-or-tiger-taming-for-dummies/
I adore my lifestyle (but I abhor your community).;
www.fetish.com/topic/14311-i-adore-my-lifestyle-but-i-abhor-your-community/
I'm a cruel, scary sadist, and you should avoid even talking to me! (Or, the Conundrum of Vanilla Understanding Enförced within the BDSM Realm.);
www.fetish.com/topic/13957-im-a-cruel-scary-sadist-and-you-should-avoid-even-talking-to-me-or-the-conundrum-of-vanilla-understanding-en***d-within-the-bdsm-realm/
No Limits: Fact or Fiction (A Counterpoint);
www.fetish.com/topic/13888-no-limits-fact-or-fiction-a-counterpoint/
PRE-CARE: Foreplay to Leather Sex;
www.fetish.com/topic/74446-pre-care-foreplay-to-leather-sex/
The Secret of S/M;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/5058-the-secret-of-sm/
Understanding Complex Consent Dynamics and CNC;
www.fetish.com/topic/14091-understanding-complex-consent-dynamics-and-cnc/
Tales:
ACITOREOHPARG;
www.fetish.com/topic/156276-acitoreohparg/
Alice and Her Jabberwock;
www.fetish.com/topic/73302-alice-and-her-jabberwock/
Basement;
www.fetish.com/topic/150982-basement/
[CENSORED TITLE] (retitled as Hades and Persephone);
www.fetish.com/topic/14107-hades-and-persephone/
CLA-CHUNK;
www.fetish.com/topic/249730-cla-chunk/
Content for Him;
www.fetish.com/topic/198798-content-for-him/
The Crying Game;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1748-the-crying-game/
(CG) Round One;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1769-cg-round-one/
(CG) Round Two;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1793-cg-round-two/
(CG) Round Three;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1830-cg-round-three/
(CG) Round Four;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1954-cg-round-four/
Daughter of Suffering;
www.fetish.com/topic/66671-daughter-of-suffering/
Day One;
www.fetish.com/topic/14498-day-one/
Do Not Read;
www.fetish.com/topic/151508-do-not-read/
Hot Box;
www.fetish.com/topic/16860-hot-box/
"How I want you...";
www.fetish.com/topic/14401-how-i-want-you/
A Night Out;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1586-a-night-out/
Objectification of a Vegetarian;
www.fetish.com/topic/13939-objectification-of-a-vegetarian/
Sacre-licious;
www.fetish.com/topic/13180-sacre-licious/
The Scorpion and the Frog;
www.fetish.com/topic/14359-the-scorpion-and-the-frog/
The Shoe Shine Girl;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1364-the-shoe-shine-girl/
Third Person;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1393-third-person/
Throw Trash in its Proper Place [Abridged];
www.fetish.com/topic/152612-throw-trash-in-its-proper-place-abridged/
Train at Nowhere Junction I;
www.fetish.com/topic/246060-train-at-nowhere-junction-i/
Train at Nowhere Junction II (Abridged);
www.fetish.com/topic/248924-train-at-nowhere-junction-ii-abridged/
Trash;
www.fetish.com/topic/63411-trash/
The Wolf and bunny;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1517-the-wolf-and-bunny/
"Yes";
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1711-yes/
Poetry:
Crux;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1550-crux/
For the Span of a Breath;
www.fetish.com/topic/207140-for-the-span-of-a-breath/
I Already Know;
www.fetish.com/topic/201162-i-already-know/
"I know why she cries";
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1416-i-know-why-she-cries/
In the Shadows;
www.fetish.com/topic/157786-in-the-shadows/
Life, Less Ordinary;
www.fetish.com/topic/162392-life-less-ordinary/
The Monster's Trap;
www.fetish.com/topic/152096-the-monsters-trap/
Must I;
www.fetish.com/topic/154610-must-i/
Lifestyle sadist, ethical predator, philosophical libertine.
Just an honest opening before you actually invest time reading this profile: I'm not like them.
I am the Read more… reality your most disturbing fantasy can't handle. Think really hard on your desire to read on...no, I'm not likely to message you first.
That being said, I am a literal sadist and human owner. I feel like you should pay special attention to that term, “literal”. Inflicting intense sensations (that I can't share here even in the simplest and most innocuous ways) is a necessity for me to reach a state of arousal. My pleasure is found in less conventional sexual interactions. Rather than fantasies of wild fuck sessions and incredible sexual conquests, my focus in this regard is to push outside comfort zones and into far more extreme activities.
My relationship dynamic is a CNC Owner/property poly triad. For the sake of transparency, I own a live-in slave (together over 14 years, branded as my property after her training in 2019). In addition, I do have several play partners part of my world in various stations, each with their unique commitments. My desired goals would be to find a second live-in masochist/submissive to also train as my slave and would be [chain-sïster] and partner to my current servant. All individuals involved are aware of one another and this goal, and each supports me in their own way.
My modality is structure and ritual driven, a variation of both PRICK and RACK ideologies. As you might have gathered, I use honest expression of my desires and intent to create shared understanding with individuals with preferred base qualities. Prospective individuals that desire to progress begin a consideration process of extensive communication and interactional observation to determine a sense of trust and integrity for no less than a year. If trust is secured by all parties, the potential is collared as my submissive in training for ownership. Training includes behavior modification, pushing thresholds, and solidifying the protocol in everyday life as well as in lifestyle environments and play spaces. This period lasts seven years after which the submissive is branded as my property in a commitment ceremony with the exchanging of our oaths. This is how one becomes my slave. Play partnerships are more based on individual considerations (though, I am currently not looking for any other play partners).
I started my own lifestyle journey as a sadist at the end of the 1990s. In these decades, I've had so many amazing experiences, had the opportunity to learn from some of the most exceptional individuals from all walks of life on a plethora of subjects, and created play and scenes that are often incredible even to myself. Impact play is my happy place - my Florentine flogging skills get me the most attention, but my use of a cane is frighteningly legendary. Mind fuckery is a big part of reaching deeper levels of participation with me, and I'm willing/capable of investing the necessary time and conscious effort to earn the trust and respect required for my desire…even despite how limitless my imagination and cruel cunning. Suffering is my love language.
I have experiences to share. Magical and sensational, dark and disturbing experiences. All you have to do is be the canvas for my art.
If I tell you that I am too much for you, this is not an insult, challenge, or attempt to bait you. Please respect that I do not think our experience/kinks/relationship goals match up and I'm trying my best to protect you from me.
(If you're a racist/homophobe/transphobe or otherwise judgemental of others, little, brat, have issues being honest or making commitments, only want to role play or share fantasies, or believe “the submissive is really the one in control” then it best we don't waste either of our time.)
