need to get into a genuine fist fight with price, sparring gone out of hand and you're just going at each other. hes pinning you down with his knee pressing into your stomach, hands messily pinned with one of his, grip just good enough that you cant struggle out of it. the others are watching, shock on the other recruits faces, soap is genuinely impressed that youre holding out that long while price keeps decorating your body with bruises. he doesn't stop until hes had his fill, getting up off you and wiping the sweat off his forehead while youre still on the ground, eyes watery and brows furrowed, desperately needing more of whatever the fuck just happened
“It’s alright to hate it. Strength isn’t the absence of that.”
Summary: Tired of being a wet noodle, Charlie vents to Alastor about needing exposure therapy to build resilience. She makes the mistake of framing him as a walking adverse stimulus. Amused by the insult, Alastor decides to live up to it. A handshake follows; pain comes fast, sharp, and sickening. She cries, he laughs. Neither backs down. He enjoys the exercise a lot. She withstands more than she thought possible. In a way, so does he. They part on perfectly civil terms.
Word count: 3,8k (~15 mins)
Rating: Explicit
CW: graphic depictions of violence, graphic joint injury description (however non-human), extreme distress, consensual violence/torture, non-sexual CNC?, Charlie consented to whatever and that is exactly what she got, Alastor is a sadist but isn't evil, Charlie wants to be A True Angel, and also is autistic about everything, aftercare does happen, it's implied Alastor is asexual and sexual/romantic-implications-repulsed/overwhelmed
Not a ship in my mind, but people can interpret it however they want.
Message me if you want to suggest what I should write next (related or not).
AO3: [link]
Charlie tells herself she isn’t staging this, despite having paced the hallway twice and checking her reflection in the brass of the wall sconce, practicing the shape of a determined expression. She feels briefly like a pageant contestant preparing to confess a moral failure to a serial killer who will not be impressed by it. That comparison is unfair. He isn’t that; he is worse in some directions and better in others, and she is lucid about which directions those are.
She rounds the corner and cuts through the wide archway into the parlor without breaking stride.
“I am exhausted,” she announces loudly.
Alastor registers the tone more than the words, but she doesn’t give him space to respond, already halfway across the room.
“I am exhausted with myself. Every time something goes even slightly wrong, I’m already shaking like it’s the end of the world. I’m literally rehearsing how to say ‘I’m sorry’ before anyone has even looked at me. I’m so tired of treating every little inconvenience like divine punishment. The whole waah and boo-hoo of it all is just... it's pathetic. It’s embarrassing to watch myself do it. It’s humiliating, it’s exhausting. I’m exhausting.” She takes a breath, finally. “I don’t want to be like that.”
He looks up from whatever he is pretending to read—he rarely reads what is in his hands—and his expression does that quick, bright recalibration it always does when he smells opportunity.
“I keep telling myself to do better,” she continues, words stacking on top of each other, “to be stronger, to be resilient, to reframe, to breathe through it, to journal about it, to—whatever. None of it sticks. I hate it.”
He lets the silence sit long enough that it feels intentional.
“Right. And what of it?”
Rude. He studies her with open suspicion, and he’s probably right to be suspicious, but how would he even know?
He opens with the sound of a man burdened by the labor of dragging a conversation forward.
“The confession lacked a conclusion—it didn't even have a hook. Is there a counter-move you have in mind, or…?”
“Exposure,” she says immediately. “Repeated exposure. I need to stop reacting like discomfort is lethal.”
“Exposure to discomfort,” he repeats, weighing the phrase. “And you’re here for this reason?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.”
There is a long, heavy beat of silence where he could be getting irritated or just curious. The lack of feedback is beginning to itch.
“Am I to understand that you consider me—what—some kind of walking adverse stimulus? A perfect exercise in building tolerance for inconvenience?”
Charlie realizes she never stopped pacing and forces her feet to stay put. She can’t tell if she has actually insulted him or just successfully invited him to be mean to her. Either way, he is definitely paying attention now.
“You know what I mean.” She hesitates, then shrugs. “You’re not fragile about things.”
“Mm. I sure am not.”
