Me and my friend, we are writing a book. It's dark fantasy, with a big world we created, full of different races (elves, vampires, demons - it's not all!), the struggle against the tyrannical power of the Emperor, and of course, magic.
It's 18+, so be ready for erotic and violant scenes. Lots of death and despair. If you like stuff like this, you are welcome.
The thing is, we are Russians, so the book is written in Russian, so is the language of our blog. If you know Russian or you are ready to translate, you are welcome.
can someone just fetishize me I think I deserve to be fetishized but like in a “im obsessed with everything about you and your body and I’ll never leave you alone now” kind of way
I have a thousand reasons to move on, to forgive and forget, to let go, to surrender. Everyone around me keep saying it's not normal, it's not love, it'll pass, I just need time, and I will find someone else. At first, I was ashamed of myself, because they know better, right? My friends who love me and those specialists who defend the idea of healthy relationship.
I did the same mistake: tried to shape myself into the form the world says is right. For me, for others. But I just can't cut these odd pieces of me. They grow again and again.
I should stop bothering my loved ones. I make them uncomfortable, scared and disgusted. That's not how I want them to be around me, to think of me. There are things they can't accept, and that's totally understandable. Even though it hurts sometimes.
What about me? Well, I may be crazy, completely out of my mind, but that's how I've always been, and no matter what I do, I can't change myself. So I'll persist. And get what's mine.
TW: explicite, reader is a female, kidnapping, handcuffs, toys, nipple clamps, dirty talk and cursing, saliva, sadism/masochism, mention of murder and sex workers, humiliation, knife threat, fear, Stockholm syndrome (possibly?), foot fetish, thoughts of death (guess that's it, if I missed something, please let me know; also English isn't my first language, I used a translator, so I hope there isn't many mistakes)
"It was worth it."
"Huh?"
"Well, you asked if it was worth it – always being perfect. And that I just want praise. You're partly right," – you needed a pause to swallow, wetting your throat a little – "but only partly."
Melon tilted his head, not hiding his curiosity.
"Well then, enlighten me."
"What you asked this morning… I can answer 'yes' to all of it. It's pleasant, painful, frightening. And you know, it makes me feel alive. And also free, even though that sounds ironic given my situation," – you laughed quietly, which triggered a coughing fit, and you hissed from the pain tearing at your vocal cords. – "I probably don't have long to live, but screw it. I walked into death's jaws myself, ran toward them, and there's no one to blame but me, yet I don't regret it. I'm just a fucking suicidal mess – there's no other way to explain my attempts to make you like me."
Your voice was completely hoarse; speaking further was unbearable – the scratchiness made your eyes water – and there was no point in continuing. You'd said everything you wanted.
Melon was silent, it seemed he wasn't even breathing, and that made you anxious. You looked at him, his gaze lowered so his thick lashes hid his eyes. Before your speech, you had a pretty good idea of what he was thinking – probably how to break your neck – but now he seemed… sad? Empty? Confused? You didn't know. But you heard how much saliva had pooled in his maw, judging by how loudly he swallowed.
"Freedom, huh? Interesting…" Melon whispered to himself.
His gaze slid over your body searchingly, from your stiff neck to the pulsing points between your legs, where the tape still held the "instruments of torture."
"How many times did you come?" he suddenly asked, running a claw down your stomach.
The unexpected question and teasing touch made you flinch, your fur standing on end. Goosebumps ran beneath it.
"I don't remember…"
"Apparently enough to lose count."
Melon's smile made you relax, and that was a mistake, because what he did next nearly made you lose consciousness. With two careless movements, he ripped the tape off your clit and entrance.
"F-Fuck!.. Fuck, fuck, fuck!.." you moaned, tears falling, since you couldn't scream anymore.
"Excellent!" Melon laughed, his eyes manic as he studied every nerve, every movement on your face, leaning in so close his nose almost touched yours. "What, feeling alive enough now, huh?"
