Love Letter to a Psychopath

One day a good online friend who happens to be a very deep masochist told me that she was having great difficulty sleeping, due to stress. She claimed that my stories helped her to fall asleep and asked me if would I please write her a bedtime story. I was charmed by the request and the following is what I sent her, later that day.

The context of this tale is that it is a letter being written by a masochistic and submissive woman to a lover she has not yet met. Both individuals are deeply into S&M, he loves hurting women very badly; she loves the intense and painful physical abuse. They both like the edgy psychological aspects of this sort of play, too. He’s asked her to write to him how she imagines a first meeting, and especially, how she will react inside to everything that happens and this is her attempt at doing so.

This is one of my first stories. It was actually prompted by an old flame (although at the time he was a new flame) who wanted to see me put into words some of the things we constantly chatted about. It’s a lot less smooth than many of my stories, as it was originally meant as something private (this guy loved to give me homework writing assignments).

Dear X,

You want to know how it might be for me if we really did meet in person someday? OK, I can imagine this. I meet you in my hotel’s bar and am very nervous, scared shitless that I’ve made a really big mistake, and feeling super shy too, because I like you so much. (Of course I like you so much, otherwise, why would I be meeting you, silly?) I’ll have the usual insecure woman fears: that you won’t find me attractive enough to want to beat up let alone fuck. Except I’d look fine. I’d wear something uncomplicated: probably a light sexy summer dress and sandals that made my legs look even longer than they already are. Probably simple white cotton panties on underneath the dress (although I may choose a more “interesting” pair, just to hear you laugh when you see them), and nothing else. Certainly no bra. I’m not sure how I’d do my hair – I don’t style that mop, ever, but I might pin or clip a bit of it out of my face. I’d probably wear very light makeup: little darkness around my e! yes, tiny amount of color on cheeks and clear gloss on lips. I don’t do fingernails or toenails either: they’d be natural and short. The only thing I get extravagant on appearance wise is perfume or oils: I’m into smells, and I’d mix two or three of my favorite scents on my body, mostly for myself – the smells would turn me on and remind me of other special occasions, thus making me feel sexier and act sexier around you. If you were to come up behind me in the bar and rub yourself against me or touch me unexpectedly, I’d probably gasp and jump a couple of feet in the air, I’d be so wound up, my stomach churning with the beating of butterfly wings. Your taking an attitude toward me that was direct, crude (I think), charming, relaxing, funny, teasing, and aggressive, would be just what I’d need to relax with. Could you really do that though? Or would you be shy, too? I’d be searching your face all that time. Searching your eyes, looking for anything off or wrong. I’d have my perception wide open, not just using eyes, but feeling you too. The alcohol would help to relax me, but it would also relax my guard. Which is probably what I’d really need to do to enjoy this evening.

If you were crude in person, I’d be blushing all over the place. I’d respond to you, but after long pauses. And that would not necessarily help to relax me! I’d already be really turned on by the time I got to the bar, and when, as I imagine you would, you did the act(s) that would establish a pecking order (a.k.a. a power dynamic) between us, I’d believe I’d be nearly swooning in lust. I’d love the feeling of powerlessness it would give me and love-hate the humiliation, particularly if people happened to be watching. If you chose to stick your finger in my mouth I hope you’d ask me to suck it as if it were your cock. That would be hot, and very, very humiliating. (Now that I’ve told you I want this, I bet you won’t do it. I know your type!)

I’d also be telling you in the bar a great deal about how scared I was. I wonder what you’d say in response to that? Would you be reassuring or would you attempt to scare me even more? Oh and you know, I’d probably be too shy to ask you up to the room or I’d forget to do it if I got a little drunk. If I didn’t bring that up, I wonder how or if you would? One thing you will not have to worry about from me, however, is cold feet. I have never backed down from anything I’ve set my heart on doing and don’t intend to start. But if I sensed something was weird or wrong about you, I’d persist at getting answers about it, I’d ask question after question until I got to the bottom of whatever it was that felt “off” to me.

