I write intensely kinky erotica, mostly with submissive female characters. The tame stuff goes on Kindle Unlimited; what Amazon won't print you get to read here.
So "Heather Gets Her Wish" is the most popular thing I've ever posted here; here is the website I got it from, liberated from 2008-era HTML, moderately detypoed and grammarized, and lovingly restored to face the second quarter of the century. I even added some stories from before the Tumblr porn ban; I would say "from when this site had balls" but of course the whole point of these stories is to remove the external genitals, so. If you liked Heather getting the chop, please enjoy her in her original context!
NB: I do not own any of these stories and some of them frankly squick me. The Pornopocalypse was a disaster but there was, to be honest, the kernel of a reason in there; the pre-2000s Internet was a wild place and some of its stories will kill the average latte-sipping Gen Z kinkster. Be warned and take care accordingly.
The old world is dying. The new world had that thing happen where the umbilical cord gets caught around the neck as it's coming out, yuuuurk, no new world either. So it's basically just gonna be monsters forever
Listen, buddy, I get it when it's monstrosity-as-a-marker-of-marginalization or it's a, a commentary on arbitrary constructions of beauty standards or whatever. That's one type of monster, that's fine. Very fuckable type of monster. But we're talking about, like, the metaphysical worldly manifestations of imperialist warmongering and rapacious depletion of the environment and systemic racism and shit like that. And I mean it's obviously not conceptually impossible to eroticize all that, you see people doing it, but it's fraught, right? It's fraught. Thin Ice. And if you're gonna go there you can't be flippant about what you're doing, man. This shit affects people's lives in real, non-metaphorical ways. When I was at CVS I just saw three or four anthromorphic personifications of the concept of medical debt pulling a little old lady apart like a wishbone
Well yes, but are you sure she wasn't into that? Little old ladies have kinks too, you know. It's not problematic as long as everyone involved knows what they're getting into and having fun with it. The real problem here is your automatic assumption that anybody not in their twenties is a fully asexual being who, if they have sex at all, do so decorously in the missionary position with the lights off.
The long-awaited third book of the Sexy Hell series is now available! Justine's noncon torments continue, now interspersed with a small amount of consent. Excerpt (too spicy for Amazon's book page) below the cut.
“Seventy,” she heard herself whisper, a prayer and a demand.
Asmodea’s hand came up, her fingers closing gently but firmly on Justine’s chin, tilting her face upward. The touch sent a quivering thrill down Justine’s spine, Asmodea’s cool azure gaze locking onto hers. “I am not a service top, Justine,” she said. “I am a devil in the service of Hell, and I am the case worker responsible for your spiritual growth. If you don’t want the minimum that will satisfy the angels, very well. I’ll take your request under advisement.”
Her thumb stroked the line of Justine’s jaw, a slow, proprietary caress. “It is, however, only a request,” she murmured softly. “You are not in control of this; there is no safeword. If I judge that you are breaking, I will stop, the leaderboard be damned. And if I judge,” her voice dropped, becoming an intimate, terrifying promise, “that you will thrive on a genuinely harrowing ordeal, on being forced to endure something you desperately want to stop…you can plead and beg all you like. I will give you a hundred lashes. Or two hundred, if that is best for you.”
The number was impossible, unimaginable; and it was the most terrifyingly arousing thing Justine had ever heard. A freezing horror hollowed out her stomach, and at the same time, her pussy surrendered shamelessly to the promise of agony, flooding her already-moist folds with a gush of sweet heat. She was so fucked. She was so alive.
Had to spend too much time on the work instagram this morning and got a too-high level of Wellness Content(TM) exposure. Anyway, been ruminating on my opinions on food/diet, and how two beliefs, often presented as opposites, really so form the bedrocks of my opinion.
Modern global food supply chains have become so large and convoluted, run primarily by major corporations who don't give a shit about either human or animal health, that it's extremely challenging for anyone to eat a "healthy, balanced" diet.
Any brief foray into the common historical diets for most societies around the world will quickly start to unveil what a difficult job it was just to avoid starvation, the wild strategies employed to preserve food long-term, and how common serious nutritional deficiencies were.
With that in mind, I really don't believe we currently exist in a uniquely terrible period food wise. A unique one, certainly, but one with both its disadvantages and advantages. I for one am very happy to be alive in a period with germ theory, pasteurization, canning, iodized salt, and refrigeration.
Now available on Smashwords: Mari's Room, 42000 words of dark rape-fantasy erotica. Preview below the cut.
She took a deep breath, deliberately throwing her shoulders back. Her silk blouse pulled tight across her chest, thrusting her breasts forward in a brazen attempt to draw his eye. Every microsecond of distraction was a weapon now. She reached up with her right hand.
"If we’re doing this," she whispered, "I need to let my hair down."
She gripped the heavy metal hair fork holding her bun in place. With a shake of her head, she pulled it free. The dark mass of her hair tumbled down in a shimmering cascade that fell halfway to her hips. She knew the effect it had on men, even ones who weren’t starved of female company. A woman unleashing her hair was mesmerizing, a signal of intimacy and vulnerability.
Turen’s eyes widened. For long moment, the predator vanished, replaced by a man struck by a woman’s beauty. He smiled, an uncomplicated expression of simple appreciation. It was the only opening she was going to get.
Mari lunged.
She gripped the hair fork like a dagger, driving it upward with all the power she could find in her lean, gym-toned frame. It wasn’t much of a weapon - the tips were blunt and rounded - but it was five inches of steel, and much better than trying to out-punch a man who had fifty pounds on her.
Upper-body strength isn’t everything, she thought fiercely. Lethality is the great equalizer. She aimed for his left eye, intending to stab a killing blow through the soft grey jelly into the mocking brain behind.
Sveta’s expression sobered, her earlier playfulness gone. “But when Belial actually hunts,” she said, a low, serious warning, “when he does join the chase…that is a different beast. He is savage when he’s after someone specific and his blood is up.” She hesitated, unable to meet Justine’s eyes. “And uh, sorry, but - my offer to take a fall? Only good for human chasers. Tripping for bit of rough fun with the boys is one thing. I will not fall on Belial in his forest. If I see him coming, I will be off as though Wild Hunt is after me - which now I think about it may be exactly true. And then, as they say…devil take the hindmost. He will.”
Justine gave a slow nod. “I understand. You don’t owe me anything.” She understood perfectly well; she wouldn’t have fallen on that grenade for Sveta, either. And besides, when he’s after someone specific. Belial had made it clear that this particular torment was one she would have to suffer or escape on her own. His yellow-eyed glare had been for her; if Sveta fell enticingly naked at his hooves and begged him to take her - he would trample right over her and continue his pursuit of Justine.
She kept silent about the dark thrill that raced up her spine at the thought. She did not want to face that bestial horror in his dark forest, with his blood - and cock - up. She would run as fast as her newly-youthful legs could carry her. And nonetheless…she could not help feeling a perverse, narcissistic pride at being the chosen prey of the most ancient and monstrous predator in Hell.