He doesn’t follow up. He’s just... looking. It’s a lot. For a second she has that distinct sensation of having stepped too close to a ledge. So, naturally, she takes a step forward.
“Look, you have a reputation, and it’s not for—it’s not exactly for tea parties, or whatever regular people do,” she says, her hands making a vague shape in the air. “I mean, you know that. Everyone knows that. You’re not known for your restraint or your—… your civilized side. I’m sure it exists, but it’s not the… the headline.”
She stops, realizes she maybe has just insulted his entire personality, and her brain short-circuits. “You’re just—sorry, that came out wrong. What I’m trying to say is that you’re a lot. You’re a lot of a person to be in a room with. It’s a lot. So, exposure. You’re the exposure.”
Alastor doesn’t say anything. Very loudly.
She feels her misstep sharp and clean—that stomach-drop of a foot landing where there’s nothing. What always is there, however, is her everlasting talent for saying the wrong thing with perfect confidence.
Something tightens around Alastor’s eyes. It’s a fast, heavy calculation—like he has filed the offense away somewhere she can't see, labeled unworthy of applying actual emotion. He settles more comfortably into his seat, claiming the extra comfort for the inconvenience.
“I can tolerate being considered dangerous,” he says eventually. “It’s accurate. What I object to is the implication that I’m uncultured. Or tedious. That proximity to me is inherently fraught and unpleasant.”
“You’re not unpleasant,” she says immediately, and means it.
That one lands properly.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he replies and actually sounds like he is. “Implying I might enjoy violence offends me far less than implying I’m dull company,” he adds, conversationally, setting the unread book aside without looking.
“Did I… imply you enjoy violence?”
He holds her gaze with a look that says do not attempt to go back on your words in my presence. She drops it. She knows she implied it. She doesn’t know if she meant it. She doesn’t know how to go around it without digging herself deeper.
“Would I come here at all,” she tries, “if I actually thought you’re unpleasant to be around?”
He leans back further into the recliner with theatrical ease, indulgent, languid, one arm draped over the side, gaze angled at the ceiling, as if slowly accepting the premise. Then he exhales in a long, controlled breath, swings his legs down in one motion and sits forward, attention returning to business.
“So,” he says, resetting the conversation. “Exposure.”
“Yes.”
Finally.
“How much discomfort are you planning to survive in the name of self-improvement?”
Charlie frowns. The question is, unfortunately, fairly reasonable. “What do you mean how much?”
“What degree?” he asks. “Mild irritation? Severe inconvenience? Actual, physical risk? A genuine, life-altering trauma?”
Her mind does something unhelpful and abstract. It asks: What would an angel say? A true angel. Fearsome but fearless. Cool in a way she is not. Lately she has been toying with the vague possibility that she is something more than a nervous overthinker. Maybe there was something beyond that she could claim. Nephilim of seraphic descent. The words felt impressive. They meant nothing practical.
What would a true, cool angel say?
Probably something absolute. Final, even. With unwavering certainty. Angels are supposed to be indestructible. Terrific in the old sense of the word. Or was it awful?
She can do both.
Limits feel small. Mortal. Embarrassing.
“I assume you have a threshold?” Alastor asks.
Charlie decides, impulsively and with very little evidence, that true fearsome but fearless angels do not.
“I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
She feels the buzz of satisfaction and pride at his disbelief, even though the pride is tethered to absolutely nothing.
“No.”
“None at all?”
“None.”
Alastor stands up, dusts imaginary lint from his sleeve, and takes her hand with the absent courtesy of someone about to lead a dance. He tilts his head slightly, as though still allowing for the possibility that she has misunderstood her own assignment.
“And you won’t accuse me later of misinterpreting that?”
It’s fine. It’s fine. We both know what this is.
“I won’t.”
“Alright then.”
He slides his right hand into hers as if for a handshake, conversational distance intact. She instinctively grips back.
An instant later his left hand clamps her mid-forearm like a vice. He yanks the palm he holds towards himself with impossible, sudden strength.
Pop.
“Wh—at the f—”
Her grip slackens instantly. Shock floods her system, a cold numbing agent that buys him a one-second window.