But wait, damn it, even if I didn’t get to the bottom of whatever was bugging me, I wouldn’t be able to stop the thing then and there, tell you to go home, that I wasn’t going to play along. I’d never forgive myself if I did. I’d always wonder, “What if I hadn’t been such a little chicken?” Lost opportunities are a big deal to me: I HATE them. I try not to cause too many – enough happen of their own accord. I’d also fear that after something like that, were I ever able to convince you to give me another chance, you’d likely be a lot harsher with me than you would have that first time, because you’d be pissed at the earlier rejection. Is this true? In the elevator up to my hotel room, I imagine all sorts of perverted stuff. Mmm, oh yes! If you were to do something like, say, slap me hard or slam me up against a wall, I’d be so frightened and so hot from the fear and from my first realization of your strength and what I’ve brought upon myself that any last misgiving, any last remaining piece of sanity telling me I really might not like some of what is to come, would fly entirely out of my head. Hey, even if you don’t think of the possibilities of an empty elevator when the time comes, I’ll pull you back if you start to enter a car that other people are in, and say meekly “I’d rather be alone with you, honey.” That would remind you, I hope! And anyone who happened to overhear me would think, “Aww! Look at the two lovebirds! She wants to be alone with him in the elevator so they can kiss and maybe fondle each other.” If they only knew…

I would probably try at some point in the evening to tell you to go away in a joking manner, although I don’t know if it would be in the elevator or not. I’d just want to spring it on you and see how you responded. I might even try to be real serious when I said it. But you know, if you later slammed me into the wall of that elevator, and then asked me, laughingly, “What about now? Want me to leave?” I’d probably respond with a glazed look and “omygod, omygod, omygod!” You’d probably have to ask the question a second time to drag the “no, don’t leave” out of my spaced-out brain. Have you any IDEA of how much that would turn me on? I’d really blush if you called me a cunt and a slut after that, as I’d know how absolutely true those labels were right at that moment. I would know that it’s my cunt and ONLY my cunt that has gotten me into the amazingly stupid and dangerous situation of going up to my hotel room with someone I have met in person just an hour or so ago and whom I know for an absolute certainty is going to hurt me very bad in unpredictable ways. I’d probably shudder a little in both horror and shame at the enormity of what I’d done in placing myself in your hands, but then my cunt would take over the thinking again.

Maybe you’d march me down the hall with a firm grip on the back of my neck, so I couldn’t get away if I had last minute misgivings. That wouldn’t be necessary you know. There isn’t a chance in hell I’d back out of things at this steamy point. But it would be sexy to be maneuvered in that way. As much as it would be embarrassing to feel you groping my ass as I tried to get the damn door open (it would be stubborn – I just know it would). I’d be thinking about all those little spyholes in the doors all around us and the people that might be at them having been alerted by the sound of our talking or laughing in the hall. I’d probably fumble and drop the keycard. Oh shit! And then I’d have to bend over and pick it up! Now tell me something. Just why, in my fantasy, are you giggling as you grope my ass? Why couldn’t you grope, um, strong and silently, like a manly man? The giggling would probably make me think of my younger brother, who is also a giggler. YUCK! YUCK! YUCK! Ok, I think I get it: you would be giggling because you’d want to rub my situation into me–make sure I “got” the concept that at this moment I was merely your fucktoy, and that my desires about anything didn’t matter in the least.

You know, once I got that silly door open, I still might consider slipping in quickly and slamming it in your face, just to see if I could – to see if I was quick enough. I know you are quick, but I wonder if I could catch you off guard? I wonder if it would make what you did to me later worse?

What would happen after we got in my room? Well, I love the idea of your calming me down once we get in, laying by my side on the bed and holding me, perhaps turning out all the lights. Wait, scratch that. All the lights off scares me because I wouldn’t be able to see you: keep my eye on you. I don’t know if I’d follow along and relax, however. If I got to feeling safe, I’d start also to feel aggressive and playful. I might try to arouse you while we were talking by bumping my ass against you if I had my back to you or squirming against you if it were my front. Maybe I’d try to initiate a wrestling match with you right there, in the dark. Or kiss you. Have you thought of these possibilities? I like to be a little unpredictable and if I were drunk to boot, I’d be a lot more likely to try something like that. Again, I’d be doing so not just because it’d be fun as hell but because I’d be very interested in your response. A sci-en-ti-fic experiment! Tee-hee!

I’m thinking now about the possibility of, after our friendly and gentling talk, you saying, “it’s time” and then your duct-taping my hands together and then tying me to something. I am imagining that you’ve got me a little stoned and sat me down on the cold tiled floor of the bathroom and tied my hands above me to the metal towel rail. Should that happen, as soon as you were no longer in the room to distract me, my stoned imagination would, in an instant, create a vast paranoid plot about how you asked me once if I had ever seen the movie _Strange Days_ so that the scene of the girl who was raped and killed in exactly the position I now found myself in would come to my mind. In my paranoid fantasy, which I would be convinced was the truth, you wouldn’t be doing this as a mindfuck, but because you really were a totally sick psychopathic serial killer and you intended to kill me just like that girl was killed in the movie – except without the futuristic VR paraphernalia.

