Since 2024, I’ve been doing erotica readings at the Red Pavilion for my friend Laura Desiree’s Eros Unbound event. Below is a piece I wrote and read for it, based on a real session that made a lasting impression on me.
For me, sessions are these special pockets of liminal space where the experience formed has a huge range. I’ve co-created sessions with subs where it’s been lighthearted and playful. I’ve also co-created sessions which are dark and depraved.
And then there are sessions, such as the one below, where we are both stepping into mystery to encounter an unknown in one another.
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This is the first time we’ve ever met. It is also his first session.
His intake form is a standard mosaic of degradation and desire: sissification, hypno, anal play, forced intox, chastity. The emphasis is on a hollowed-out womanhood, a grotesque caricature of femininity he’s desperate to embody. A one-dimensional uncanny valley.
I don’t like his specific take on femininity, but I can hold space for it and understand it. That’s part of the job.
There’s one part that piques my interest: “In the second act, I want to be snuffed out.” He specifically mentions knife play and rope, and it clicks why he reached out to me.
“All women have pain built in.” Kristin Scott’s line in Fleabag runs through my head and I wonder if this is what it means to be a woman. To be just a body, nothing but a cut-out hole, in such explicit obviousness there is no metaphor needed.
The first hour and a half is spent precisely preparing him up for the second act’s level of intensity. I ritualistically strap him into bondage chair that completely immobilizes his torso, arms, legs, and ankles. Even his fingers are forced open, splayed and useless. His head is held in place, unable to look away from the hypno porn projected and looped against a huge white sheet.
A fucking machine hums beneath the chair, its thick, rubber cock plunging in and out of his exposed hole. Deep strokes pushing back and forth, oiled up and girthy.
I tighten the straps until his skin bulges around the restraints. I pry his mouth open. I pop two weed gummies in, and then slide a popper-soaked mask over his face, forcing him to inhale. He softens in my hands. The hypno on the white sheet starts flashing dumb, rote mantras in bright colors and crude pop lyrics accompany the beat.
You need cock
You want to suck cock
You need to suck cock
Videos of pornstars in the back sucking and fucking big fat cocks. Over and over, flashing.
3…2…1
You need cock
You want to suck cock
You need to suck cock
The sub moans as I slowly turn up the fucking machine and pinch nipple clamps on him; the hypno video transitions to an indoctrination sequence with huge, porno tits covered in oil dripping down slick flesh. His eyes roll up into the back of his head. A collage of asses fills the screen, all of them going up and down and up and down meshing together into one indiscernible writhing wall of meat.
I really love the look in his eyes right now, when it’s glazed over like a dead fish. A little drool drips down the corner of his stupefied mouth and I check the time. One and a half hours in. I slowly turn down the music, and dim the hypno loop and mentally prepare to let myself go. I sink into myself – into a violent, uninhibited state that outside these walls, I have for years tempered and learned to reign in.
The rope is around his neck and I am sitting on top, pulling it tighter. We’re tangled on the ground, a cold plastic sheet underneath us covered in my piss. I’m naked and he’s in cheap pink, Amazon-bought lingerie that is one size too tight over his piggish body. A ripped fishnet body suit layers egregiously under this god awful pepto bismol pink bikini squishing into his bulging, round body. Porky. Grotesque. His face slowly turns red from being choked out by my noose soaked in my piss and spit.
“Squeal bitch” I snarl and slap him hard across the face. He squeals.
“Do you feel like a woman now?” I say, pulling the noose tighter.
He can’t respond, but a pathetic little whistle escapes his lips.
I pull the knife out and cut a new hole in his chest. His skin and fat reminds me of soft cheese. I can’t help but feel good when his body couldn’t resist opening up to me like that. Doughy. Yielding. I press my piss-coated bare foot against the wound. My personal opening, my own space in him.
I can see him about to pass out. This fucking look on his face right now, the dumb eye roll and jaw going slack. Fuck this is it, yea this ugliness is so satisfying. I don’t care if it’s a man or woman or anyone in between or beyond looking this way. Everyone looks exactly the same when losing consciousness. The more he goes dark, the more space he allows me to plunge into my own darkness. We’re in our cave together, just the two of us, at the end of his time at the end of my rope.
His squishy body convulses underneath me. He taps. I loosen. Complete silence.
He marinates in whatever he’s feeling that I now cannot access as both of us slowly come back into reality, back into the dungeon, back to walls lined with paddles and floggers, back to soft grey carpets.
It takes some time for his nerves to settle and for the high to wear off. When he comes down, I clean him up and put a soft blanket over him.
“Did you feel like a woman?” I ask.
He pauses, pulling the blanket closer, “No. It wasn’t what I expected but I’m glad I did it.”
Despite the intensity of the session, the pressing of our bodies, the fluids intermingling…this is the closest I’ve felt to him in the last three hours.
I study him for a second before replying.
“Same.”