He doesn’t waste it.
He twists the loose wrist outward, sliding his palm over her thumb until his index and middle fingers rest flat against the underside of the joint; he drives both fingers deep between her carpals.
“—UCKING—FUCK!”
The words tears out of her with astonished fury. His grin flashes with wicked delight at the profanity.
His left hand clamps over from below, sealing his fingers in place as a living obstruction to any healing magic her body might attempt.
She lunges backward on instinct. He moves with her instantly.
The agony is blinding, white-hot at first, then rapidly deepening into something nauseating and electric that spreads up into her elbow and down into her fingers. The joint doesn’t feel broken so much as dismantled.
This is impossible, she thinks, but beneath there is the dawning comprehension that he did not discover any of this by accident.
It feels like her bones are chewing on themselves. And now it fucking burns.
She tries to yank herself free—put any distance between herself and the pain—but it’s impossible. He tracks her step, diffusing the tension before it can snap. He stays one move ahead, fueled by the quiet high of out-maneuvering her every chaotic twitch.
A realization manages to surface: don't fight the grip. She could tear herself away, use her magic to throw him back, but it would ruin everything. Worse, it would hurt more. He would never let it happen anyway; he’s as committed to his pride as she is to outlasting him.
Her goal is simple: survive without violently breaking free. His is simpler: don’t let go.
She lets her instinct take the fight; her mind is useless. Maybe she never had a mind; maybe she was born a minute ago and will die the next.
Alastor pivots with her, an impeccable shadow. He meets every twist with a turn, when she jerks to the side, he’s already there—until her footing fails. She pitches back, dead weight, a drop that should drag him down too, but he holds fast. She falls. He doesn’t.
For a sickening heartbeat, gravity tears her arm from the socket farther out as she drops.
“Oh no you don’t.”
He sounds delighted.
She gets hauls back up at once, and through the gut-wrenching, mind-fracturing agony of being strung out and then snapped back like a rubber band, she repeatedly kicks at his shin out of sheer reflex, swearing through tears and her lack of breath, and he has to adjust quickly to keep his balance.
For a split second she sees it—he actually has to work for it.
The thought fuels her.
“You’ll see—!” she chokes, not entirely sure what he’ll see, only that she refuses to lose.
But she can’t afford to keep being yanked around like this anymore.
She wants to be able to.
She is not.
She stumbles into a chair, knocks it sideways, drags him with her across the rug in a desperate, counter-logical attempt to make him stop moving—because if he stops moving, maybe it stops tearing, maybe is stops flaring, maybe she gets to keep her arm attached to her body for one more second.
Her magic surges instinctively again and again, frantic to mend—pulsing like a hammer striking bone from the inside, sending burning pressure down her arm in violent waves over and over—and each time he adjusts his hold just enough to keep the bones from aligning.
It isn’t just tears anymore—she’s ugly-crying through it, the sound of it wobbling along the waves.
She is furious about it. She is furious about everything.
“Let GO!”
He smiles at her, bright as a lit match. “Why, you seemed so committed a moment ago!”
Her body wants out. Every system she has is screaming to end this ridiculous experiment. She clamps on them with stubborn, shaking will.
Her thoughts start to scatter. This is stupid. This is brilliant. This is what I asked for. This is not what I meant. He’ll let go in a second. He’ll never let go. God is watching. God has abandoned me.
Charlie swears again, loudly, something inventive and blasphemous that makes Alastor bark out a laugh in genuine appreciation.
Even as her vision swims, she can see how much he likes it.
He tries to hide it. He keeps his tone airy, keeps the smile charming instead of feral, but there is a brightness in his eyes that gives him away. The violence sings to him. The contest delights him.
“Smug—ass—!” she spits, breath hitching as tears spill freely.
He laughs outright at that.
Finally she jerks hard enough to drag him off balance, and he goes with it—too smoothly to be entirely accidental—and they go down in a scatter of blunt impacts, knees and elbows and everything. They land half-seated, tangled and breathing, her wrist blazing between them like the center of the universe.
