“Write me stories,” she said.
“Write me stories, and I’ll do to you whatever wicked things you do to your heroes.”
So, I wrote.
Tale upon tale flowed from my fingertips to hers. We were a team: I brought her raw materials, she crafted them into encounters. Her standards were simple and constant: Challenge myself. Balance indulgence with torment.
I filled the stories to bursting with my fantasies, page after page iterating over them from every angle. The possibilities lit up my mind constantly. She took plenty of liberties: Sometimes she would do exactly what I wrote, as if following instructions. Other times, I would not understand the connection to my prompt at all, until she would whisper the epiphany to me as her hands kneaded my most sensitive parts.
The result was that I never knew what to expect, never knew what nuanced wickedness my words might have unlocked, could never add in a detail without weighing the probability that I might be designing my own doom. She made it clear I would regret it if I went easy on myself. When I wrote weak stories, didn’t pour myself into them, didn’t give her enough to work with, there would be a consequence every time. Bruises, denial, scars. She would find a way to make me feel paradoxically judged and liberated.
It was intoxicating.
She would give me feedback directly sometimes. I was sore and bound after a long day with her strapon, and she began to slow down excruciatingly as I neared orgasm, eventually explaining:
“You’ve written five stories already, and you conveniently got to come right at the end of each one. So, I’m going to be a good editor and change the ending to this one… and you’re going to be a good scribbler, and not get off for the next three. You should feel lucky. If this were my fantasy, I’d be locking you in a chastity cage right now.”
She enjoyed the ones where I suffered and persevered, but she loved when I wrote of dire fates, and would often reward me with a softening of my self-designed torment, or an even sharper execution of my own damning words; depending on how she decided “reward” should be defined that day. I was addicted to her feedback, and spun her myriad tales where the heroes always fell, lavishly and in lurid detail.
Her whim never ceased to astonish me. I wrote of a sorceress holding a knight in captivity so she could watch her monstrous familiars force themselves on him. She tasked me with determining how to mold out of silicone an exact replica of the cruel demonic phalluses I had described with specious impunity, and once it was completed, she spent three hours methodically working it deep into me, until I wept and pleaded for mercy, verbatim to the words I wrote before. And she concluded with a growl, “Lucky. If this were my fantasy, I’d have a friend here helping me work your mouth right now, too.”
I sometimes tried to be clever, such as when I wrote a tale that included, in full, the rules of the dice game played by the characters. To this day, I do not know if she rigged the dice or if it was fate. After a few rounds of increasingly disastrous throws of the dice—just as it had gone for my character, of course—I had already been reduced to nudity, covered in biting clamps, cuffed, whipped, and edged into a frenzy. She remained fully clothed, gently rolling the dice with a subdued smirk on her lips that did not fade.
The game only swayed against her for a single throw, requiring her to disrobe something. She chose her socks, so she could ball them up and gag me with them. We continued until long after I had written, until she was satisfied, until I had no openings left to violate. “In my fantasy,” she concluded as always, idly playing with her fingers in my mouth, “I wouldn’t bother with the pretense of a game… I’d just use the dice to fuck with your head.”
Eventually, I had explored so much that I began to grope for ideas. Through allegory, metaphor, and exposition, I had laid bare almost everything to her. I had tapped every fear, every point of pride and joy, every weakness. An autobiography in smut, recapitulating my life through kink.
I remember vividly my naïve reflection one day. I can remember thinking as I watched rain drip down my car windshield, driving to see her, “She could pull me apart with mere words. She could build a prison I’d never escape, or describe a fate so terrifying that I’d do anything to avert it. She knows everything there is to know about how I work.”
I dismissed those thoughts at the time, still falling short of imagining the terrible, wonderful uses to which she might put all of that information.
Finally, one day, she told me to write, and I replied:
“I don’t know what to write about.”
She smiled and told me not to worry, to wait a minute; she disappeared to retrieve a bulging envelope, which she immediately handed to me.
It held a collar, a chastity cage, and a small stack of papers full of prose.
When I looked up, she was swaying with her hands clasped behind her, grinning shamelessly.
“Okay,” she said.
“Now you do mine.”
— [gentle-coda](http://gentle-coda.tumblr.com/post/148484922060/stories-of-a-certain-kind)
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/4wauqu/fm_stories_of_a_certain_kind