I have reissued "The Fall" with improved text and a better understanding of Asmodea and Greta. If you missed it the first time around, this is a great time to have an even better infernal journey with Justine.
“I wasn’t - I don’t want - ” she stammered, but the words died in her throat. Her body was telling a different story. The pulse between her legs had intensified into a deep, insistent throb, and a wave of damp heat washed over her, so potent she felt sure it was visible. She clamped her thighs together, a desperate, mortified clench against the evidence of her own desire. She had never dared to go back to her park; God, the risk she had taken, that one night…but she had often wished she had the courage. And now it looked like someone was going to make her do it, and she didn’t have to be brave at all…
“Oh, but you do,” Asmodea’s voice was laced with a cruel knowing. “I’ve seen it a thousand times. That night, walking through the dark with your heart in your throat? You were terrified, yes. But you were never more alive. Now you get to feel it again. And this time -” her teeth showed white in the torchlit gloom, slightly too sharp - “you’ll get your happy ending, the proper outcome of a story that begins with a woman walking into the dark.”
Second edition of "Feast of the Lamps", with much improved text because I took a look back at what I was writing in July and was not entirely pleased. If you missed it the first time around - good for you! This is a much better book!
I have reissued "Honeyed Sting" with improved text, sharper focus on Theresa's kink, and a bonus pun. If you missed it the first time, now's a great opportunity to read an even better story. Sample below the cut.
"You know what’s next, right?"' he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. Fear and determination tangled in her stomach, and she nodded stiffly.
"I do," she whispered back, her voice quivering but sure. She remembered the first time she’d said I do to Mark. That had worked out really well; she hoped she still knew what she was doing.
His hand slid between her thighs, his fingers finding her soaked center. A low sound, not quite a laugh, vibrated in his chest. "Oh, you’re loving this," he said, spreading her wetness over her mound with slow, gentle strokes. The sensation was profoundly confusing. It was a familiar, good, ordinary pleasure, but it was happening while her breasts and lips burned. Her mind rebelled against trying to process both signals at once. A soft moan slipped free as her hips gave an involuntary jerk. He circled her clit gently, coaxing it out, and she felt it swell, exposed and vulnerable.
"I am not," she said through gritted teeth. "I just happen to get wet
from hating it."
This is not my work. It was posted to the "Clitless Archive", which no longer seems to exist. I saw a request for the story on Reddit so I am posting it as a public service. I have corrected a few typos but otherwise left it as I found it; enjoy.
By darkboy
Heather made one last stop in the grocery store before taking her basket to the checkout. She hadn't meant to, but as she passed by the kitchen implements, her eye fell on a tempting little knife, causing her to catch her breath.
She stopped and turned to examine the cookware, pretending she needed something. Her nipples brushed against the inside of her dress, causing her to shiver. She looked from item to item, but her eyes kept coming back to the small paring knife which had first caught her attention.
Swallowing hard, she reached out and selected the little knife. Sliding the plastic sheath off, she imagined him pressing this to her bud. When she closed her eyes, she felt the heat of his body. Tonight... tonight he would be in bed with her.
It was enough to make a girl go mad.
"This please," she said to the cashier, handing her the knife first, before unloading the rest of her few items onto the counter.
The cashier was a teenage girl, probably barely out of high school. Heather's eye flicked to watch the girl's fingers as she scanned the knife, trying to get it to read. What would this young woman think if she knew what Heather was planning to do with that knife? Would she be turned on? Freaked out? Horrified?
Is there any chance she'd want to try it herself?
"ID please?" the cashier asked, giving her a wierd look.
"Oh, sure!" Heather said, pulling out her id. When the cashier handed it back, she looked at her own picture. God, had she really been that young just a few short years ago? Everything had changed once she met Michael. What would the girl in that picture think if she could look forward and see herself now, buying a paring knife for some sort of twisted sex game?
She shrugged. Young her would probably be into it. Maybe she'd have gotten started earlier. Maybe--her breath caught in her throat.
If she'd started earlier, was there a chance she might have already lost it by now?
"Are you okay, ma'am?" the cashier asked.
"Fine, just distracted. Thank you," Heather smiled, grabbed her bags, and left, aware of the slippery track between her legs.
By the time she arrived home, she had calmed down a bit. She put the groceries away and tidied up. But it wasn't long before she ran out of things to do. Breakfast had been cleaned up already, and dinner preparations were done, or as done as they could be until Michael got home. The chores were all done. What was she to do?
She wandered back into the kitchen, and found herself with the new paring knife in her hand. She slipped it from it's plastic covering. The blade shone with easy silver sharpness. It would be so swift. With a sharp blade like this, one swift cut, and her life would be changed forever.
No more orgasms. Impossible.
She groaned, sliding her hand down across her belly, but stopping short just above her pubic mound. She wasn't supposed to masturbate without Michael.
He had promised. He had told her that if she couldn't obey one, simply command--not to cum without permission--that he really would cut it off. He would take away her orgasms forever.
After the last few times she had slipped, she had made him promise. You're playing with fire, Heather, she told herself.
It was simply too much. She looked at the clock. Four hours until he came home. Lunch hour had already passed, so he wasn't coming home for lunch. In fact, if today was anything like the last few days, he would be at the office late.
What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.
Once her mind was made up, she didn't hesitate. The sooner it was over the better. Heart pounding, she swiftly stripped off her clothes, leaving them in a trail to the bathroom, and leaped in for a quick shower. She shaved carefully. If she was going to steal an orgasm, she wanted it to be good. Completely smooth and clean. She could tell Michael tonight that it was for him.
Out of the shower, towelling off, she felt the sexual energy humming through her body. Michael hadn't let her cum in weeks, telling her it was for her own good. She needed this.
She took her time with the blowdryer. She loved sensations on her hair. This was almost as good as what was to come, itself. But she couldn't help casting nervous glances at the door and the clock now and again, and she stopped a little earlier than she might have otherwise.
She stopped in the hall, letting the towel slip from around her breasts. Where to do it?
She looked into the bedroom, where she would be safest. Into the kitchen, where the knife awaited. Into the living room, with a large picture window and the front door. How risky did she want to be?
Very, she decided. She walked slowly into the living room, letting the towel drop from around her body.
She was only going to do this once, let it be as good as it could be. She thought about getting the paring knife from the kitchen, but she was afraid that once she had it in her hand, she might want to actually cut her clit. She pondered the fact that she might want to actually have it removed someday. That just made her wetter. But not now. Not today.
Today she wanted to cum. Hard. Her body ached for it.
But she wanted to tease herself too. She wanted the fear. She ached for it, she realized, looking at the front door. Michael could walk in at any second, she told herself, then walked over and made sure it was locked.
Feeling her heart pounding in her chest (and in her clit) she turned her favorite large armchair toward the door. Afraid that she was half way suicidal, she sat carefully, naked, in the armchair and spread her legs toward the door. If he came in and found her like this...