He studies her for a second, as if checking whether she’ll surge again.
She doesn’t.
The struggle changes. It doesn’t stop; it condenses. Her movements shrink, no longer aimed at escape but at survival. She still glares at him, still bares her teeth through tears, but she stops trying to rip herself free.
She can’t. It’s an impossibility, a task so enormous it occurs to her she should be impressed she was ever standing at all a few seconds ago. As soon as the thought hits, she sags closer to the floor. Alastor follows, tethered to her pulse.
The fight migrates. It moves inward. Her mind traces the contours of the damage in real time. The sharp edges, the grinding center, the numbness in her fingers, the hot, the cold, the fucking everything that can be wrong at the same time, in the very same place, the place being her.
She rocks where she kneels, pressing her forehead against her own shoulder, breathing through clenched teeth. She sobs without restraint. The words tumble out: that she wasn’t expecting it to be like this, that she can’t think past it, that this sucks, she sucks, everything sucks, DO YOU FUCKING HEAR THAT?!
He says nothing. But he does hear that.
She blinks through tears and stares at the floor. The fight drains out of her trembling shoulders and leaves only a semblance of endurance behind. Or maybe just refusal to black out.
Then, he releases the pressure all at once.
The absence is as loud as the presence was.
For the weirdest second of her life, the joint stays open—a terrifying, surreal gap in her anatomy—before the bones slide back into place with a deep, internal click that reverberates up her arm and into her jaw.
Then comes the flood. It feels like fire in motion, though it doesn’t burn her. It pours into her ruined architecture and overflows, bright and violent and impossibly dense. It feels like her own blood, but more—the cool stuff, the gold, the angelic, the everything.
Her own nature finally rushing to her aid.
The numbness recedes.
The relief is overwhelming, dizzying, euphoric.
“What—...the fuck just happened…”
She collapses backward onto the floor, cradling her hand to her chest, eyes wide and bright and changed. She just stares at the ceiling, stunned by the miracle of inhabiting her own body.
Then she remembers he is still kneeling in front of her.
She propels herself upright into a graceless heap and immediately tips forwards. Alastor catches her with ease and she collapses into him without hesitation, pressing her face into his chest, breath hitching in exhausted sobs. Her tears are now indulgent—a pity afterparty in full bloom, unabashed, earned.
“There now,” he murmurs. It would be condescending if it weren’t so plainly sincere. “It’s over. You’re all right.”
The competitive brightness that had animated him earlier is gone, the manic light in his eyes dimmed, his movements unexpectedly soft and nearly apologetic.
“You—” she hiccups, half laughing through tears. “You absolute—m a n i a c.”
He huffs a quiet, almost embarrassed chuckle. His body adjusts around her, yielding to her weight. One arm wraps around her back, the other settles between her shoulders. The comfort is attentive and thorough. He even rocks her, just slightly, as if compensating for the total lack of mercy from moments before.
“You gave me quite a challenge.” A smile touches his voice, but that’s not out of the ordinary.
She shakes her head against him, still sniffling. “I cried the whole time.”
“That doesn’t diminish the effort. You gave quite a performance,” he replies. “It was a solid round.”
There’s a flicker of restraint, an almost imperceptible effort to sand down the edges of his pride, as if he were suddenly embarrassed by the efficiency of his own hands. But the restraint doesn’t hold.
"I’ve seen seasoned killers show less grit.” Then, a very forced pause. "Best fun I’ve had all week." Then, a final, tiny hitch. “I’m glad I didn't hold back.”
She can tell he tried to swallow that last part—and the part before it—but he also clearly wanted to say both. She doesn't care about his lack of filter, too busy hanging onto the praise of that first sentence. It sounds like a total exaggeration, but why would he lie? And even if he was lying, he still said it. What a collectible.
“That hurt,” she says thickly, as if announcing a revelation. “God, that hurt so much.”
He hums, a sound that carries satisfaction and something more complicated. He continues the patient path over her back, inviting her breathing to follow the rhythm.
“I know,” he says after a moment. “I know.” A small sigh follows. “It’s alright to hate it. Strength isn’t the absence of that.”
