I live for your fear. (M/F)

“You’re not scary,” she giggled.

The void roiled and spewed. Dark miasma seeped from it, and within it grasping claws and  incorporeal tentacles flailed, offering an eternity of despair. Stars stretched out across infinity; the swirling, cold, deadness of space. Shadows flickered, like firelight in the darkest, dankest cave under the surface of the planet. The press of a billion pounds of stone above; the ear-pounding, deafening clarion of silence. 

“Weakness.” A thousand voices, a thousand tongues, poured scorn on me. 

Should I have been more forcefully? Rude? Demanding? But I didn’t want to scare her away before…

I pushed everything back down, into my chest, the maw of darkness snapping shut as fast as it came, and forced a smile. 

“I’m the one of the scariest men you’re ever going to meet, doll.” 

“You still don’t scare me.” Another giggle.

The void raged and howled in frustration. It strained and flickered, coalescing along my bodies’ skin. It wanted that. To see the light of fear in their eyes, the uncertainty of their fate dangled before them. To flinch at my touch, but lust for my tender caress. I felt the power in my hands, like I was being worn like a glove, wielded by malice incarnate. I flexed my grip, my muscles straining, yearning to grasp, mangle, choke and dominate. The ache in my testicles as the promise of ecstasy arouses me, sending my mind reeling. 

I want you to fear me. 

Images of flayed flesh, purple bruised bodies, Saint Andrew’s crosses with pitiful figures chained to them flash through my mind. 

Fire flickers; wax melts. 

Inspiration, throughout the ages. 

Because if there is one thing humanity has researched, it is the pursuit of pain. And I was there. Read the tomes, learned the arts, ancient tortures and secrets of the flesh. The human body is remarkably resilient, healing wounds that many other species would die from. And I knew just how true that was.

“Maybe you should, doll.” 

She seemed unconvinced. Her tone changed from playful to challenging. 

“You call me doll. What kind of scary person calls people doll?” 

At this, I almost burst out laughing. Was she this naive? My mind flashed again, rent with images of trussed bodies, some bleeding, some bruised. The sound of sobbing filled the air, and somewhere the ominous crackle of electricity buzzed, leaving the air with a sickly ozone taste. Chains and ropes wove around and between the naked forms, stringing them up, some upright, others by legs or arms. A cacophony of suffering and depravity. 

I squeezed my fist, tight enough to draw blood from my palm. I focused on the pain, and then suddenly my vision folded up,  origami’d into nothing as I returned to reality. 

“I call you doll because that is what you are to me. A toy. A pretty item to play with, to use, and to discard. Or, if I choose to, to break. To hurt. To make suffer.”

She opened her mouth again, but as she did, I felt the darkness creeping up on me. 

I felt the power in the palm of my hand; all I had to do was reach out and take it. I knew the next words out of her mouth wouldn’t satisfy me, and so I let the darkness swallow me, sinking into the depths of depravity. 

I don’t remember what happened next. 

>Thank you for reading! This is a less erotic piece, more focused on the power and fear dynamic between a nice Dom and a bratty sub. Feedback and comments/suggestions welcome!

 

 

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/g8o8f3/i_live_for_your_fear_mf