All rights reserved
London |
  • Instagram - Black Circle
  • Facebook - Black Circle

LETTER N2

 

Dear Lover,

I want to tell you about last night’s dream. Since you’ve left me, my dreams have felt incredibly real. In a way they’ve never felt before.

A beautiful man, At the edge of a cliff, overlooking the ocean. The ocean is all sorts of blues, it reflects the always blue sky. It’s always summer, and it’s always clear. The horizon stretches beyond any world, and with it, so does your imagination. The cliff is pitch black. Like lava that solidified not long ago. There is no life in this cliff, if you count out the man. He is naked and chained to the ground at the edge of this cliff, by his neck, writs, and ankles. His skin is broken, his knees and hands scuffed by the rough black rock, bleeding from wounds continuously drawn by the sharpness of the landscape, the blood creates all sorts of interesting shapes against the dark background. At the edge of this cliff, which is so far off the mainland, when I look side ways I see the whole island’s coast uninterrupted until it finally turns away from me.

I am here chained to the ground, where there is no apparent life besides myself, and those who visit me. I am here chained to the ground, because I fucked someone. Because I had desires and the freedom to satisfy those desires.


Now I don’t have much desire, what about freedom?, well, I find some in allowing my imagination to stretch with the horizon.

I don’t have desires, but I find some comfort knowing I satisfy my visitors’ cravings.

I am here, because before me, here lied the most beautiful man in the world. They too were chained, and they too satisfied many. They were the most beautiful living creature. No matter your likings or your fantasies. They would become it. You would see onto them whatever you needed, and whatever you wanted. I leave him on his knees and hands, facing the sea. The truth is, for me the stunning view from the cliff has no competition for the stunning view of his round perky ass pointing at me and calling me in. He would arch his back. He must have been teasing me. I knee behind him and I push myself into his ass. No need to spit. no need for lube. Yet it feels absolutely amazingly tight. It fit my cock like a glove, and it feels like there is nothing better in the world. No food, nor drink, nor laugh, nor another asshole in the world that could compare to this feeling. I have to control myself from going into full rough mode, and finishing our fuck in 20 seconds. I just hug him. His body is everything I wanted and needed. Texture, temperature, odour, hair, size, perfect, all perfect. I move slightly to adjust my leg, my knee is on top of a sharp rock and it hurt. That slight movement is enough, the sensation overcomes me, and I come inside him. He doesn’t talk, he just moans, in pleasure.

I wonder how other people see them. How is this stunning creature transformed, would they even speak if desired to do so? Could they be any gender?

I come back the next day, this time I flip him on his back and rode his dick, I’ll just say it was out of this world, and I’ll write you a letter another time describing this. This one would be too long otherwise.


The problem is that I come back a third time. I have to have him again. I am not aware that by the third time you fuck them you die, and you kill them. As I dumped my load in his ass I feel faint and my vision goes all blurry. Slowly my vision starts to focus again and the beautiful ocean and horizon become clear again. It took me another 5 seconds to realise I am now chained and that next to me my body lied lifeless. My consciousness must have been transferred to the most beautiful living being in the world. And I pushed out whoever was in here before. I feel different. I have no desires, and libido, no initiative. Then I remember. Queuing behind me there were two other men waiting for me to finish fucking the most beautiful man in the world so they could take their turn. The first men approached the edge and pushed my corpse down the cliff. Did you even notice? I reached for the body too late, and screamed, the man doesn’t seem to notice. He moves me around into the position he wants me in. I tried to resits but my body doesn’t respond.

I am a host in this body without much control over it. I can only ever resist to someones advances if that is part of their fantasy. The man hurts me. He is too big. As you know I never had a problem with girth, but length?, I was never good with it. I wonder if it hurts because of me? Or because he wants to?

Many people fucked me. At some point a woman ride me twice while crying. She confesses she wants to die. She never came back the third day, I wonder if she quit suicide or if she found another way. Surprisingly, people controlled themselves and didn’t come back for the third time. I guess the fear of death surpasses their libido. I think that even if I knew I probably would have done the third time anyway.

At some point you were there, it was your third time. I recognised you, and it felt comforting. You fucked me rough and it was quite painful, I was surprised this was your fantasy. I wonder if it would have been different had you known it was me in there?!

I wonder if at any point another consciousness in here had been visit by a family member, unable to resist the encounter.

You fucked me rough. And you finished. You had just fucked me out of existence, and fucked your way into a curse. All I could hope as I left that beautiful body in that beautiful cliff, with that beautiful view, is that your stay would be short and painless.

But enough with dreams. Hope we can meet again,

Forever yours.

LETTER N7

Dear Lover,

 

This morning I interview for a job. The position is a classic one. As you know, I already did a few jobs like this; but lately I noticed how big of a market there is for it.

 

After a few beginning formalities my future employer asks me if I want to drink something. I ask for some water while I sit on the sofa. He asks then if I’m into series. I think of you and your passion for them, your endless days binge watching. 

 

He asks me if I brought my work equipment. I nod, and take some almond oil out of my bag. He lies down on a table, and tells me to start massaging him, at the same time he turns on the tv and starts watching Spiderman, the movie. He tells me a new one will come out soon, and that he needs to remember the old one, so that when he goes and watches the movies with his mates he will be on top of his game. I don’t care. I just focus on my hands moving on his back, the smell of the almond oil getting warmer.

 

He then turns facing upwards, and while I massage his shoulders I think how easy it would be to choke him. I haven’t told you but the job I’m applying for is as a submissive boy. Master and slave. The pay is quite good, and I’m good at it, all that dance training makes me  good at taking orders, and in enduring some mild physical pain, or sustaining actions and repetitions that I hate. 

But going back to me thinking of choking him, it’s a fun idea, it makes me smile. He looks so powerless is his idea of Dom, and I am so powerful and godly in my Sub ensemble of a jockstrap and striped socks. 

 

When I finish my first audition he turns towards me and smiles, smirky. He tells me then to kneel and start undressing him. When that is done he tells me to start cleaning his socks. I go on my knees, take my top off and look at my future boss’s socks. They are hilarious. I always imagined worshipping some homoerotic representation of a sock: white, with stripes, slightly grey on the bottom as it has been used, probably been worn for a day or two working out in the gym, a sweaty and musky scent coming out of it. 

What I have in front of me is a classic just moved out of my parents house socks. One is orange, one is striped green, different lengths, they smell and taste just like Persil non-bio. While I lick them I can only think about the horribly chemical taste in my mouth, it’s a mix of soap and little cotton fibres that dry my mouth like never before.

 

Since we parted ways, I noticed how many people are interested in power play. Do you think this is just a causality or maybe it has something to do with the fact that because we are missing stability in our life we look for it in our dungeons? 

 

The only thing that keeps me going is turning my face up and looking at him while I do it, he seems to be enjoying it, at intervals he repeats ‘good boy’, softly, without any real power in his voice. I am in control now. I think I might get this job.

 

Hope to kiss you soon,

 

Love.