FORUM INDEX
(My written work in the forum.)
Topical Articles:
Clash in Kink-Positivity: Triggers versus Fetish;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1374-clash-in-kink-positivity-triggers-versus-fetish/
Community of Babel;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1440-community-of-babel/
(CoB) Labels are Your Friend, not Life Partner;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1461-cob-labels-are-your-friend-not-life-partner/
(CoB) Listen and Ask Questions;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1538-cob-listen-and-ask-questions/
EARN It: The Real Gift;
www.fetish.com/topic/14592-earn-it-the-real-gift/
The Fallacy of "Easy" Submission (Or: Tiger Taming for Dummies);
www.fetish.com/topic/15053-the-fallacy-of-easy-submission-or-tiger-taming-for-dummies/
I adore my lifestyle (but I abhor your community).;
www.fetish.com/topic/14311-i-adore-my-lifestyle-but-i-abhor-your-community/
I'm a cruel, scary sadist, and you should avoid even talking to me! (Or, the Conundrum of Vanilla Understanding Enförced within the BDSM Realm.);
www.fetish.com/topic/13957-im-a-cruel-scary-sadist-and-you-should-avoid-even-talking-to-me-or-the-conundrum-of-vanilla-understanding-en***d-within-the-bdsm-realm/
No Limits: Fact or Fiction (A Counterpoint);
www.fetish.com/topic/13888-no-limits-fact-or-fiction-a-counterpoint/
PRE-CARE: Foreplay to Leather Sex;
www.fetish.com/topic/74446-pre-care-foreplay-to-leather-sex/
The Secret of S/M;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/5058-the-secret-of-sm/
Understanding Complex Consent Dynamics and CNC;
www.fetish.com/topic/14091-understanding-complex-consent-dynamics-and-cnc/
Tales:
ACITOREOHPARG;
www.fetish.com/topic/156276-acitoreohparg/
Alice and Her Jabberwock;
www.fetish.com/topic/73302-alice-and-her-jabberwock/
Basement;
www.fetish.com/topic/150982-basement/
[CENSORED TITLE] (retitled as Hades and Persephone);
www.fetish.com/topic/14107-hades-and-persephone/
CLA-CHUNK;
www.fetish.com/topic/249730-cla-chunk/
Content for Him;
www.fetish.com/topic/198798-content-for-him/
The Crying Game;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1748-the-crying-game/
(CG) Round One;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1769-cg-round-one/
(CG) Round Two;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1793-cg-round-two/
(CG) Round Three;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1830-cg-round-three/
(CG) Round Four;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1954-cg-round-four/
Daughter of Suffering;
www.fetish.com/topic/66671-daughter-of-suffering/
Day One;
www.fetish.com/topic/14498-day-one/
Do Not Read;
www.fetish.com/topic/151508-do-not-read/
Hot Box;
www.fetish.com/topic/16860-hot-box/
"How I want you...";
www.fetish.com/topic/14401-how-i-want-you/
A Night Out;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1586-a-night-out/
Objectification of a Vegetarian;
www.fetish.com/topic/13939-objectification-of-a-vegetarian/
Sacre-licious;
www.fetish.com/topic/13180-sacre-licious/
The Scorpion and the Frog;
www.fetish.com/topic/14359-the-scorpion-and-the-frog/
The Shoe Shine Girl;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1364-the-shoe-shine-girl/
Third Person;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1393-third-person/
Throw Trash in its Proper Place [Abridged];
www.fetish.com/topic/152612-throw-trash-in-its-proper-place-abridged/
Train at Nowhere Junction I;
www.fetish.com/topic/246060-train-at-nowhere-junction-i/
Train at Nowhere Junction II (Abridged);
www.fetish.com/topic/248924-train-at-nowhere-junction-ii-abridged/
Trash;
www.fetish.com/topic/63411-trash/
The Wolf and bunny;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1517-the-wolf-and-bunny/
"Yes";
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1711-yes/
Poetry:
Crux;
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1550-crux/
For the Span of a Breath;
www.fetish.com/topic/207140-for-the-span-of-a-breath/
I Already Know;
www.fetish.com/topic/201162-i-already-know/
"I know why she cries";
www.fetish.com/community/topic/1416-i-know-why-she-cries/
In the Shadows;
www.fetish.com/topic/157786-in-the-shadows/
Life, Less Ordinary;
www.fetish.com/topic/162392-life-less-ordinary/
The Monster's Trap;
www.fetish.com/topic/152096-the-monsters-trap/
Must I;
www.fetish.com/topic/154610-must-i/
Train at Nowhere Junction II (Abridged)
“Censorship is to art as lynching is to justice.” - Henry Louis Gates, Jr.
Train at Nowhere Junction II (Abridged)
*Chapter I can be found here: https://www.fetish.com/topic/246060-train-at-nowhere-junction-i/
**This story has been edited from its original work; anything marked [REDACTED] has been removed to meet Fetish forum posting standards.
My Use (Act 1)
By the time we finish our meals (I did, in fact, Read more…eat most your fries), you bounce frantically in the seat trying to calm your rapid breathing to regain control, mind racing because you don't want to wet yourself in public. I take a long, mocking suck from my straw, in pāinfully obvious disdain for your impending situation. Gurgling could be heard from the cup as I take the last of the soda inside, then I meticulously place it on the tabletop almost as if part of some - incredibly slow - ritual.
“Clean this up,” I say absently, could be to no one or everyone, as I stare out into the night landscape. A young couple bickers at a nearby bench, capturing my curiosity as you try to focus on the task at hand. You pick up the food wrappers with trembling hands while the lady of the couple stands and shouts at the lanky fellow still sitting at the bus stop. He raises his hands in defeat and she turns away in a huff, dragging a small dog behind her; you hurriedly discard the trash in a nearby receptacle before standing beside me in earnest desperation.
Nearly dancing in rhythmic insanity, you plead in a manner that leaves no question your anguish, “My Lord, PLEASE…we've finished eating, may I use the ******** now!?! Please!” You clutch your fists and press them into your crotch, trying to afford yourself just a few more seconds.
I chuckle sadistically and lean back in my seat. “You may…I guess,” my tone is playful and sly.
Something doesn't feel right to you. You know me too well; why didn't I make you beg? In a stupor, you respond, “Thank you?” Your chaotic thoughts come to the conclusion that you shouldn’t look a gift “sadist” in the mouth - you might just get bit. So, with a relieved shrug, you begin walking with purpose towards the glowing sign that indicates the direction of the restrooms as I stand.