While bound, I’d be listening so closely for your return, and my loony-tunes head would make up details about how it would be: you’d come back in wearing one of those black ski masks and a pair of black gloves, and I’d start gibbering in fear at the sight of you and trying to get away from your hands, particularly when I saw the knife. Oh Jesus, I’ve actually managed to scare myself now! When you eventually did come back, you’d probably hear me start to beg you immediately not to kill me. I might have even worked myself up into crying by that time. Weed affects me in powerful ways. I don’t think I should be stoned the first time I meet with you, unless you want this to be a lot more intense for me that we were originally planning.

At any rate, if you think you can handle a girl totally zonked out on fear before you’ve even done anything to her, then be my guest and give me some weed. I love love love mindfucks, not knowing what is real or not, even if it scares me shitless. Just expect a BIG reaction, should I smoke, Ok? Ok.

(You know I’ll try to get loose while you’re gone? Sure you do. A woman’s gotta test and if you’ve fucked up the tying I will WANT to be free and get away from you. I’m not going into details, but I recommend you expect it, expect me to have scoped out the room and maybe even prepared something to help me. Eek, I should NOT be telling you this! This isn’t me betraying my best interests, it’s my pussy. )

So. You come in, as I picture it, not in a silly ski mask and gloves but definitely as a different man than the one that left, and just lay into me…with my hands either tied behind my back or tied to something, or both. Where would you hit me? How long would it last? Would there be blood? Would you stop for a while and then start again? What would you say to me as you did it and how would you say it? Could I really not convince you to lighten up, if it was really hurting me and terrifying me beyond reason? Would my pleading really go on deaf ears? Wouldn’t you feel the least bit guilty over how much pain I was in?

I imagine myself, tied in the bathroom or wherever, my hands useless, my eyes shut in fear, and then you coming in. Maybe saying, “Open your eyes, bitch!” And I’d look up at you and see the change: the different expression on your face, maybe you’d be holding your body differently too. Moment of truth time. I imagine that you give me a long moment to savor it, to gaze up at you and anticipate what’s going to happen in a few seconds. I think that the expression on my face at that moment would be a strange one: I’d be staring at you, not so much with my standard pervy intense look in my eyes (although it would be there a little), nor a look of terror – not yet anyway, unless the stoned paranoia had taken over my brain – nor pleading with you not to go through with this, but as one human being to another, just a very honest look of acceptance of whatever is to come.

I can’t imagine the details of what would come then – my mind goes blank when I try to picture this scene. I’ve never experienced anything like this before, that I clearly remember, anyway. I simply imagine it will hurt a lot, and the impacts shock me, and that I’ll probably start to cry pretty early into the whole thing. It wouldn’t just be the pain that would make me cry, but the surprising SHOCK of being hit in this way. Of me being hit! A part of my mind would be utterly amazed that this could happen. And if it occurred to me that I was being hit by somebody who liked me very much, the daddy connection might be made, the memories start to boil up, the waterworks would begin if they hadn’t already, and maybe I’d regress. Should that happen, I will find a way to tell you that I’m back there, at age four or so, so you’ll understand my reactions better. It’s not real easy for me to talk when that happens to me, but I’ll prep myself beforehand. I will definitely want you to kno! w if the little girl in me takes over my brain: it’ll increase the intensity between us considerably.

It bothers me a little that I can’t vividly picture the details of being beaten up, but in some ways I like that. It means that what happens will be pretty unexpected, will come as a surprise. That will be so thrilling. That you can do this sort of thing with a free conscience is still so amazing to me. I didn’t think guys like you existed. I am so lucky to have met you. Well, I’m at the scariest part of the imagined scenario now: the anal rape. The other night I was fantasizing about resisting you then. I don’t think I had given much thought to what you would have done to me before that moment. But contrary to that, I would probably not resist much at all. I would instinctively try to get you out of me, of course, as it would hurt so bad, I’d do anything to stop it, but it wouldn’t take much by then to beat me into passivity. This kind of pain really scares me. A couple of times in my life I have tried to take something large up my ass to please a partner, but each one has always pulled out of me when he hears me screaming that loudly and desperately. I just hope I pass out during the worst of it. I love, however, the image of you beating me into stillness, and then assfucking me like I was some passive blowup doll, just an object to be used for your pleasure. I love objectification, being treated as if my mind and emotions and existence do! not matter: only my body’s orifices and the ways in which they pleasure you matters. It’s precisely right: the way I’ve always wanted and deserved to be treated. Mmmmm! I really am a self-destructive little bitch, when I want to be!