She stroked her thighs, but she could not resist temptation for long. Her clit ached to be touched. It demanded to be touched. She hooked her knees over the arms of the armchair. If Micheal walked in right now, he would see her clit first. Her wide, spread open pussy, waiting for him. Waiting for his justice.
She hesitated for just a second before breaking the rule, her hand hovering above her pussy nervously. And then she touched her clit.
Liquid heaven slid through her body. Satisfaction, pure pleasure. She gasped. She rubbed harder.
She glanced down at herself, breaking the rule, and up at the door. If he walked in the door right now, she would pay for it with the sacrifice of her most sensitive body part.
This thought brought out a groan, loud enough to fill the living room. She looked down at her clit, throbbing at the heart of her cunt, being happily rubbed by three fingers of her right hand. It was so good. So good. She made the only sound she could, a moan.
Focusing her attention (as much as she could) she tried to imagine what her pussy would be like without it. How would it feel to have the heart of her cunt, the essence of her body, empty? To touch herself like this and feel nothing more than a pleasurable sensation, like a french kiss?
God, she was so close, she could cum any second now. The pleasure was unbelievable, mountains of it, volcanoes of pleasure, erupting from the little bud under her fingers. It felt so tiny to her touch, so unbelievably delicate, and fragile, and vulnerable.
If Michael walked in right now... she forced her eyes open to the door, looked down at her naughty hand and her throbbing clit, and she came, lifting her hips off the couch and groaning aloud with pleasure. She ground her fingers into the bud of her clit, grinding it, grinding every last bit of pleasure out of it.
She looked at the door. If he came in right now... her poor clitty. She came even harder, nearly doubling over with pleasure, but keeping her eye on the door, imagining the handle turning, imagining her poor, sensitive clit on the butcher's block.
The handle turned.
Oh. My. God. Heather's heart nearly stopped.
The door started opening. Hadn't she locked it?
Her hand was locked to her clit in the damning embrace of pleasure. She wanted to pull away, but that would mean sacrificing some of the delicious pleasure of this last orgasm. Would it be her last?
Besides, it was already too late. He would know.
She kept on rubbing, squeezing every ounce of pleasure out of her contractions. But she made one concession. When she saw the edge of his coat coming around the corner, she slipped her fingers one to each side of her clit, still rubbing, but making it visible for him. She thrust her hips up, willing her clit to be the first thing he saw upon entering the door.
He stepped in, all familiar coat and wavy hair. His brown eyes locked on hers and then looked down between her legs. To her damning hands and her damned clit. Right at the heart of her.
She shuddered as the last contractions of her orgasm swept through her, but still held her clit exposed toward him. Her offering.
"You promised," she whispered, not sure if she were playing or for real, but terrified.
"I see," he said, his brown eyes meeting hers.
He stepped over and kissed her deeply.
Micheal whipped Heather seven times that evening, by way of punishment. She savored every second of it. Later, as they lay in bed together, he explained that because he had been late the last few nights, when he had the chance to head home early tonight, he jumped on it. Other than that, they didn't talk about it.
When evening came and he drew her to the bedroom, she ducked out to the kitchen, and shyly presented him with the small paring knife she had bought. Even a few hours earlier, she wouldn't have had the courage to, being afraid he might actually do it then and there. But after spending the long hours of the afternoon together, lost in each other's company, the events when he came home seemed far away. She just wanted to feel threatened by him, loved by him.
But he just took the paring knife, smiled and set it aside, saying, "Later, later."
They made love several times that night. He told her to cum freely, and she did. Her body had never felt so free and alive. By the end of the night, she was lost in a golden haze of orgasm.
As she drifted off, somewhere she was blissfully thankful that he had not actually cut off her clit. Those orgasms had been so good. She cuddled up to him and fell asleep.
The next day, she wondered, had it been a dream? Had he really caught her red-handed, hand in her pussy, spreading her pussy like a fool toward the door for him? Had he really done nothing about it?
She was puzzled. He had promised, but he hadn't followed through. Or would he still follow through?
She spent the next several days waiting for the axe to fall, too nervous to cum, even though he repeatedly told her she was free to.
When nothing happened, a flicker of hope began to grow in her. Did this mean she could masturbate with impunity when he wasn't around? Oh... the orgasms she could have.
The next day, she tested this. She stripped as soon as he was out the door and started rubbing. She couldn't really get herself going until she hit on the right fantasy: it was only a matter of time until the punishment he had promised came, and she lost her clit forever. This would be the last time she could ever masturbate all day like this, and experience the kind of bone-deep orgasms she could have after eight hours.
That did the trick. By the time he came home, she was exhausted and sated, smiling sleepily at him from underneath a blanket of her hair and tangled sheets. The dishes weren't done. No dinner was prepared. And she didn't have energy to do more than roll over and arch her naked ass for him, inviting him into her.
That seemed to satisfy him. He took her hard and rough, for his own pleasure. It was excellent, being used by him like that. She almost came again just from the pleasure of it, but her clit was too sensitive to touch, and without direct stimulation, well, she just couldn't get over the edge.
That was fine, though. She enjoyed being a tool for his pleasure. She didn't want to have to worry about her own. And she didn't have to. She was already completely sated. She wondered if it would be like this once she didn't have her clit? She found that she liked the idea.
By the time they went to bed, she was thinking hopefully of this possibility, still aglow in the pleasure and deep in the fantasy.
But the next morning, she woke up stone cold sober. Micheal was showering, and she was in a cold sweat. He wouldn't really, would he? What would she do without any cums left? That was what made life worth living. Oh god! She lay back in bed, wide awake, and tried to pretend she wasn't as tense as a violin string as he readied himself and left the house for the day.
She couldn't keep down food. She couldn't bring herself to masturbate. She caught up on chores, but her heart wasn't in it. She went and sat in the park, wearing a bulky overcoat so no one would look at her, and found herself looking at men on the street, wishing she had a normal boyfriend like a normal girl, who she could fuck and cum with and not worry about it so much.
Then she thought how boring that would be, and she instantly wished that Michael would start denying her again. She was heartily sick of being able to cum whenever she wanted. It just wasn't the same if it wasn't denied.
Michael seemed to sense the shift in her mood and, without either of them speaking about it, they slipped back into their normal routine. He denied her most of the time, choosing whether to let her cum or not almost arbitrarily, it seemed sometimes. She cherished those moments, and wished they would go on forever.
Before she knew it, a few weeks had gone by, and she had almost forgotten altogether about the incident with her with her legs spread in front of the living room door.
But Michael hadn't.
One day he shook her awake gently to say, "Wake up. Get dressed. We're going somewhere today."
"Isn't it Wednesday? Don't you work?" she muttered, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
"Not today, we've got a doctor's appointment."
She didn't understand, but she pulled a shirt over her naked breasts and pulled on sweats. Wherever they were going, maybe she wouldn't need to get out of the car.
He looked at her attire and asked if she wanted to get dressed more. She mumbled, "Is this a party, or what?"
"No, wear whatever you like," he said.
She grumbled and said, "Let's go."
She looked out the window as he drove, drying to recapture her dream. It had been a vivid one, but it was just on the edge of her consciousness, like a flavor you can't quite remember, and wouldn't have a word for even if you did.