“Ehm.” The solitary and distinct sound of me clearing my throat stops you cold in your tracks. “This way, dirty slut. Follow me.” I turn in the opposite direction, through the many benches in the pavilion and towards the shadowy side of the building. You spēēd walk to catch up to me, passing the table Big Jon sat, just opening his second pizza pie.
Certainly, you're no stranger to being fōrcēd to ******* in public - you've had to experience everything from being walked as a “dirty dog” to being made to present as you simply **** your clothing (it doesn’t get easier). However, with this lot setup, there is a constant run of cars, trucks and diesels that circle the buildings looking for a spot to gas up at, parking or turning their larger vehicles around. With only a couple isolated parked cars, most likely the employees, the side of the building might as well have been some obscene stage, each vehicle that passes lighting us up with their headlamp spotlights.
To your surprise (and a little disappointment - you really need to go), we don't stop along our little side quest for me to humiliate you in your mundane bodily functions. Instead, I lead you around the very back of the building to an additional set of restrooms, blocked off and locked with a big “OUT OF ORDER” sign to finish the effect. I push past a traffic cone blocking the entrance, and fishing keys from my pocket, I unlock the door and go inside. The sickly flicker of florescent bulbs welcome you in behind me despite your utter sense of dread.
“Wait at the door,” the command in my voice leaves no room for questions. Standing uncomfortably next to a trashcan and a series of not-so-clean sinks, you watch as I circle the fair sized room, checking stalls and surveying the space in various stages of mental planning. I walk past you to a storage closet off to the far corner, using the keys once again to gain access. Pēēking my head inside, I retrieve a familiar duffle and make my way to the farthest stall from the entry.
“Is…that a bag from the house?” you ask, trying to distract yourself from anything to do with liquid.
“Yes,” I respond, not looking away from my mission. “I knew I'd need a few things, so I dropped them off earlier in the week.” I disappear behind the partitions, dropping the bag with a loud, heavy crash that makes you jump in surprise and nearly [REDACTED] yourself out of anxious fēār. My disembodied voice pulls you back, “I noticed this stop on a trip for work, I stopped in for gas.” The unmistakable clanking of chain being manipulated gives you the shivers as I continue, “I got talking with Jerry, and it turns out he's a really good guy…and funny. Funny kinky.” My head pops out from the stall so you can read my expression.
I return to the prep work, you hear another zipper and after a minute, you see me reaching overhead to the bars stabilizing the stall walls as I tell the tale. “It seems he’s very much a voyeur…watching people ‘do things’ really gets him going, I guess. I got to talking about what I enjoy which excited him. He’s really never seen anything like…well…this.” I pause to double check the set of camera brackets I've put up: one in the front and the other diagonally across in the back, you note.
“So, he’s agreed to let me use this space for the night to do whatever I want,” I reveal as I attach cameras to the brackets, “as long as he gets to watch.” That creepy revelation causes you to shiver; the sudden connection to the unbearable pāin burning in your lower abdomen like coals in a wood burner nearly doubles you over as if I punched you in the *******. An oppressive silence fills the room like a toxic gas threatening your consciousness, and your head spins as I step out of the stall with my eyes on the screen of a table, adjusting the camera angles to maximize the view.
“P-people are going to watch, my Lord?” Your discomfort is obvious and delicious to me. In lieu of an answer, my head turns towards you slowly and a wide, toothy grin spreads across my face.
Ducking back into the stall, the room falls quiet again except for the occasional rattle of chain while I finish setting up. Anticipation weighs heavy on your shoulders, and you're already hunched over with legs crossed tightly, hugging your abdomen in some insane attempt to hold on just one more minute. Then, two minutes. And then what feels like an eternity pinched between your thighs until the distinct and deafening click of a lock being closed snaps you to attention.
The now mostly empty bag startles you as it flies from the nook you know must be a portal to hell; you watch as it hits the tile floor and slides under the sinks. “Come here,” my voice echoes off the walls, pounding you from every direction as if to drown out your heartbeat - loud in your skull. You literally have to fōrcē your stubborn feet forward, more out of the terror gripping your soul than the agony of each step from an impending explosion in your lower abdomen. Dread drags at your heels as each footfall plods you closer to the very Devil. No matter how you try to creep, your path ends at the stall’s archway, where you stand stunned, staring agape at the creation of my cruel cunning and idle hands.
The tight space looks incredibly claustrophobic, a mere watercloset with manilla pāinted walls flaking to expose countless years of vandalized coverups. My familiar handwriting adorns the space and you have to focus your swimming mind to read the thick Sharpie letters. Sprawling the propped open door reads the declaration “FREE USE FUCKMEAT” with charts to track various details on the walls. An empty three section chart with the labels: “facecunt”, “twat” and “asscunt” occupies the largest wall across from the door, and another chart behind the door with the labels: “facial”, “bodyshot”, “creampie”, and “anal creampie”. One last chart in the space over the [REDACTED] only had two sections for “condom” and “lube”. Then there is the matter of the [REDACTED]; a large bottle of lube with those convenient pump spouts that make it easy for one handed use sat atop the tank while around the [REDACTED] neck circled one end of the chain, locked in place to itself. Tracing that chain to the other end, your eyes take in each link on their path to my hand, where I stand before you with the most sincerely terrifying grin and a lock.
There is no fight or protest in you as I raise the chain to your throat, wrapping it nonchalantly as if just any other necklace, but with a Master’s lock as the clasp. The chill of the metal on your burning flesh freezes your mind as if a block of ice, all thought trapped within and lost in the cold. The heat leaves your body through your feet as I loop the lock’s latch through a set of links creating an inescapable collar connecting you to a disgusting [REDACTED].
Your mind has checked out, though; as the lock snaps closed under your chin, you don't even realize you’re [REDACTED] yourself, a puddle of [REDACTED] splashing and pooling around your damp sneakers.
I look down in disdain. “Now look, you've gone and made a mess! And just when we were ready to start!” My tone carries no frustration, but more of a gleeful satisfaction, and that's when you realize: this is all part of my design, sick and twisted as it may be. “You'll just need to clean it up,” the words only barely leave my tongue before I take your sundress in my fists and tear it from your flesh rudely. The thin material rips so easily, and yet, even as I yank the shreds from your form, you are jostled and manhandled. I discard the remains on the ground in front of you, now standing in only soiled panties and tennis shoes with ankle high socks, all tainted ******.