Wise words. Familiar words. Words she forgets all the time.
She glances around. The room looks mildly destroyed—chair on its side, rug bunched, a faint scuff mark on the wall from her heel. The destruction is modest but undeniable.
She feels absurdly proud.
“I’m very brave and strong,” she congratulates herself out loud, not caring in the slightest if it sounds like something a five-year-old would declare after a vaccination.
The statement earns her nothing but maybe a breath, so she doubles down: “Just wait. You’ll be so impressed, it’ll hurt.”
A giggle bubbles out of him before it breaks into a full, unrestrained laugh. He surrenders to the shape of things; he is a maniac, and he absolutely loves the threat. Something in him loosens further. His cheek brushes her hair in a gesture that feels almost self-conscious, like he surprises himself by doing it, but regrets nothing—she hopes he doesn’t.
She melts into the contact, greedy for it even as she pretends she isn’t. It feels like something she earned. She wants more—of course she does—but it’s sweeter when it spills out of him unprompted, when it feels like something he cannot help but offer.
Her arm feels normal again, which is frankly offensive after all that spectacle. She flexes her fingers experimentally. They obey. The leftover adrenaline has nowhere to go now, so she clutches at his vest—or at least tries to. He runs his hand down her healed wrist, reminding them both that everything is intact.
But he asks anyway.
“Is it fine now?”
“Yeah. All healed. Hardly hurts at all. I'm predictable, I know."
Something occurs to her. Her other hand lifts to rest lightly over his, then she squeezes his fingers in quiet reassurance.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” she proclaims. “It’s all good. I’m not upset. I promise.”
He receives the words outwardly well. The change is subtle and slow. The reassurance doesn’t soothe him the way it should. It seems to cost him something to hear it, as if it’s physically uncomfortable to be told he did no wrong, as if he was preparing for blame and doesn’t know what to do without it, as if he’s wired to never trust the absence of it. Forgiveness appears to require more adjustment than accusation would have.
He’s being weirdly steady while he takes it in, choosing not to escape the discomfort, deciding that sitting with the residue is part of the arrangement. Maybe it is. Maybe he needs that small tragedy.
He breathes through it.
“Alright,” he says.
Whatever wave had threatened, passes.
And then he squeezes her, lax but with a pressure that is unmistakably intentional, firm enough that the air leaves her in a startled laugh. Charlie lights up. She experiences the squeeze as confirmation of her competence. It communicates something vast that language failed to carry. Her grin spreads against his shoulder, fierce and triumphant and completely unembarrassed, as she is deeply, profoundly impressed with herself.
So many accomplishments for one day: pain endured, insight attained, praise secured, competence demonstrated, composure disrupted in someone who treats vulnerability like a contagious disease. Unstoppable trajectory.
The future blooms in her imagination as a field of escalating capability.
Driven by the momentum, thinking nothing of it, she slides lower, guided by curiosity, ear settling over his chest to listen to the rhythm there—
—and every muscle in him locks.
The hand at her back stills mid-stroke. For a second he holds perfectly, unnaturally still, as if he might be able to outlast the situation by refusing to react to it.
He cannot.
His hands come up between them and he eases her away with strained politeness. His shoulders hold tension; his smile presents with precision.
“That’s— quite enough,” he says.
Charlie twists to look at him properly, unaware that this only worsens the predicament. She blinks at him, confused and tousled. “What? I was just—”
“I’m aware,” he cuts in quickly, and she has no idea what, exactly, he’s claiming to be aware of. He seems certain. She isn’t. The only thing she’s aware of is the sinking feeling that she’s messed something up again.
He stands up, putting a respectful but unmistakable distance between them. The air where he had been feels abruptly colder.
It clicks for her a beat late.
Oh.
That hadn’t read as neutral.
What she thought was automatic had translated as deliberate.
She lowers herself back onto her heels and folds her hands in her lap with ceremonial surrender, watching him recalibrate himself. He straightens his vest. Adjusts his cuffs. Rebuilds the edges of himself.