Despite the distraction of the pain, I’d also be thinking hard about the rape-penetration aspect of the assfuck, how outrageous and humiliating it is to be entered in this way and yet helpless to prevent it. The kink of rape for me is that I was taught, as most women are that my body belongs to ME, and that NO man can use it or come inside it unless I give him express and explicit permission, and even then, if I withdraw permission, he must vacate my orifices immediately. So, someone ramming himself up the most shameful and taboo of my holes without my desiring him to do so (I won’t be interested in more pain, let alone worse pain, at that time) and doing something up there so shockingly and vilely painful just to arouse himself and bring himself off is so incredibly perverse that it takes my breath away. Your pleasure – my pain. My knowledge of your pleasure while I’m screaming my head off. Your knowledge of my pain as you get closer and closer to orgasm. Each feeding and feeding off each other. The hottest combination possible in the universe, I think. We both want the same thing, but from entirely opposite ends of the experience, and my end–unfortunately for me, but that’s how it works – is one where I REALLY WON’T WANT what you’re doing when you’re doing it to me. Yet I would willingly place myself in a position where I would have to suffer through it, without any choice, without any ability to control it or stop it. Because it is right, because it’s where I belong. Just as you belong over me, taking whatever you want and doing whatever pleases you. This is really a power-energy dynamic that I’m describing, isn’t it? It isn’t just sexual to me, it feels primordial.

When you finally pulled out of me, I’d be in such an intense state of mind and body. Feeling such pain everywhere, but especially in my ass, yet relieved that it has let up a little, that you were finally done hurting me there. Feeling so INTENSELY submissive to you. I will feel everywhere in my body and mind that you own me at that moment. I will feel emotionally distraught too, from the horror of the pain, and maybe be a little spaced out from the beating. I might also still be emotionally back at age four or five, hard to say. Undoubtedly there will be tears, and I will be making little whining and whimpering noises. I’ll hear you when you order me to get my mouth on your cock and I will obey as fast as I can, not just because I fear you, but because I will be so under a submissive spell that doing anything else would be impossible to consider. If my mind was working well enough I’d try to use a little technique with you and not just be a passive open orifice. I’d expect ! you to force me all the way on it, very deep, and I’d expect it to be uncomfortable. I’d also be intensely humiliated and maybe a little sickened by having to lick and suck your cock after where it’s been. (I find it hard even to type this sort of thing.) I wouldn’t think you were God but I would be in pretty deep awe of you at that time, and wanting, wanting, WANTING to please you with every part of me.

When you came, I’d groan or make other noises around your width, not because I was having an orgasm but because I’d feel so intensely used in that moment. I’d be so conscious of being the receptacle of your pleasure. I don’t know quite how I would feel afterwards. I might want to lay with you on the bed just holding you softly in my mouth while I masturbated myself. You’d get to feel me scream around your cock again. Or maybe I’d be too weak or achy to masturbate (hard to imagine though) and just want to hold you there in my mouth for awhile while you placed your hand on my head and we floated off to heaven. A little bringing down, a little softness, a little aftercare would really help me after an experience that brutal and new and particularly if I had regressed for part of that time. It’s possible I might be confused afterward about whether you liked me or not. Saying “Oh, poor baby!” over my bruises or injuries would help me a lot, even if you were laughing when you said! it, or exaggerating it. I’d still lap it up.

I wonder, if I held you in my mouth, if you’d want to come again? I’d regret it when it came time for you to leave. I’d probably have given myself at least one day for recuperation afterwards, and would ask if you could spend any time with me the next evening. If you could, it might be fun, if I was in any shape to go somewhere, to go to a place where we could talk, have some dinner, laugh. I expect though that I wouldn’t want to leave the room, and just ask you to come up and we’d do room service if you hadn’t eaten. I wonder if you’d find all the bruises rising on my face and body ugly? Every time I saw them in the mirror, they would be erotic turn-ons for me, as I’d think of what I’d undergone. I’d probably masturbate so much the next day that my hand also fell off. At any rate, I’d want to talk to you sometime after that night about if we should do it again. I can’t say for certain, but I think I would be game. Assuming you had a really good, uncomplicated time that night!

would you want to meet again? Please?

The End

© 2003 Unda. Crucia. Eximius.

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