They pulled to a stop in front of a low, white building with the air of a quietly professional location. Not a big, busy office building or hospital. More like a family practice. Heather was puzzled. As far as she knew, they were both up to date on their dental work. She vaguely wished she were back in bed, getting a good morning fuck.
Inside was a small waiting room, boring and obvious. She took a seat while Michael went up to the front desk.
"Hi, Heather Graham here... yes, that's her... yes, for the circumcision. We're the 9:00 appointment."
"I need you to sign these papers, dear," Michael said.
Heather shuffled over to the counter, starting to wish she had dressed a little more nicely. She signed a few papers, and then sat down with Michael.
"What are we here for," she whispered.
"To have your clit removed," he whispered back.
A shock of cold ice went through her. She sat up straight. She brushed the hair from her eyes, clearing the last cobwebs of sleep away with it.
Through a dry mouth, she stammered, "Are you serious?"
He looked at her, and she knew he was. He said, "You knew what would happen if you masturbated again without permission."
She gaped at him.
He looked away, saying offhandedly, "You wrote the rules yourself. I didn't write them."
"Then change them," she pleaded, her heart pounding a million miles a second.
"No," he said.
After a long moment of silence, he added, "It's still your choice, of course. You can always say no. But I'm not going to give you a break."
She looked into his deep, brown eyes. They looked back unflinching. She felt her heart do a little leap in her chest, and she was suddenly and inexplicably extremely wet.
"Oh god..." she leaned her head into him and whispered, "You know I want to, but..."
He put his arm around her and pulled her close. He said, "I know you don't like pain, so I asked them to use anaesthetic. It shouldn't hurt a bit."
She nodded, still not quite believing her ears.
"What will I do?" she asked quietly.
"The same thing you've always done," he said, "Take pleasure in pleasing others. You just won't be able to have orgasms of your own anymore."
She tried to shudder. She wanted to be turned on by this, or scared, at least. But it just didn't seem real.
She tried to imagine life without a clit. She had imagined it many times, but never like this. She definitely felt aroused, but not wildly aroused, like she was when she had fantasized about this moment. Just vaguely horny.
She sank toward him, molding her curves onto his body and wrapping her arms around him with an unexpected little shudder. He seemed to sense her need.
"Of course, with anaesthetic there will be no last minute play on the bench. No orgasm then clit execution."
The words, which had turned her on beyond words countless times in the past, now fell on deaf ears. She couldn't comprehend. It was too much.
"But there's still a little bit of time..." Michael whispered.
He glanced around the office. The waiting room was completely empty, except for the two of them. The receptionist, a tall, thin woman on the verge between youth and matronhood, was bent over her paperwork.
Michael put his hand on Heather's thigh. He slid it slowly up. She let out a small sound and pushed her hips forward, semi-consciously opening her legs to meet him.
He deftly pulled out the waistband of her sweats and slipped his hand underneath. His familiar fingers found her most sensitive spots with long-practiced skill.
The pleasure was immediate and powerful. She stifled a moan by biting his shoulder, but found herself arcing her hips toward him even more, her whole body tensing. She wanted to cum, but she didn't. As soon as she came, would it be all over?
Last time... she mouthed the words to herself. I want to do it. I want it to be him. She tried to imagine her clit (the clit he was rubbing right now) as a senseless bulb, severed from her body and preserved as an amulet for him to wear around his neck. The thought had never failed to arouse her before.
"Miss Graham?" a polite voice came from nearby. Heather jerked up and found herself looking at the receptionist through bleary eyes. She tried to look attentive, which was hard, with Micheal's fingers still nimbly stroking her center with tiny little movements that barely made his wrist move at all.
"Yes?" she blurted out, pushing hair out of her eyes.
"I've finished up the paperwork. I'll go let the doctor know you're here. I'm sure she'll be ready to see you momentarily."
With that, the lady bustled off, as if she hadn't noticed a thing.
"Hurry," Heather whispered, burying her face in Micheal's strong shoulder. "Please..."
He knew just how to touch her. But she couldn't quite get over the edge. She tried to imagine her clit as a necklace again, but a thin thread of terror robbed some of the excitement from even that.
Finally, she focused on her body itself. The tightening of her hips and stomach and, well, everything. The throbbing, erect button that was her clit, singing under his dancing fingers. She couldn't believe it would soon be gone. She couldn't think about that now.
She thought about how good it felt. How amazing to be touched. How it wasn't the flesh she wanted to give up. It was this feeling, She wanted to give it to Michael--permanently. She wanted him to know how good it felt. She wanted him to know how good it felt to give it to him. To lose it forever, so that he could have it. She wanted to give him one last, good orgasm, while she still could.
So she did. She couldn't help herself from moaning, even as (somewhere in the back of her mind) she heard a door opening and closing. Her whole body tensed and erupted in pleasure, waves of it radiating out from her clitoris like mini earthquakes. Heather earthquakes. His fingers pressed hard into her clit, one finger slipped into the entrance of her cunt, holding her as she rocked.
"That's it," she found him whispering, "Time to go."
She looked up to see the receptionist watching her, an unreadable expression on her face.
She nodded. Her knees felt too weak to stand up. But she managed it, on the second go. Michael squeezed her hand and smiled encouragingly. She smiled back, breathed some life into her legs, and followed the secretary.
"This way," the woman said, opening a door to the back rooms.
In here is where I'm going to lose my clit, Heather thought, looking in one empty room after another. She came to a room with a gynecological chair. She stripped off her clothes, as instructed, and took a seat in it, feeling surprisingly normal.
The doctor was an attractive woman of around fifty. She was rather buxom, with large soft breasts beneath her white lab coat. That struck Heather as strange. For some reason, she felt that a doctor trained in the art of separating women and their pleasure should be severe, sexless.
"How are you, today, Heather? May I call you Heather?" The doctor asked.
"Sure. Fine," she mumbled.
"So, I understand that you're here for a clitoridectomy, is that correct."
Heather nodded. It felt surreal, like she were getting a filling, not having her life changed.
"I'm sure you understand the implications of this, Heather, but it's my job to make sure. The clitoris is an organ with only one purpose: pleasure. It has thousands of nerve endings, all of which will be permanently severed if you remove it. Do you understand?"
Heather said, "I know," a bit shortly.
"You may never be able to experience orgasm again. Are you okay with that?" The doctor asked, her eyes very serious.
Heather took a deep breath and said, "That's okay." Was it okay? Or was she just saying that? It felt okay. She couldn't tell.
The doctor nodded, without approval or disapproval, and wheeled over a tray of equipment. She talked while she worked, saying, "Okay, Heather, I'm going to clean your vulva first. Then we'll apply the anaesthetic. Once that's done, we'll do the operation. It's quite simple, so I don't expect it to take more than a few minutes once we start, okay?"
Heather mumbled some response and stared at the ceiling. The cleaning fluid on her pussy felt cold and dry, not at all like her own wet fluids. The sensation of it on her clit was a welcome distraction.