Dropping to your knees, the chain jingles and crashes against the tile as you take up what was once your pretty outfit, using it to mop the ***** *****. I scrutinize and walk around you, a predator circling its prey, absorbed by this act of subservience being broadcast out into the internet. Thoughts of brutality and *** fill my head, threatening to spill out like [REDACTED] from your frightened *******. How does a sadist deny their ravenous desire to make someone they're attracted to suffer?
Of course, the short answer is: I don't.
Your ass bobs as you wipe at the mess on the floor, the soaked panties beckoning my attention. I'm certainly no one to ignore the obvious, so I reach down and get a firm handhold on the very back of the waistband before jerking them upwards abruptly. You let out a shrill yelp as the damp crotch splits your labia and slides between your cheeks, the excruciating discomfort of fabric burn against your intimate openings reminding you that this traumatic experience has only just begun. As I continue to pull, your lower body gets lifted as the fabric stretches and your face drops forward to plop against the wet tiles. A sob breaks your disassociated demeanor moments before the panties hit their limit, the crotch tears and you fall to the floor with a splat.
“Right where you belong,” my snide tone causes the flood gates to break, and you start to weep. “Oh, come now…it's far too early for tears, pathetic fucktoy. Dry those eyes before someone takes pity on you.” As if on cue, there was a knock on the door into the restroom.
You quickly sit upright and move to hug my leg, but instead, learn the length of your tether as the chain pulls taut and ***s you. “S-someone, my Lord? Someone’s here…”
My smirk is the best warning of how much danger you're in as I look down on you for a long moment. “Yes, I know,” the simple response sends your mind spinning imagining someone seeing you in this disheveled state - well, besides whoever is watching the camera feed. You pull against the chain trying to scramble to follow me as I turns and walk towards the entrance. Stopping before I pull the door open, I turn to look at you with my face a mask of stoicism and say, “No matter what happens, I expect you to obey and represent me with pride. You are inferior and below everyone you see tonight, it'll be good to keep that in mind.”
Shock grips you and the solitary word, “Everyone?” spills over your lips. However, it falls on deaf ears as I pull the door closed behind me. You are left alone and afraid, chained to a [REDACTED], and not a clue what to expect next.
**This story has been edited from its original work; anything marked [REDACTED] has been removed to meet Fetish forum posting standards.
My Use (Act 1)
By the time we finish our meals (I did, in fact, Read more…eat most your fries), you bounce frantically in the seat trying to calm your rapid breathing to regain control, mind racing because you don't want to wet yourself in public. I take a long, mocking suck from my straw, in pāinfully obvious disdain for your impending situation. Gurgling could be heard from the cup as I take the last of the soda inside, then I meticulously place it on the tabletop almost as if part of some - incredibly slow - ritual.
“Clean this up,” I say absently, could be to no one or everyone, as I stare out into the night landscape. A young couple bickers at a nearby bench, capturing my curiosity as you try to focus on the task at hand. You pick up the food wrappers with trembling hands while the lady of the couple stands and shouts at the lanky fellow still sitting at the bus stop. He raises his hands in defeat and she turns away in a huff, dragging a small dog behind her; you hurriedly discard the trash in a nearby receptacle before standing beside me in earnest desperation.
Nearly dancing in rhythmic insanity, you plead in a manner that leaves no question your anguish, “My Lord, PLEASE…we've finished eating, may I use the ******** now!?! Please!” You clutch your fists and press them into your crotch, trying to afford yourself just a few more seconds.
I chuckle sadistically and lean back in my seat. “You may…I guess,” my tone is playful and sly.
Something doesn't feel right to you. You know me too well; why didn't I make you beg? In a stupor, you respond, “Thank you?” Your chaotic thoughts come to the conclusion that you shouldn’t look a gift “sadist” in the mouth - you might just get bit. So, with a relieved shrug, you begin walking with purpose towards the glowing sign that indicates the direction of the restrooms as I stand.
“Ehm.” The solitary and distinct sound of me clearing my throat stops you cold in your tracks. “This way, dirty slut. Follow me.” I turn in the opposite direction, through the many benches in the pavilion and towards the shadowy side of the building. You spēēd walk to catch up to me, passing the table Big Jon sat, just opening his second pizza pie.
Certainly, you're no stranger to being fōrcēd to ******* in public - you've had to experience everything from being walked as a “dirty dog” to being made to present as you simply **** your clothing (it doesn’t get easier). However, with this lot setup, there is a constant run of cars, trucks and diesels that circle the buildings looking for a spot to gas up at, parking or turning their larger vehicles around. With only a couple isolated parked cars, most likely the employees, the side of the building might as well have been some obscene stage, each vehicle that passes lighting us up with their headlamp spotlights.
To your surprise (and a little disappointment - you really need to go), we don't stop along our little side quest for me to humiliate you in your mundane bodily functions. Instead, I lead you around the very back of the building to an additional set of restrooms, blocked off and locked with a big “OUT OF ORDER” sign to finish the effect. I push past a traffic cone blocking the entrance, and fishing keys from my pocket, I unlock the door and go inside. The sickly flicker of florescent bulbs welcome you in behind me despite your utter sense of dread.
“Wait at the door,” the command in my voice leaves no room for questions. Standing uncomfortably next to a trashcan and a series of not-so-clean sinks, you watch as I circle the fair sized room, checking stalls and surveying the space in various stages of mental planning. I walk past you to a storage closet off to the far corner, using the keys once again to gain access. Pēēking my head inside, I retrieve a familiar duffle and make my way to the farthest stall from the entry.
“Is…that a bag from the house?” you ask, trying to distract yourself from anything to do with liquid.
“Yes,” I respond, not looking away from my mission. “I knew I'd need a few things, so I dropped them off earlier in the week.” I disappear behind the partitions, dropping the bag with a loud, heavy crash that makes you jump in surprise and nearly [REDACTED] yourself out of anxious fēār. My disembodied voice pulls you back, “I noticed this stop on a trip for work, I stopped in for gas.” The unmistakable clanking of chain being manipulated gives you the shivers as I continue, “I got talking with Jerry, and it turns out he's a really good guy…and funny. Funny kinky.” My head pops out from the stall so you can read my expression.
I return to the prep work, you hear another zipper and after a minute, you see me reaching overhead to the bars stabilizing the stall walls as I tell the tale. “It seems he’s very much a voyeur…watching people ‘do things’ really gets him going, I guess. I got to talking about what I enjoy which excited him. He’s really never seen anything like…well…this.” I pause to double check the set of camera brackets I've put up: one in the front and the other diagonally across in the back, you note.