A current of something thin and aching moves through her. The same hand he held immobile minutes ago now had been enough to throw him off balance. The knowledge is tremulous and insidious. She sits very still and decides, right then, never to test that particular power.
For a second they both remain suspended between too much and not enough.
“You don’t have to—” she starts, then stops, because what was she going to say? To be affected? “Right. Okay. Noted. No surprise chest-listening.”
“Correct.” His expression arranges itself into something resembling a reluctant, exhausted fondness. “I appreciate the consideration.”
The glitch dissolves into something familiar and dry.
He extends a hand with impeccable sportsmanlike civility that demands she be elevated from the floor—an urgent restoration of the symmetry he prefers. She takes it with a courtly nod, which he returns in kind.
“Do try to pace yourself next time.”
With more time and practice, she thinks, she is going to be terrifying.
“Interlude 3” from The New Topping Book (2003) by Dossie Easton & Janet W. Hardy
A role-play scene, played by "Akasha, " a novice top friend.
I woke up with great difficulty and realized my mind was full of thoughts of domination, weird fantasies about devices that I did not own but wished I did. I thought of my friend Richard, and a wonderful night we had shared many months before.
I called him and found him still in bed. I said, "God, I am really having a problem today."
He shifted in his sheets, I could hear it, and said, "Hungry?"
I was doodling, cracking pencil leads and then throwing them away.
"Yes," I said, and I was sort of half shaking, just wanting to make him beg on the phone, make him get out of his warm bed and kneel down, make him whimper, do anything. But I wanted more, so I held back and asked him to see me.
He half moaned and sighed, yawned again, and told me he had class that night. I told him to meet me afterward. He paused, and I felt like I was going to die.
"Richard, please. I'm going crazy. Do this for me, OK?"
"You want to hurt me?" he said softly, making me face it. This was back when it was still hard for me to accept that I enjoyed making men suffer.
It's difficult to describe what a day like that feels like, waiting for the hours to go by, trying to concentrate on work, going one step at a time.
When I am in that mindframe I can smell everything in the air, I can feel mist against my face in the cold air. The moon is more illuminated, the sound of my feet in puddles as I walk somehow thrills me with a feeling of authority.
I arrived at the cafe a few minutes early and waited in the lobby. Richard arrived a few minutes late. When I stood up and hugged him he laughed softly into my ear, "How're you doing?" I just moaned and started fingering his hair, tugging at it a little. We parted and I looked at him again, blinking. I felt weak, numb. I wanted to take him by the hair and force him to his knees. Instead I said weakly, "You probably haven't eaten yet. Can I buy you dinner?"
When his food arrived I stole his silverware and he laughed. "I'm serious," I told him in a low voice. "I am feeding you this entire meal." His eyes searched around the room and he lowered his voice, "Come on, people will see. We can take care of you when we get home. Let me eat."
Any other night I wouldn't think twice about him eating dinner across from me. But in that mood, on that night, I wanted to be the one feeding him. I wanted to make him part his lips each time I lifted the spoon. I wanted to make him beg with his eyes for more, or look at me longingly. Or I wanted to force him to do it.
I leaned over the table and we argued a bit about it, finally compromising in that I would feed him the first few bites and then let him finish. Knowing that he hated doing it but would submit to it for a few minutes was enough for now.
When we got into my room he sat on the edge of my bed then finally lay down, spreading his arms out and sighing tiredly. I slid down and moved on top of him, moving my hands up to his wrists and holding them down there. His eyes flickered open and he stared at me expressionlessly, waiting.
I consider it true, deep headspace when I am capable, without hesitation, of exercising acts of cruelty or power as if they were second nature. These are things that I would never do in a normal state of mind. On that night I slipped into it relatively easily, maybe because I had been lingering around the edges of it for so long.
I set up a series of short scenes, because my appetite was varied and I wanted to satisfy it all. Sometimes I want total resistance, sometimes I want fear, sometimes I want pathetic, eager submission. That night I wanted them all.
I used every single restraint device on him that I had, in every position I could imagine. I kept a hand over his mouth most of the night and wrestled him to the ground three or four different times, ordering him to feign resistance until I hurt him into submitting.