Just as she started to enjoy it, the doctor stopped. Had she put in an extra rub or two on the clit for her there at the end?
The touch disappeared, then the doctor said, "Alright, this may sting. I'm going to apply the anaesthetic now."
A sharp pain stabbed her in the groin. She jerked and cried out.
"Hold still!" the doctor said sharply. Heather gasped, trying to keep her thighs from jerking. She had the irrational thought, her body was trying to protect itself. She forced herself to hold her legs still and open. She'd never thought she'd be spreading her legs for this.
"There, it's almost over, see?" the pain sensation lessened, and Heather looked down to see the doctor removing a large syringe from between her legs. She said, "If I don't give you a good dose, the actual operation could be a lot worse. Now Heather, lie back and relax. I'll be back in about 15 minutes or so to see how you're doing."
Heather lay down, but she couldn't relax. She was in a gyno chair with her legs spread, about to have her clit cut off.
Was she fucking nuts?
She felt uncomfortable. And cold. She took to counting heartbeats to pass the time. She wished she could masturbate, at least, rather than just having to sit here looking at her clit. She wished Michael were here.
She tried touching it, experimentally. There was still some feeling! God, it felt amazing... she let out a little sigh. But it was a lot weaker than usual, and as she rubbed it, the sensation continued to fade. Soon, she was rubbing it hard, too hard, unable to feel pain, trying to feel pleasure. She'd played with anaesthetic before, and knew that with it numbed, she could seriously hurt herself tomorrow.
You're going to feel this tomorrow, she thought, grinding her clit between her knuckles, trying to coax any last sensation out of it.
But she wouldn't. Not this time.
Finally, she was forced to admit defeat. She couldn't feel a thing. She let out a tiny groan of frustration, finding herself wishing for just one more orgasm.
The door opened and the doctor came back in.
"How are you feeling, Heather?"
Heather didn't trust herself to answer. The doctor knelt between her legs. "You tried playing with yourself, I see," she commented, making a swiping gesture down there with one finger. Heather couldn't feel it, but the finger came up wet.
"Yes," she admitted.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" the doctor asked, a softer note coming into her voice. "That's a lot of nerve endings. He's not pushing you into this, is he?"
"He's not pushing me into it," Heather said, but she couldn't meet the doctor's eyes.
The doctor let out a little sigh and said, "I'm going to make a few preparations. Can you feel that?"
"Feel what?" Heather asked, looking down at herself.
The doctor smiled, "Perfect." She brought up some materials and began to do something. Heather couldn't bring herself to watch. She tried to feel sexy, but just felt cold. She felt some tugging down there that nearly jerked her hips up.
For some reason she had a strange, but completely vivid memory of masturbating with her vibrator. It was the first time she'd gotten a vibrator. Her friends in college had taken her to a sex store. She could still remember the pink little vibrating dildo she'd come home with. Dear god, how it had felt to grind that into her clit. That vibrator was long gone now, but there were 3 or 4 others at home, in a special bag tied with a ribbon, under her bed.
She wouldn't be needing those anymore, soon.
Now the arousal came. Muted, but real. A heaviness in her gut that made her nipples stand on end. Her groin was completely devoid of sensation, but even that seemed to turn her on.
Another tug came, sharper than the first. Like it was tugging right at her soul. She looked down, alarmed. Was it happening?
The doctor was standing above her. Heather caught one glimpse of her distended clit--what must be her clit, she couldn't feel it--pulled nerveless with forceps taught from her body. In her other hand, the doctor held a scalpel. But what Heather's eyes landed on were the doctor's large, lush breasts. Curves that didn't belong in this room.
"Heather," the doctor said quietly, "are you absolutely sure you want to do this. After this, there's no going back."
Heather's heart jumped in her throat. Her mind drew a complete blank. For some reason she remembered masturbating in the changing room of a Macy's on a dare from her friends. She had been wearing a slinky little black dress at the time, she remembered. She wasn't even out of high school yet, and she was just trying on the dress. She had pulled it down past her nipples and hiked it up over her hips. She had put one foot on the little bench, spreading her legs just like this, and rubbed one off.
Eyes wide, Heather nodded. Why had she done that? Had she done that? Could she take it back?
But the doctor had already nodded in return.
Eyes wide, she watched the doctor bring the shining blade up to the flesh clamped between the forceps. It was like watching a video, watching it happen to someone else. She could hardly recognize her own clit, distended as it was.
A few quick cuts. Surprisingly little bleeding, and the chunk of flesh came off.
"It's a minor wound, so the bandaging will be minimal," the doctor was saying. "You should still be able to engage in most daily activities. Just don't strain yourself with any athletic behavior--that means no sex!--for at least two weeks. Okay, Heather?"
She nodded. Had it really happened already? She didn't feel any different.
The doctor bundled her back into her clothes. She was walking a bit stiffly when she came back out to see Michael, but that was more because of the thick bandage on her crotch--like a big pad, she thought--than any pain.
Michael gave her a hug and asked how she was. She didn't know what to say. She said, "I don't have a clit."
The words felt strange in her mouth. The receptionist approached, holding out a small, paper bag.
"Is that?" Heather asked. The receptionist nodded with a smile. Michael took the bag, while Heather felt a strong sense of vertigo. He led her slowly out to the car.
Once they were driving, Heather couldn't get her mind off the paper bag tucked in between them, next to the parking brake. She reached for it, then stopped. "May I look at it?"
"Your clit? Sure," he nodded. "Feel free to take a look at it."
She picked up the paper bag and carefully emptied it's contents into her hand. She found herself holding a small, clear circular container. Like Tupperware, she thought, but more official looking.
Inside was her clit, or what had been her clit. She clearly couldn't recognize it as that now. Her clit was a vibrant piece of her, this was just a little lump of darkening skin.
She felt like laughing. "Is that all?" She asked. She twisted the cap off and poked at the dark thing. She said, "It's nothing after all."
Michael was looking at her oddly, but she felt a strange satisfaction. She poked the dead thing again. When it rolled over, suddenly she could recognize it as her clit. There was the little glans, poking out from the hood, all still intact, just like they had talked about.
She managed to avoid throwing up into the little dish.
She wasn't sure what to do when they got home. Well, after they got her cleaned up, that is. She felt more embarrassed than anything about throwing up in the car. Michael stripped her clothes off her and threw them in the wash. Then, because they weren't sure if they were supposed to get her injury wet yet, he just toweled her down with a damp washcloth. She didn't need much cleaning, the sweatpants had caught the worst of it. That, and the inside of the car.
"Really, I'm fine. I'm sorry. That was stupid of me."
"Don't worry about it," he said, taking care of her. But he tossed away the last washcloth and bundled her into the robe. He settled her into her favorite armchair while he started the wash.
Did he realize this was the same armchair, she wondered? It was right here that she masturbated, all those weeks before, and brought this on herself.
Stupid girl, she thought with a moment's viciousness. Waste a lifetime of pleasure because you couldn't wait.