“So, he’s agreed to let me use this space for the night to do whatever I want,” I reveal as I attach cameras to the brackets, “as long as he gets to watch.” That creepy revelation causes you to shiver; the sudden connection to the unbearable pāin burning in your lower abdomen like coals in a wood burner nearly doubles you over as if I punched you in the *******. An oppressive silence fills the room like a toxic gas threatening your consciousness, and your head spins as I step out of the stall with my eyes on the screen of a table, adjusting the camera angles to maximize the view.
“P-people are going to watch, my Lord?” Your discomfort is obvious and delicious to me. In lieu of an answer, my head turns towards you slowly and a wide, toothy grin spreads across my face.
Ducking back into the stall, the room falls quiet again except for the occasional rattle of chain while I finish setting up. Anticipation weighs heavy on your shoulders, and you're already hunched over with legs crossed tightly, hugging your abdomen in some insane attempt to hold on just one more minute. Then, two minutes. And then what feels like an eternity pinched between your thighs until the distinct and deafening click of a lock being closed snaps you to attention.
The now mostly empty bag startles you as it flies from the nook you know must be a portal to hell; you watch as it hits the tile floor and slides under the sinks. “Come here,” my voice echoes off the walls, pounding you from every direction as if to drown out your heartbeat - loud in your skull. You literally have to fōrcē your stubborn feet forward, more out of the terror gripping your soul than the agony of each step from an impending explosion in your lower abdomen. Dread drags at your heels as each footfall plods you closer to the very Devil. No matter how you try to creep, your path ends at the stall’s archway, where you stand stunned, staring agape at the creation of my cruel cunning and idle hands.
The tight space looks incredibly claustrophobic, a mere watercloset with manilla pāinted walls flaking to expose countless years of vandalized coverups. My familiar handwriting adorns the space and you have to focus your swimming mind to read the thick Sharpie letters. Sprawling the propped open door reads the declaration “FREE USE FUCKMEAT” with charts to track various details on the walls. An empty three section chart with the labels: “facecunt”, “twat” and “asscunt” occupies the largest wall across from the door, and another chart behind the door with the labels: “facial”, “bodyshot”, “creampie”, and “anal creampie”. One last chart in the space over the [REDACTED] only had two sections for “condom” and “lube”. Then there is the matter of the [REDACTED]; a large bottle of lube with those convenient pump spouts that make it easy for one handed use sat atop the tank while around the [REDACTED] neck circled one end of the chain, locked in place to itself. Tracing that chain to the other end, your eyes take in each link on their path to my hand, where I stand before you with the most sincerely terrifying grin and a lock.
There is no fight or protest in you as I raise the chain to your throat, wrapping it nonchalantly as if just any other necklace, but with a Master’s lock as the clasp. The chill of the metal on your burning flesh freezes your mind as if a block of ice, all thought trapped within and lost in the cold. The heat leaves your body through your feet as I loop the lock’s latch through a set of links creating an inescapable collar connecting you to a disgusting [REDACTED].
Your mind has checked out, though; as the lock snaps closed under your chin, you don't even realize you’re [REDACTED] yourself, a puddle of [REDACTED] splashing and pooling around your damp sneakers.
I look down in disdain. “Now look, you've gone and made a mess! And just when we were ready to start!” My tone carries no frustration, but more of a gleeful satisfaction, and that's when you realize: this is all part of my design, sick and twisted as it may be. “You'll just need to clean it up,” the words only barely leave my tongue before I take your sundress in my fists and tear it from your flesh rudely. The thin material rips so easily, and yet, even as I yank the shreds from your form, you are jostled and manhandled. I discard the remains on the ground in front of you, now standing in only soiled panties and tennis shoes with ankle high socks, all tainted ******.
Dropping to your knees, the chain jingles and crashes against the tile as you take up what was once your pretty outfit, using it to mop the ***** *****. I scrutinize and walk around you, a predator circling its prey, absorbed by this act of subservience being broadcast out into the internet. Thoughts of brutality and *** fill my head, threatening to spill out like [REDACTED] from your frightened *******. How does a sadist deny their ravenous desire to make someone they're attracted to suffer?
Of course, the short answer is: I don't.
Your ass bobs as you wipe at the mess on the floor, the soaked panties beckoning my attention. I'm certainly no one to ignore the obvious, so I reach down and get a firm handhold on the very back of the waistband before jerking them upwards abruptly. You let out a shrill yelp as the damp crotch splits your labia and slides between your cheeks, the excruciating discomfort of fabric burn against your intimate openings reminding you that this traumatic experience has only just begun. As I continue to pull, your lower body gets lifted as the fabric stretches and your face drops forward to plop against the wet tiles. A sob breaks your disassociated demeanor moments before the panties hit their limit, the crotch tears and you fall to the floor with a splat.
“Right where you belong,” my snide tone causes the flood gates to break, and you start to weep. “Oh, come now…it's far too early for tears, pathetic fucktoy. Dry those eyes before someone takes pity on you.” As if on cue, there was a knock on the door into the restroom.
You quickly sit upright and move to hug my leg, but instead, learn the length of your tether as the chain pulls taut and ***s you. “S-someone, my Lord? Someone’s here…”
My smirk is the best warning of how much danger you're in as I look down on you for a long moment. “Yes, I know,” the simple response sends your mind spinning imagining someone seeing you in this disheveled state - well, besides whoever is watching the camera feed. You pull against the chain trying to scramble to follow me as I turns and walk towards the entrance. Stopping before I pull the door open, I turn to look at you with my face a mask of stoicism and say, “No matter what happens, I expect you to obey and represent me with pride. You are inferior and below everyone you see tonight, it'll be good to keep that in mind.”
Shock grips you and the solitary word, “Everyone?” spills over your lips. However, it falls on deaf ears as I pull the door closed behind me. You are left alone and afraid, chained to a [REDACTED], and not a clue what to expect next.
Cade “Censorship is to art as lynching is to justice.” - Henry Louis Gates, Jr. “Censorship is to art as lynching is to justice.” - Henry Louis Gates, Jr.
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· 12.09.2026 1:56:39
Guys Please
The brain; rest of that meatsack is worthless if I don't capture that.
LikeSassyGRUNGEgiRL26, Marushko, WyldKattand 1 more… ·
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Why do you want to be photographed?
I feel like what I do is a form of art, but it is ephemeral. Even the beautiful aftermath of bruises and welts on the canvas of flesh heals and fads over time. Photos help me hold on to that art, gives it substance beyond the experience itself. I greatly enjoy that those that see those images will Read more… be moved by them, may feel something from them, and feel inspired.
