I feel dark today.

I woke with images of women and men and me and Master and all sorts of contorted acts of sexual deviance. Those random mental flashes continued as I drove my friend to her belly dance workshop and continued to haunt me on my quiet trip home. Even as engaged in my daily exercises, my body stretched out on the floor, pulling my torso up with my still weak abdominal muscles, I could not stop my thoughts from wandering down the forbidden highway.

My forbidden highway is that place, located deep within my neurological caves where I store hundreds of stories and fantasies and where I bring to life real and entirely fictional images of my lustful desires. It is that place where I covet my most sexually gratifying and yet utterly despicable thoughts and today, even now as I type, I can not pull myself from those dirty mental ditches.

The stories, the brightly coloured graphic pictures that flood me come in waves with no real direction or influence.; they simply come. For instance, this little infusion of lust just bombarded me without me even having a chance to stop it or know what inspired it to surface.

She is not permitted to speak and in the beginning at least she is blindfolded. She has no idea who has come for a visit, some might be people she has met others complete strangers to her. We have dinner, we talk about the newly acquired “art” but she is ignored otherwise.  After dinner we move into the recreation room where we sit and this is when we begin to play. Suddenly the art is being teased, taunted, tormented. She is being pinched, pulled, bitten. Women and men are using her, stretching her body, bending her body, fucking her body with cocks, fingers, toys, tools – anything. There is cum on her, in her, sprayed across her face and breasts. Women have forced her mouth into their cunts, smacked her face for not making them cum, stuffed fists into her holes to show her she is nothing but an object.  

The evening is long. We take a break, leaving her heaving and gasping, exhausted and stretched. We tend to dessert, some tea and coffee. We converse as though we had, only moments ago not been engaging in brutal sexual exchanges but rather a discussion on Mozart. After an hour passes and we have settled our stomachs and lazily laughed we return our attention to the art in the room: the cum coloured, pink fleshed, used bitch and with as much vigour as before we play again and again and again until night turns to day. 

When everyone has had enough, we say goodbye to our guests, well all except one or two. Before the last remaining invites leave, we present them with a gift, our art. With leash in hand, we place the leather into our friends grasp and watch as they take the package to their car, knowing it will be used thoroughly for an entire week before being returned to us. 

Her body is exposed, entirely naked and trembling most likely from both the chill in the room and my gaze. I am not her friend nor is she mine. I am not her lover although I will use her body to please me, satisfy me and I will experience every inch of her flesh. She does not love me, she might very well not even like me at that particular moment and neither is important. I require nothing of her but her flesh, her internal turmoil and her obedience.  

I hurt her. I strike her ass, her thighs, her calves. I twist her nipples and sharply engulf her cunt lips with my teeth. I tug, I snarl, I feast from her tormented pleas and desperate cries. Her body aches as I claw at her sides, across her stomach  only to pull from her and with an unexpected force allow my palms to assault her breasts leaving a display of brightly coloured hand prints against her pale canvas. 

Her tears stain her already marked tits and I can not help but laugh with decadence as my fingers invade her cunt. She fights me, trying to press her thighs together knowing full well that will never happen. I violate her not by forcing my hand into her tight hole but rather by bringing her to an exhaustive orgasm. I know she is spent yet I care little about her begging and continue to fist her.  I want more; I want her nearing unconsciousness and once I finally achieve my goal I pop my hand from her spasming snatch, using her face and hair to wipe her juices off of me. 

I know I could do more. I know I want to and yet I stop for now it is I who feels the gaze of a predator and this time those eyes are on me. Slowly I turn finding my smile matched by Masters. He needn’t speak a word, I know what he is thinking, I feel his arousal without so much as feeling his touch. Still I know I must stop, it is important not to break ones toys and so with one last act of vile perversion I spit in her face, watching my saliva drip down her nose onto her lips then I turn, lowering my body to all fours, crawling to Master, hoping, desperately hoping he will push my mouth onto his cock and throat cunt fuck the piss out of me.