But no, she corrected herself. Looking back on it, her actions were too deliberate. Maybe this was what she wanted all along. But that brought on its own quandaries. She sighed, and leaned her head back on the armchair. She lifted one leg up and cocked it on an arm of the chair. It was a comfortable position, even if you weren't masturbating.
How long would it take to heal, she wondered? When could they have sex again? Even now, that brought a little tingle of anticipated excitement to her. She tried to remind herself it wouldn't be as it had been.
A vision came into her mind of being pounded by him from behind. No, a naughty little voice said in her mind, it will be better!
Michael came back with a cup of soup and all-too-concerned a look on his face.
"I'm not sick!" She swatted him away, but she accepted the soup.
He offered to stay for the day to take care of her, but she wanted time alone. She sucked him off once, and then sent him off to work.
When she was alone, the long hours of sitting down stretched before her. What did one do on the day she had just had her clit removed? She made herself some popcorn and watched movies.
The bandages were to stay on for two weeks. As that time grew closer, Heather found herself getting nervous. She wasn't sure she was prepared for the reality of her pussy without a clit, no matter how attractive she had once found that idea.
She started having dreams. Intense, vivid dreams, heavy with sex, in which she took off the bandages to find that she still had a clit, and it was more engorged and sensitive than ever. She would show it to Michael, like a strange, alien thing between her legs, trembling as he took it in his mouth to give her earth-shattering orgasms.
She woke in a cold sweat, unsure whether she wanted to go back to the dream, or run as far away as fast as she could.
The day came.
It wasn't like she hadn't seen it before, but that had been only changing the bandages, and Michael did that. Once the doctor had checked up on her, said everything was fine, and that she would be fine to go bandaid-less at the appointed time.
Yet inexplicably, she felt nervous when she spread her legs for Micheal to undo the bandages.
He peeled them away. This time, there was no sticky crust, they just came right off. She looked down at herself with inexorable curiosity.
There it was, a little crater where once there had been a little mountain. It still looked a little raw and red in the middle, but she understood that was to be expected.
"Do you want to touch?" Micheal asked.
By answer, she slipped her hand down. Her flesh still felt so familiar, and it tingled at her touch. She had missed this.
By the time she got to her center, she almost expected to find her clit there. Muscle memory, a flash of idiocy, or just habit. It wasn't there. That was definitely true. No matter what else had or hadn't changed, her clit definitely wasn't there.
She wondered if it was that little dead thing Michael had shipped off to have preserved for them, or if it had gone to a little clitty heaven, wherever clits go when they die but their girl stays behind.
She eased her middle finger into the crater that was there now, touching the red, raw bit in the middle. It was sensitive--pain sensitive, not pleasure sensitive--but not an open wound.
You wanted this, she reminded herself. You could have backed out.
She took her hand away, saying, "It's not as bad as I thought it would be. It's just... not there any more."
She couldn't tell, herself, if she were telling the truth or not. It was just what she said.
They cuddled for a bit, and then Heather cocked her eye and said, "Let's put on a video."
"Oh yeah?" he asked, "Which video?"
She bit her lip and touched his lip with her finger. She said, "You remember all those times we filmed me cumming? You said it was for posterity, to keep a record, for when I couldn't cum anymore."
"One of those?" Michael asked, his eyes widening. She nodded, grinning cheekily.
"I can't tell you how many times I've masturbated imagining this moment. Just had my clit removed, watching a video of myself masturbating, remembering what I can't do. Now that I'm here, I might as well live the dream. God, isn't that hot, though?" She bounced up in bed, sitting up. Her pussy barely even hurt.
"Alright," Michael said, getting infected by her enthusiasm. He took a minute to set it up, and then they curled up together in front of their big flat-screen TV, to watch Heather in HD, cumming with all her might.
"Did I really make faces like that?" she asked, at one point.
Micheal laughed, "Oh yes."
He couldn't do much for her, of course, but she took out his penis about halfway through the video and started stroking him. They were both so excited, she knew she could finish him at any time, but she held him on edge, teasing him without release until the end of the show.
She wanted to watch her own climax with all her attention. But after it was done, she let him finish in her mouth.
She lay down with him, but could not fall asleep. Even after he drifted off, she tossed and turned staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what was wrong.
Finally, she hit on it. She was horny.
She tried slipping her hand down to her pussy, as she always had, but there was no pleasure to be found there. So she turned to her breasts. She massaged them, squeezed them. Tweaked the nipples. She hadn't even ever liked tweaking her nipples. But at least it was something.
Finally she sat up in frustration, keeping her sigh soft so as not to wake Michael. She sat on the edge of the bed and wished she could cum.
Instead, she grabbed a laptop and went out to the main room. If she couldn't have an orgasm, she could at least watch other women do so. Micheal had a fetish for the female orgasm. He had hundreds of videos on his laptop of women cumming, from various sites.
She nearly laughed as she thought that now, she would never be submitting one of those. It was something they had always talked about. She felt fairly giddy as she pulled up a video. This was exciting!
If she had been able to masturbate, she would have found it so hot to be getting herself all excited without being able to release it.
That didn't help with her excitement now of course. She picked a pale-skinned young thing, slender and shapely, with a few freckles. She thought the girl looked a little like herself. Narcissistic much? A voice in her head asked.
She brushed it off with a wry smile and played the video. Watching the girl's buildup toward climax was sublime. Heather had never seen it like this before. Noticed every detail--details she would not have again.
When the girl on the screen finally came, she almost thought she herself would have a sympathy orgasm. It was so good. She played another. And then another.
Finally, she was ready to scream with rage and frustration and arousal. God, she would fucking kill for an orgasm!
"Why did you cut your clit off, you stupid, stupid girl!" she said out loud, but not loudly.
She stroked her body all over, hard, trying to force an orgasm from skin that was not designed for it. Several times she caught her hands drifting south. She wouldn't stroke her pussy, not now. She wasn't sure she could bear the absence of the pleasure her body craved, expected.
She thought of her empty cunt, and then of her empty cunt. "Fuck that," she whispered to herself, "I'm going to see if I can still cum."
A terrible fear welled up in her as she snuck into the bedroom to get the vibrator. What if it didn't work? What if she couldn't cum--forever? She felt unsteady on her feet. There had to be a way.
Then another fear gripped her--what if she could?
Torn between conflicting emotions, she snagged the biggest, baddest vibrator she had and tip-toed into the bathroom. There, she turned on the shower, to mask the sound of the vibrator--and the sounds she (hoped) she would make.
Oh god, she thought in panic and she turned on the vibrator and slid it down over her pubic mound to her clitless pussy. She already knew what she would feel.
It lived up to her expectation. She felt nothing. She imagined the girls screaming in pleasure on the videos, and wanted to scream herself in frustration. They took it so for granted! And now she might never ever be able to cum again, and they were still just sitting their, diddling their happy little clits, that they have, and not even thinking twice about it. Bitches! What she wouldn't give to trade places with one of them right now.
She thought of her luscious clit, how delicious it had been, how nice it had been to touch.