LikeWyldKatt, Awesome55, oneweebiewolfieand 1 more… ·
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Tantra and Kink
Interestingly enough, if you expound on the concept of tantra, it becomes an awareness of the weave of interconnectivity and a tool to expand one's conscious beyond duality. In this aspect, I feel like this culture has its own "tantra", already. In some ways, it's very much the same: meditation, Read more… mantras/affirmations and breathing techniques are common tools among both with the greater goal of self actualization - becoming the best Self. It does differ though as tantra strives to achieve a realm without duality, while the BDSM culture (and greater kink culture, perhaps) celebrates duality, especially that of control and surrender, and the many ways it is expressed from casual tops and bottoms, to dominant and submissives, not to overlook sadists and masochists or owners and property (and the list goes on). Of course, our tenets are also similar and different, both with a focus of self awareness, but personally, I feel this culture puts more value on the necessity of communication, rather than the silent mastery of doctrine and tradition. Rather than a philosophy of transcending the flesh into a cosmic awareness, the philosophy is that of finding oneself and how we most naturally endeavor interpersonal interactions, intimately and communally.
LikeWyldKatt, arnhem961 ·
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What song parody’s for your fetish?
*When You're Evil,* by Voltaire.
LikeTongueTied365, WyldKatt ·
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The Power of No
Not bad 101 information on the basics of consent, but it gets lost in heavy "one twue way-ism". Complex consent dynamics do exist, can be successful and mutually benefit all partners.
LikeWyldKatt, MotherofDragons548, eyemblacksheepand 1 more… ·
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Train at Nowhere Junction I
Nowhere Junction
Rumbling tires and the blaring horn of a diesel jolts you awake from your uncomfortable slumber against the passenger side window. You try to stretch but wince at the knot in your neck, obviously from having craned it to the side for so long. But for how long? Rubbing the sleep Read more…from your eyes, you can only really tell that it will be dusk soon; the sun hung low in the sky, but street lamps hadn't flickering on yet and business signs didn't flash the roadway in electric neon colors.
The road is rough pulling into the enormous parking lot of some truck stop, and you bump your head against the window trying to pēēr up at the tall pylon sign. “Oooowwwww!” you grump, frustrated you couldn't make out the sign as you rub the sore spot at your hairline.
“You're awake!” I say cheerfully, turning the music down.
With a sprawling yawn you ask, “Where are we?” You look around the busy lot at the various vehicles and rundown buildings, busy people walking to and fro, shopping at the station or pumping gas. You notice a cute little fluffball of a dog being walked in some nearby grass by a young lady with bright pink hair as I pull into a parking spot next to the shop.
“Nowhere Junction,” I read from off the sign through the windshield. “Just some old truck stop. Let's get some snacks and drinks, I’ve got some business here.”
That ominous tone in that last part sent a cold chill up your spin; you're awake and alert now. I'm out of the car before you can ask any questions though, and your stomach flips as you reach for the door handle. Fingertips pause before touching it unsure if you really want to get out of the vehicle. Ponderance and vexation, you weigh the scary things you know about me against thirst, hunger, and the urgent need to relieve yourself.
Quick stepping, you race by a homeless guy hunched over a trashcan to take your spot by my side. Your pastel sundress flutters in the air conditioning as I open the door to the shop. The contrast from the outside heat to the icy air inside makes goosebumps spring up all over your skin abruptly.
The din within the store was loud with chatter, alarms and loud beeping, and the occasional order being shouted to the kitchen behind the counter. People meandered around the large shopping space looking at the various products offered on row after row of shelves or making orders and waiting for hot foods, and a couple of kids run past us excitedly on their way to the candy isle. Finally spotting the soda fountain, I grab your wrist and say, “Come on…let's get something to drink.” You stumble step behind me as I pull you through the store.
Sipping from the straw of my cup as you fill yours, I take a few seconds to peruse the people around the shop. Although not overly busy, there was a constant flow of customers, with the few strange stragglers here or there; an older guy beside the counter trying to talk to the young clerk, a homeless lady at the lotto table scratching tickets, even a couple boys snickering and carrying on by the hot dog rack. Your soft-spoken voice pulls me back to the fountain, “Can we get some snacks, too?”
Chuckling slightly, I respond simply, “Of course.”
“Can…can I get cookies AND candy?” you ask meekly but with unmistakeable excitement, adverting your eyes coyly.
“I guess,” I reply as we turn into the snack food isle. “But you have to eat something more substantial first. We can order something at checkout.”
You let out a little huff before saying, “Okay. I'm actually pretty hungry and something back there smells so good.” Taking a long drink from your soda, you're reminded of the pressing urge steadily growing more pāīnful. You squeeze your thighs together tightly and ask in a low voice, “May I go to the bathroom, my Lord?”
“No.” The word leaves my mouth without so much as a turn of the head to see you pout.
With snacks in hand, we take our place in line for the register behind a very large fellow donning a dusty and worn flannel shirt that looked like it might have been the same color as his cocked trucker’s hat once upon a time - red. You hop from leg to leg and fidget around him; partly to see the menu board over the big guy, but more so because the last drink you took made your bladder feel as if it might explode! I notice his name is “Big Jon” from the cap as he shoots you an annoyed side-eyed glance, a name fitting the 400 pound stature, indeed.
“Brother,” a deep, husky voice emanates from the long light brown beard that hides his mouth, “Is ya girl ahrite?” I couldn't tell if the mountain of a man was more concerned for you or more scared for himself at your odd behavior. He didn't dare take his eyes off you.
I contain you by hot palm taking hold of the nape of your neck before speaking. “I don't let her out of her box much, she's just gets all wiley and excited any time I bring her in public!” I retort with a friendly chuckle, trying to ease his mind. He eyeballs me for a long moment before turning back around and moving to the counter to cash out.
You lean in close to me and whisper softly, “I REALLY have to go to the bathroom. Please - please - PLEASE can I go?”
“No,” my smile resplendent at your obvious agony and desperation, even if your words weren't dripping with them. You fold your arms over your chest and stare at the dingy floor tiles in contempt. “Oh, calm down. I need to talk with someone here, he has something for me, and after we eat, I'll take you to the bathroom. All part of the plan for today,” my words feel distant and contemplative as I face forward.
Cold chills creep up your spine again, and you almost forget about the burning sensation in your abdomen. Every fiber of your being wants to ask, wants to cower…wants to…RUN! But that strong grip on the back of your neck reminds you of something you know deep in your soul: you belong to me. So, you take a deep breath, calm your mind, and lower your arms knowing how much I enjoy seeing your breasts in the the stretchy-tight fabric of your pretty sundress.