I roleplayed kidnapping him, interrogating him, seducing him, and fucking him. I had an orgasm just from the way he felt against me as I took him against his will, one hand holding his head back by a fistful of hair and the other over his mouth to muffle his protests.
For the grand finale I put him in my chair and handcuffed his wrists behind his back, taking my wall mirror down and putting it behind him ,so I could see his wrists and enjoy the way they looked while still facing him. "I put water in his hair to simulate sweat and messed it up, tied his ankles together, and told him I was going to kill him.
He put his head down solemnly and I walked around a bit, touching his skin gently, telling him how pretty and helpless he looked. He shifted, and struggled uselessly, then lifted his head to me and looked at me with his teeth clenched, saying "You have to let me go. Don't do this to me."
I leaned down and held his face in my hands, putting my lips close to his, licking them gently. "Kiss me goodbye, my tortured slave." He shut his eyes and leaned forward to kiss me, hungry, passionate, as if to seduce me with his mouth and tongue. This kiss was long, desperate, and when I broke from it he was breathing hard.
His eyes were pleading, yet strong. "I'm not afraid to die," he said softly.
He always knew the things to say. He was begging, yet he was strong. He was submitting, but he was still powerful. He amazed me.
We had played these execution scenes before so I didn't need to give him any instruction. He was to pretend he had about three minutes left to live, locked in some airtight chamber or given some poisonous gas, and he was to struggle yet remain brave until the moment I came to save him from his fate.
And he really knew how to play it. Perfectly, yet differently every time. The way he pulled at the handcuffs, letting them cut into his wrists as if it didn't matter,. The way he threw his head back to breathe with such pained difficulty, the way he looked at me through wet bangs with desperation, his lashes damp with tears.
I felt so close to orgasm, but it was a different sort of satisfaction. I just watched, emotionless, as his struggles became weaker and his breathing more labored.
Then it hit me, at once, it was like a sensual overload, like an orgasm but of the mind. I shivered, I felt a cold sweat on my body and suddenly I wanted to cry, I thought, "God, what am I doing to him?" I unfastened him quickly and slid into his arms, shaking, telling him I was sorry. He laughed softly into my ear and told me it was okay, that he was acting, and that I needn't feel bad.
But feeling bad makes me feel better, so I spent some time crying, letting him reassure me. We lay down in the bed together and eventually fell asleep after I had sufficient reassurance.
Waking up the next morning I felt a different kind of exhaustion. It's impossible to explain how much dom headspace rips the energy right out of you. Sometimes it takes me days to recover.
"What do you miss most?" TikvaWolf.com
text reads:
Nora: "I'm going to kiss so many people when this is over! What kinds of gatherings do you miss most? Potlucks? Dancing? Cuddle piles?"
Kim: "Consensual violence."
Nora: "What??"
Kim: "I have a LOT of pent up aggression from the past year, so when all this is over, my first plans will involve boxing, wrestling, and mosh pits."
I'm so happy to be his guard dog! I'll protect him from everything, INCLUDING his bad emotions! So if he's sad, I'll help him. If he's unmotivated, I'll help him. If he's angry, I'll help him by being his punching bag! ^w I'm going to be the most perfect guard dog, and that's a promise! ~ Nurse Helena {adn please don't worry! It's all consensual}
What is one thing that someone has done/said either to you or in general that aroused you the most?
That’s a fun question. So, I’m kind of super open now a’days about having a murder kink. I’ve been intrigued by horror and true crime my whole life and it’s slithered into my sex life to play out murder roleplay scenes. However, years before I acknowledged this kink, my ex made a really hot comment of the sort.
He lives in Scotland and this was during my first visit so I had never met him, although we’d been dating for months long-distance. My friend in America told me I had to check in with her once I was safely in Scotland with him. After hours together, I realized I never called to let her know I was safe and she had left a lot of calls/messages on my cell.
“Oh, man,” I said, “Jen’s worried. I better call her so she doesn’t think you’re plotting to murder me or something.”
He grabbed me by my throat and pinned me against the wall, growling in my ear, “Maybe I am…”