You broke out in a cold sweat and trembled with something akin to joy when he ran the back of his hand down your cheek. Your eyelids drooped with drowsiness, something unintelligible slipping from your lips as you, as if in a fog that suddenly enveloped you, tried to nod.
Melon kept chuckling, not hiding his delight at how your body trembled and jerked under his hands. Having long since pushed the vibrator away from your clit, he remembered the one still inside you and began to pull it out with agonizing slowness. When the toy finally left your stretched hole, you gasped out, seemingly in unison with Melon. With an extremely focused and admiring expression, he watched as the accumulated juices began to flow rapidly out, soaking the sheet beneath you.
"You look like one of those prostitutes I ordered once," his sudden humiliating comment made you frown and hold your breath, especially when Melon pressed the slick head of the huge silicone toy back against the entrance to your pussy. "She tried so zealously to get my non-working dick hard that, you know, I actually felt sorry for her. She was definitely a new one, and I could almost see the fear in her eyes of how her pimp would… punish her. So I killed her. She was too pretty to eat."
Impressed by Melon's story, whether fictional or true, you felt your muscles clench around the emptiness. You didn't know if it was from fear or because what you heard turned you on, but this reaction didn't escape Melon. He smirked.
"You're so pathetic…"
With that, he thrust the discharged vibrator back inside in one sharp motion, and you arched your back, squeezing your eyes shut, soon writhing and whimpering as his hand immediately set a merciless rhythm, coaxing out the most shameful wet sounds that echoed off the walls of the half-empty room.
"Just look at yourself! I could gut you at any moment, sink my fangs into your throat, shoot any part of you I want, and what do you do instead of begging for mercy or trying to escape? You thrust your hips toward me like a real whore! Is it that you want to impress me that badly, or are you just so sick that you get off on all this?"
If Melon hadn't said it out loud, you wouldn't have noticed that you were indeed moving with his hand, trying to impale yourself deeper and feel the warmth of his fingers wrapped around the base of the toy. Realizing this, you froze and looked away, shocked and ashamed. But you couldn't hide for long. Growling disapprovingly, Melon stopped to tug at the clamps on your nipples and finally remove them. This instantly sobered you, making your sore throat tense again, and you completely lost your head when he twisted the tortured red beads between his thumbs and forefingers, without a trace of tenderness.
"No, no, no, what's this? Has the good girl suddenly become embarrassed? What a pity…"
A click sounded. You opened your eyes wide to see a butterfly knife blade flash within a centimeter of your throat.
"Either you impale yourself on this cock substitute, or on the knife, and believe me, it won't be the handle. Am I making myself clear?"
Your breath caught halfway, and blood drained from your face and limbs at the very sound of that idea. Imagining it meant dying of terror, let alone experiencing it firsthand, so you nodded and with renewed strength – courtesy of adrenaline – began pumping your hips, lifting them almost to the ceiling, which triggered an uncontrollable fit of laughter from Melon. He put the butterfly knife on the bed not far from himself, and although you sighed with relief, you couldn't fully relax.
"You really are pathetic… You'll do anything I ask, won't you? Because you're afraid to die? Or because it turns you on? Hell, maybe it's both? Don't answer," Melon said, breathing heavily, and pulled out the toy, and this, to your surprise, disappointed you. "I don't want you thinking right now. You can fill that pretty little head of yours with thoughts later. But for now…"
Stopping mid-sentence, Melon suddenly freed you from the handcuffs. When your legs and arms were mobile again, he walked around the bed for half a minute, watching your reaction as if testing whether you'd make a run for the exit. But even if you'd wanted to, you knew you couldn't make it to the door. You'd never been strong, fast, or agile, and after a whole day of exhaustion, you couldn't have outrun a sloth. But shouldn't the will to survive be stronger than common sense? You didn't know. Didn't want to know.
Seeing you starting to retreat into your own head, Melon grabbed you by the hair and pulled you off the bed like a ragdoll, right onto the floor, and laid you on your back. You hit your head a little, but he didn't seem to care. His shoe, now pressed against your crotch, knocked the air out of you and pinned you to the floor.