Despite not even a shift of my eyes, a knowing smirk tugs at the corner of my lips that somehow makes you incredibly furious with me for the casual recognition and catches your nether region aflame with wanton hunger at my near omnipotent awareness of your obedience. How do I always seem to know how to make you so comfortably uncomfortable? And that damn grin, so self assured of your capitulation - and worse still, I'm right. Even as frustrated as you are with me right now, you can't imagine doing anything that doesn't make me happy. And for some strange and unexplainable reason, that makes you smile. Damn sadists! You’re trying to be grumpy!
Becoming our turn at the cashier, we place our orders with the clerk; I decide on a steak and cheese sandwich while you just go with a burger and fries (large, because you know I'm going to eat half). The lady working the register takes our payment, then hollers back to the kitchen, no funny words or flair, just what we ordered at high volume. She hands me my receipt before directing me in a much too singsong voice, “Stand in line at the pick up counter. Thank you.”
We end up behind Big Jon once again, who simply smiles and nods as we take our place behind him. A few minutes pass before another individual comes out from behind the counter, a guy in his 30s with a mostly bald head, obviously the store manager from the more formal uniform. He smiles once we make eye contact, walking over as Big Jon receives his food (two large pizzas). I tilt my head towards you and say in a low tone, “Get our meals and go sit at a bench just outside. I need to speak with this man for a few minutes.” Curiosity is eating at you, but you simply nod and save your questions.
He extends a hand in greeting as he walks up. “Hey! Great to see you!”
“Heyya, Jerry,” I say as I shake his hand. “Looking pretty busy!” You don't try to eavesdrop, but you can't help to just naturally overhear the nearby conversation as our order is completed, right?
Jerry makes an exasperated sign before responding. “Always busy. All three locations are just madhouses around the clock. Don't worry, though…that shouldn't affect what you're doing. I had Juan close off the second set for you earlier this morning, so they've become mostly abandoned on that side.” The bags holding our food finally (and frustratingly) find their way to the countertop pickup, and to your dismay, the discussion gets lost in the symphony of chaotic commerce as you obediently make your way outside. You do manage to catch a quick glimpse of Jerry discreetly handing me a set of keys as you push the door open and step out onto the brightly lit patio area.
Darkness had mostly swallowed up the night sky as you pick a bench near the doorway to sit at. The loud buzz of blinking neon could be heard from the tall signpost further out in the parking lot, even over the steady flow of vehicles circling. You take another sip, instantly regretting the reminder of how bad you have to pēē and begin bouncing in your seat slightly. That's when you notice Big Jon a few tables away, chowing on a slice of pizza folded in his large hand and staring at you in puzzlement. Quickly, you avoid eye contact taking note of the pink haired lady from earlier, now sitting on a bench that must serve as a transit bus hub with a guy sporting short but frizzy dark hair. The pair were tongue-deep into each other's throats as the small dog yipped nearby playfully.
Relief washes over you (but not too much, with thighs clamped together) as I exit the store, shouting my appreciation back at Jerry. I stand looking down on you with the scariest genuine smile you have ever seen. You imagine I must share that smile with the Devil, it must be the same he wears whenever he trades a ball of lint to swallow somebody’s soul. “We’re all set!” I say, waking you from your pondering. “I'm hungry, let's eat.”
On the verge of a panic attack, you switch to autopilot and begin to pass out food, opening the packaging on my sandwich and laying it out for me to eat before doing your own. You watch dutifully as I sit and take up my sandwich for a bite. Seeing me quite content, you ask, “May I eat, my Lord?”
I respond between bites, “Yes, eat up. I think you're going to need your energy.” A chuckle escapes as I chew.
“Can I…” even your voice is trembling deliciously, “…can I ask what we're doing?”
The moment stretches long in the tooth as I take another few bites. That incessant hum and clicking of lighted tubes cycling through messages from beyond the awning above has never sound more deafening. I finish chewing slowly and deliberately, then wipe at my mouth with a napkin, almost dignified-like.
You startle as you feel my hand on your knee, I turn to you and say, “You'll see.”
Rumbling tires and the blaring horn of a diesel jolts you awake from your uncomfortable slumber against the passenger side window. You try to stretch but wince at the knot in your neck, obviously from having craned it to the side for so long. But for how long? Rubbing the sleep Read more…from your eyes, you can only really tell that it will be dusk soon; the sun hung low in the sky, but street lamps hadn't flickering on yet and business signs didn't flash the roadway in electric neon colors.
The road is rough pulling into the enormous parking lot of some truck stop, and you bump your head against the window trying to pēēr up at the tall pylon sign. “Oooowwwww!” you grump, frustrated you couldn't make out the sign as you rub the sore spot at your hairline.
“You're awake!” I say cheerfully, turning the music down.
With a sprawling yawn you ask, “Where are we?” You look around the busy lot at the various vehicles and rundown buildings, busy people walking to and fro, shopping at the station or pumping gas. You notice a cute little fluffball of a dog being walked in some nearby grass by a young lady with bright pink hair as I pull into a parking spot next to the shop.
“Nowhere Junction,” I read from off the sign through the windshield. “Just some old truck stop. Let's get some snacks and drinks, I’ve got some business here.”
That ominous tone in that last part sent a cold chill up your spin; you're awake and alert now. I'm out of the car before you can ask any questions though, and your stomach flips as you reach for the door handle. Fingertips pause before touching it unsure if you really want to get out of the vehicle. Ponderance and vexation, you weigh the scary things you know about me against thirst, hunger, and the urgent need to relieve yourself.
Quick stepping, you race by a homeless guy hunched over a trashcan to take your spot by my side. Your pastel sundress flutters in the air conditioning as I open the door to the shop. The contrast from the outside heat to the icy air inside makes goosebumps spring up all over your skin abruptly.
The din within the store was loud with chatter, alarms and loud beeping, and the occasional order being shouted to the kitchen behind the counter. People meandered around the large shopping space looking at the various products offered on row after row of shelves or making orders and waiting for hot foods, and a couple of kids run past us excitedly on their way to the candy isle. Finally spotting the soda fountain, I grab your wrist and say, “Come on…let's get something to drink.” You stumble step behind me as I pull you through the store.
Sipping from the straw of my cup as you fill yours, I take a few seconds to peruse the people around the shop. Although not overly busy, there was a constant flow of customers, with the few strange stragglers here or there; an older guy beside the counter trying to talk to the young clerk, a homeless lady at the lotto table scratching tickets, even a couple boys snickering and carrying on by the hot dog rack. Your soft-spoken voice pulls me back to the fountain, “Can we get some snacks, too?”
Chuckling slightly, I respond simply, “Of course.”
“Can…can I get cookies AND candy?” you ask meekly but with unmistakeable excitement, adverting your eyes coyly.