Wait! That almost did something for her. Was it just memory, or was there some sensation?
She tried touching the vibrator to the cavity where her clit had been, but that wasn't it. That was so definitively not her clit that she knew she had to not touch there at all if she was going to have any chance.
She had never been a vaginal girl, but maybe now was the time to learn... She was certainly wet enough. She easily slid the vibrator into her wet cunny, and it made a sucking sound as it pulled it in.
God she needed that.
She pumped the vibe in and out. She tried to let her mind drift back to her clit. Remembering her clit. If she couldn't create that pleasure anew, maybe she could remember it into life.
Her clit almost seemed to come back to life in her memory. She juxtaposed memories of her clit with memories of those videos. She tried to pretend the vibrator was Micheal, pounding into her.
She felt pleasure. Definite, real sexual pleasure. It was true! They said that 90% of the clitoris was inside the body--maybe she could still cum!
She drove the vibrating all the way up, pounding harder and harder. She began to get sore, but she didn't care. She wanted it. She wanted it all, every inch of it. She forgot her clitoris, forgot it's absence, forgot everything except her clenching pussy on that big, thick, cock of a dildo.
She was almost there.
And almost there.
And almost there.
And almost there.
She cried out in frustration, nearly sobbing as she pulled the dildo from her aching pussy and threw it at the tub. It bounced around in the porcelain, still buzzing.
Pleasure had turned to pain. She knew she would feel that in the morning. Walking might be stiff for a few days.
She wished once more she could have her clit for just a second. Just a few seconds with it, and she could cum harder than she had ever cum before in her life.
Biting her lip to still it's trembling, she sat down on the edge of the closed toilet seat. She took a deep breath and spread her legs. Then spread her pussy lips to look at her clit.
Instead of her clit, she looked at a neatly triangular little absence. A dip in her flesh, where the most powerful and sensitive bump had been. The skin still looked pink and raw, deeper toward the center. But she could tell already it would heal cleanly.
"It really was that vulnerable," she whispered to herself. "Just a few quick cuts, and now it's gone."
She ran her frigging finger over the spot where her clit had been, feeling the new sensations of her new body. It seemed like such a deep hole.
"She must have cut out the roots too," she murmured to herself, feeling in the depths of the hole in her body for some hint of pleasure. None could be found.
A terrible truth was starting to well up in Heather. A truth that wanted to make her scream, or panic, or cry. Her clit was gone. Really, really gone.
She bit her lip on all those emotions and carefully dressed in her PJs again.
She lay down in bed, thinking with new realization, that she might never orgasm again.
As she ran the gamut of emotions, she found her body gently shaking. Wet droplets rolled down her cheeks. She must have woken Michael, because then he was holding her and she was sobbing.
She didn't know how long she cried, but she did know when she pulled herself back together. Suddenly, a fierce determination rose out of her tears. She would not let this stop her.
She shoved Michael back on the bed by main force, straddling him. She bit his lip aggressively, grinding her groin over his. His body responded immediately, leaping up to an erection.
She stripped off her pajama top, and he helped relieve her of her bottoms. When he sank into her, a bone-deep sigh shuddered through her.
It wasn't the same. It hurt. She wasn't technically supposed to be having sex yet. But she didn't care. She wanted him; needed him. She rode him hard, and bucked and moaned when he grabbed her hips and pounded into him.
Yes, the clit wasn't there, but that wasn't important. She let that little fact slip away, and it really did seem little. He was pounding inside her, and she was a woman, and damn it was good.
He slowed down, tensing with the ferocity of his pleasure. She knew him. She knew he was dragging it out, teasing himself.
Even with her eyes closed, she could feel him looking at her.
She let him wordlessly persuade her to open her eyes, to look at him. It was hard, knowing what he would see there. But she did, and he looked into her eyes, and whatever he saw there, he accepted it.
When he smiled at her, she felt something in her soften. He hadn't done this to her. She had chosen it herself. Once she was used to it, she would find it as hot as she ever had. A thrill of insatiable lust came over her as she imagined never being able to cum again, and always wanting to as much as she did tonight.
"Fuck me," she said, "harder."
She looked him in the eyes as she said it, feeling something hard melt out of her. She wanted him. Wanted him bad.
He must have sensed her need. He grabbed her body and thrust pounded hard. She was so sore already, but she didn't care. She wanted him. She needed him.
"Cum for me," she said in a throaty voice, her heart in her words. "Cum for me, please. Cum in me."
He let out a long shuddering groan that she felt echo in her bones. She could feel every inch of his cock, throbbing in her, tense with his pleasure, and then he gasped and rocked, pressing himself as deep into her as he could. She bucked and arched, feeling the spurts of him come into her, squirting in her, filling in her. She gasped in excitement and a kind of pleasure.
A choked groan of pure mortification escaped her. “Oh, come on,” she groaned, squeezing her eyes shut, but she couldn’t shut out the truth. He would know. He would feel the slick evidence of how ready she was, how her body had so thoroughly betrayed her mind. She risked a glance at his face and saw it: the slow, knowing smirk spreading across his lips as he looked down at her. I know what you want. The thought, his thought, was a brand of shame on her soul.
She hated it. She hated him for knowing, hated herself for wanting, hated the way the humiliation made the walls of her pussy clench desperately around an aching emptiness. It was a vicious, perfect trap, and she was pinned at its center, broken and exposed, her body slick and screaming for the violation she’d spent a lifetime dreaming of. She sprawled defeatedly on her back in the grass, lungs burning, waiting for whatever he’d do next.
He took his time. There was no frantic tearing of clothes, no brutal haste to do the deed and escape. His movements were a slow, deliberate savoring. His large, rough hand slid from her knee up the insides of her thighs, the calloused texture a rasp against her sensitive skin. He pushed her legs wider, the pressure of his knee between them an unyielding command, pinning her open to the cool night air.
“Please,” she breathed, the word a useless, choked plea.
She arched her back, shoving her throbbing chest into his hands, shoulders squared despite the tears in her eyes. His other hand claimed her right breast, kneading the tender, stung flesh with a slow, deliberate pressure. “That hurts,” she rasped, voice cracked and trembling, but she didn’t pull away. Her breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, body quaking under his grip as he squeezed, thumbs circling her nipples with a rough edge that made her gasp.
“And so it should,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth, eyes glinting in a way she didn't usually see in her soft-spoken husband who liked to be spanked. “But you’re taking it. As you should.”
I keep trying to write, like, porn; and these damn characters keep exploring the world they're in. Which is supposed to be full of opportunities for them to have hot dubiously-consensual sex but, grr, I'm also finding it kind of interesting in its own right!
The noose had snapped tight around her throat the moment Theodore yanked the rope, no preamble, no gentle concern about her readiness - just raw, unyielding force, her consent assumed when she put on the white armband. The coarse hemp had dug into her skin, a burning, scraping kiss that choked her breath into thin, ragged gasps. Her lungs had clawed for air, each inhale a fleeting victory against the tightening grip, and the world tilted as oxygen slipped
away. Dizziness swirled through her skull, sharpening every sensation until her body burned with it - skin prickling, nerves screaming, every inch of her ablaze. Her toes had scraped the cobblestones, dangling just shy of solid ground, the struggle sending jolts of pain through
her calves, blending with the molten ache in her belly. Her nipples had stiffened against the cool night air, almost painfully hard, and the slick heat between her thighs dripped with a need she couldn't hide.