"Come on, cum on my foot. I'm sure you can come from anything, right? If you adore me so much, my shoes should be like an altar for you, something you can die on. So go ahead and die."
Time slowed for you. You looked up at that insane face above you, into those empty yet alive eyes, and understood – he wasn't joking.
First, reason knocked on your skull, reminding you that Melon had been walking in those shoes all day – on the street, on the subway, within university walls. How much dirt and how many germs were on that sole now pressing against your clit? On the heel, nudging the entrance to your wet pussy? Wasn't that disgusting?
No, it was funny. How you still clung to the remnants of your battered moral compass. For some reason, it hadn't seemed disgusting to run after Melon with a list of questions after every lecture. Even when you knew the answers perfectly well or could have Googled them, you wanted so badly to hear his voice a little longer, one-on-one, when the auditorium was empty. While he talked, you'd simultaneously imagine how happy you'd be to be under the podium while he lectured about the war between carnivores and herbivores, or under his desk in his office while he graded homework and took out his irritation on you.
You didn't give a damn about history. It didn't matter what subject he taught – you'd learn higher math or nuclear physics if it meant he'd notice you and you could ride on his shoes. Even if they were radioactive, if it meant you'd see his pleased expression and hear his approving grunt, you'd agree to that humiliation.
So you didn't waste any more time thinking and rubbed yourself against the slightly ribbed sole of Melon's shoe. The insane delight in his eyes was your reward. Moreover, apparently sensing the invisible, dirty connection between you, he pressed harder to give you more sensation.
"I never would have thought I could make someone this happy just by putting my foot on their genitals… You look like you're about to piss yourself with joy, goddamn!"
He was right. Your eyes were watering from how good you felt and how ashamed you were of the pleasure you were receiving. It was a vicious cycle. You whimpered, whined like a puppy, and it was so humiliating, so pathetic – you lay under the foot of a mentally unstable maniac dressed in a professor's suit, and not so long ago you'd sat in his classes, confident this was such a cute, funny, pleasant game, but it turned out you'd been the loser from the start, the victim. The most humiliating part was that you felt you belonged there.
"You're so beautifully broken…" Melon whispered, watching your torment. "Do you think I should try a piece of you? I'm already drooling!"
That's it, you thought. You'll definitely end up in his jaws, if not during your orgasm, then after. There's no reason for him to leave you alive. He'll eat you slowly, and you won't even be able to scream or struggle because you've already exhausted yourself. It'll be a terrible death. You closed your eyes, mentally preparing for this outcome. Maybe you'd get lucky – he'd take pity and go straight for the throat?
"Look at me, bitch!"
The sole pressed into the sensitive bud even harder, and enduring that tight, hot knot twisting in your lower belly was no longer possible. You lifted your hazy gaze to Melon, who leaned down to get a closer look at your emotions, and arched toward the agonizing, all-consuming pleasure. Now you could fully understand the comparison of orgasm to a little death. Your vision went dark, your ears plugged up, and then you suddenly felt as if you'd emerged from heavy, icy water.
Only to meet amber irises devouring your soul. You held your breath, bracing for the pain as he opened his maw, full of saliva and fangs, but instead of a bite, he ran his large, rough tongue from your collarbone, up your neck and chin, stopping at your trembling, dry lips. It was confusing. Wasn't he going to eat you?
"Are you thirsty?" Melon suddenly asked, grabbing your cheeks.
You nodded slowly and incredulously, watching the smile touch the corners of his eyes. He pressed on your jaw, forcing your mouth open, and covering it with his own, transferred his saliva to you. There was so much, and it was so unexpected, that you almost choked, instinctively grasping his forearm with your weak hands. You had no choice but to obediently swallow it. Judging by the pleased growl, you'd done everything right, and he pulled back, casually slapping your face.
"If you clean my shoe of your mess properly, I'll give you water."