“I guess,” I reply as we turn into the snack food isle. “But you have to eat something more substantial first. We can order something at checkout.”
You let out a little huff before saying, “Okay. I'm actually pretty hungry and something back there smells so good.” Taking a long drink from your soda, you're reminded of the pressing urge steadily growing more pāīnful. You squeeze your thighs together tightly and ask in a low voice, “May I go to the bathroom, my Lord?”
“No.” The word leaves my mouth without so much as a turn of the head to see you pout.
With snacks in hand, we take our place in line for the register behind a very large fellow donning a dusty and worn flannel shirt that looked like it might have been the same color as his cocked trucker’s hat once upon a time - red. You hop from leg to leg and fidget around him; partly to see the menu board over the big guy, but more so because the last drink you took made your bladder feel as if it might explode! I notice his name is “Big Jon” from the cap as he shoots you an annoyed side-eyed glance, a name fitting the 400 pound stature, indeed.
“Brother,” a deep, husky voice emanates from the long light brown beard that hides his mouth, “Is ya girl ahrite?” I couldn't tell if the mountain of a man was more concerned for you or more scared for himself at your odd behavior. He didn't dare take his eyes off you.
I contain you by hot palm taking hold of the nape of your neck before speaking. “I don't let her out of her box much, she's just gets all wiley and excited any time I bring her in public!” I retort with a friendly chuckle, trying to ease his mind. He eyeballs me for a long moment before turning back around and moving to the counter to cash out.
You lean in close to me and whisper softly, “I REALLY have to go to the bathroom. Please - please - PLEASE can I go?”
“No,” my smile resplendent at your obvious agony and desperation, even if your words weren't dripping with them. You fold your arms over your chest and stare at the dingy floor tiles in contempt. “Oh, calm down. I need to talk with someone here, he has something for me, and after we eat, I'll take you to the bathroom. All part of the plan for today,” my words feel distant and contemplative as I face forward.
Cold chills creep up your spine again, and you almost forget about the burning sensation in your abdomen. Every fiber of your being wants to ask, wants to cower…wants to…RUN! But that strong grip on the back of your neck reminds you of something you know deep in your soul: you belong to me. So, you take a deep breath, calm your mind, and lower your arms knowing how much I enjoy seeing your breasts in the the stretchy-tight fabric of your pretty sundress.
Despite not even a shift of my eyes, a knowing smirk tugs at the corner of my lips that somehow makes you incredibly furious with me for the casual recognition and catches your nether region aflame with wanton hunger at my near omnipotent awareness of your obedience. How do I always seem to know how to make you so comfortably uncomfortable? And that damn grin, so self assured of your capitulation - and worse still, I'm right. Even as frustrated as you are with me right now, you can't imagine doing anything that doesn't make me happy. And for some strange and unexplainable reason, that makes you smile. Damn sadists! You’re trying to be grumpy!
Becoming our turn at the cashier, we place our orders with the clerk; I decide on a steak and cheese sandwich while you just go with a burger and fries (large, because you know I'm going to eat half). The lady working the register takes our payment, then hollers back to the kitchen, no funny words or flair, just what we ordered at high volume. She hands me my receipt before directing me in a much too singsong voice, “Stand in line at the pick up counter. Thank you.”
We end up behind Big Jon once again, who simply smiles and nods as we take our place behind him. A few minutes pass before another individual comes out from behind the counter, a guy in his 30s with a mostly bald head, obviously the store manager from the more formal uniform. He smiles once we make eye contact, walking over as Big Jon receives his food (two large pizzas). I tilt my head towards you and say in a low tone, “Get our meals and go sit at a bench just outside. I need to speak with this man for a few minutes.” Curiosity is eating at you, but you simply nod and save your questions.
He extends a hand in greeting as he walks up. “Hey! Great to see you!”
“Heyya, Jerry,” I say as I shake his hand. “Looking pretty busy!” You don't try to eavesdrop, but you can't help to just naturally overhear the nearby conversation as our order is completed, right?
Jerry makes an exasperated sign before responding. “Always busy. All three locations are just madhouses around the clock. Don't worry, though…that shouldn't affect what you're doing. I had Juan close off the second set for you earlier this morning, so they've become mostly abandoned on that side.” The bags holding our food finally (and frustratingly) find their way to the countertop pickup, and to your dismay, the discussion gets lost in the symphony of chaotic commerce as you obediently make your way outside. You do manage to catch a quick glimpse of Jerry discreetly handing me a set of keys as you push the door open and step out onto the brightly lit patio area.
Darkness had mostly swallowed up the night sky as you pick a bench near the doorway to sit at. The loud buzz of blinking neon could be heard from the tall signpost further out in the parking lot, even over the steady flow of vehicles circling. You take another sip, instantly regretting the reminder of how bad you have to pēē and begin bouncing in your seat slightly. That's when you notice Big Jon a few tables away, chowing on a slice of pizza folded in his large hand and staring at you in puzzlement. Quickly, you avoid eye contact taking note of the pink haired lady from earlier, now sitting on a bench that must serve as a transit bus hub with a guy sporting short but frizzy dark hair. The pair were tongue-deep into each other's throats as the small dog yipped nearby playfully.
Relief washes over you (but not too much, with thighs clamped together) as I exit the store, shouting my appreciation back at Jerry. I stand looking down on you with the scariest genuine smile you have ever seen. You imagine I must share that smile with the Devil, it must be the same he wears whenever he trades a ball of lint to swallow somebody’s soul. “We’re all set!” I say, waking you from your pondering. “I'm hungry, let's eat.”
On the verge of a panic attack, you switch to autopilot and begin to pass out food, opening the packaging on my sandwich and laying it out for me to eat before doing your own. You watch dutifully as I sit and take up my sandwich for a bite. Seeing me quite content, you ask, “May I eat, my Lord?”
I respond between bites, “Yes, eat up. I think you're going to need your energy.” A chuckle escapes as I chew.
“Can I…” even your voice is trembling deliciously, “…can I ask what we're doing?”
The moment stretches long in the tooth as I take another few bites. That incessant hum and clicking of lighted tubes cycling through messages from beyond the awning above has never sound more deafening. I finish chewing slowly and deliberately, then wipe at my mouth with a napkin, almost dignified-like.
You startle as you feel my hand on your knee, I turn to you and say, “You'll see.”
Likepinecraft54495, Tee29, lolo989825and 18 more…
What’s that one accent that hits different.
"Trailer trash/white trash". It just does something to me.
LikeWyldKatt, glasgow15718, huntersville7200089 ·
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