A year had passed since Erica last crossed the threshold of Ichmaer’s rental office, tucked discreetly between a pretzel stand and a shoe store in the bustling mall. The air inside carried that same strange blend of brimstone and cologne, sharp and intoxicating, stirring memories she’d tried—and failed—to suppress. Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she approached, each step a drumbeat echoing her rising pulse. She wore a simple black dress that clung to her hips, the fabric shifting sensually with her stride, though she barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere, tangled in a knot of dread, curiosity, and a yearning she couldn’t name.
Ichmaer glanced up from his desk, his lean frame unfolding with a predator’s grace. His yellow eyes locked onto hers, bright with recognition, and a wide, toothy grin split his face, revealing the sharp edges of his teeth. “Erica!” he exclaimed, his voice warm and rich, laced with a delight that sent a shiver down her spine. “My favorite customer! Tell me, are you finally ready to sign your soul over for good this time?”
She shook her head, the motion sharp and instinctive. “God, no,” she said, her tone firm but edged with a tremor she couldn’t hide. She sank into the chair opposite him, crossing her legs tightly as if to steady herself. Her fingers brushed the armrest, lingering on its cool surface. “But… maybe I’m just being an idiot. It’s been a while, and my job’s grinding me down again. I keep thinking it couldn’t have been that bad last time.” She paused, her lips quirking into a grin that felt more defiant than she intended. “I’m not committing to anything right now, Ichmaer. Just… tell me about crucifixion again. You said something about being kept alive for a week, right? Worse than what Jesus went through? Call me a masochist if you want—I’ll probably call myself worse if I actually do this—but I’m… interested.”
Ichmaer’s smile broadened, his eyes glinting with a dark, gleeful spark. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, his long fingers steepled beneath his chin. The movement pulled his tailored suit taut across his shoulders, accentuating the lean strength beneath. “Oh, Erica, I’d be delighted,” he purred, his voice dropping to a reverent murmur. “Crucifixion in Hell is a work of art. Your spiritual body doesn’t need to breathe, so there’s no slipping away into the mercy of asphyxiation. No dehydration, no shock—just pure, unending pain. On Earth, even Jesus found an end after a few hours. Down here? You’d hang there, fully aware, for days. Weeks, if we please. Every nerve screaming, no escape in sight. You know this already, don’t you?”
Erica listened, her breath shallow, her chest tight. The words painted a vivid picture: rough wood pressing into her back, nails piercing her wrists, her body stretched taut and trembling. Her hands clenched in her lap, nails digging into her palms as a wave of fear crashed against an undercurrent of desire. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, her thighs pressing together beneath the hem of her dress. “Worse than Jesus, huh?” she murmured, her voice soft, almost lost. “That’s… a lot.”
“Far more than ‘a lot,’” Ichmaer replied, his tone smooth and assured. He tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. “It’s exquisite. Terrifying, yes, but exquisite. And you, Erica—you’re drawn to it, aren’t you?”
She nodded, a small, reluctant gesture, then straightened in her chair. Her dress shifted, the fabric brushing against her thighs, and she felt a sudden, sharp awareness of her own body—her quickening pulse, the warmth spreading low in her belly. “I’ve got a question, though,” she said, her gaze flickering to meet his. “It’s been bothering me. Why don’t I have PTSD? I mean, I was tortured for a month last time. Raped more times than I can count—hundreds, probably. And my clitoris…” She trailed off, a flush creeping up her neck as the memory surged forward: the searing pain, the overwhelming pleasure twisted into it, the way it had shattered her and remade her in the same breath. Her breath hitched, her body responding despite herself, a tingling heat blooming across her skin. “That was awful. And… God, it was so perfect. I should be a mess—nightmares, panic attacks, freaking out just walking past this mall. But I’m here, talking to you like it’s nothing. After all that. Why?”
Ichmaer’s expression softened, a rare flicker of something like insight crossing his features. He leaned back, the chair creaking faintly under his weight, his hands resting lightly on the desk. “It’s straightforward, really,” he said, his voice calm, almost clinical. “None of that touched your physical flesh. Your soul holds the memories, but your brain? It’s unscathed—no scar tissue, no flood of cortisol or adrenaline to etch those triggers into you. If we’d injected you with heroin down there—not that we would; we don’t peddle comforts—you’d feel no withdrawal up here. The body doesn’t carry the burden. Only your mind does, and that’s a different beast.”
Erica absorbed his words, her fingers tracing the edge of the armrest absently. The explanation made sense, clicking into place like a puzzle piece she hadn’t known was missing. “So, it’s all in my head, but not my body,” she said, more to herself than to him. Her lips parted slightly, her breath warm against them as she processed the thought.
“Precisely,” Ichmaer replied, his smile returning, sly and inviting. “And speaking of your head… how about some testimonials? From souls who’ve tasted crucifixion and lived to curse it?” He slid a stack of papers across the desk, his fingers brushing the edge with a deliberate grace that drew her eye.
She reached for them, her hand trembling faintly. “Yeah, I’d like that,” she said, her voice breathy, barely masking the anticipation curling through her. As she read, the words seared into her mind—accounts of nails driven through flesh, of endless hours dangling in torment, of screams that never stopped. Her pulse raced, her chest rising and falling quickly beneath the thin fabric of her dress. The heat between her legs intensified, undeniable now, and she shifted in her seat, acutely aware of the dampness gathering there. Ichmaer watched her, his gaze steady and knowing, and she felt exposed, raw, her desire laid bare.
When she finished, she set the papers down, her hands unsteady. “I’ll take these and think it over,” she said, standing abruptly. Her legs felt weak, the muscles quivering as she smoothed her dress over her hips. The lie hung in the air, fragile and transparent, and she knew he saw through it. She wasn’t “thinking” about anything—her decision had already settled deep within her, a dark seed sprouting with terrible certainty.
Ichmaer’s smile widened, his eyes glinting with quiet triumph. “Take your time, Erica,” he said, his voice a velvet caress that lingered as she turned to leave.
She stepped out into the mall, the hum of shoppers and the clatter of commerce a stark contrast to the storm inside her. Her stomach fluttered, a delicious mix of terror and excitement twisting tighter with every breath. She clutched the testimonials to her chest, the paper crinkling against her breasts, and imagined the scene awaiting her: the cross looming, the nails poised, her body wracked with sobs as she begged for a mercy that wouldn’t come. Within a month—two at most—she’d return, weeping and pleading as they nailed her up, her suffering stretching into endless, Hellish hours. And it would be perfect. The thought sent a shiver through her, her lips curving into a tremulous smile as she disappeared into the crowd, already savoring the dread and delight of what was to come.
