jesus…ur skin looks like its peeling off…

it has been years since someone has seen me completely naked…i am diligent, i only show small potions of flesh…unscarred to those who do not understand my fetish, scared to he who plays beautifully with my skin. even he has never seen me completely naked…barred and soul trembling…he had asked me once to strip down for me…but that is the one thing that he has never broken me of…i know he craves it, to see me at my most vulnerable….flesh trembling and aching for his touch…goose bumps on my flesh, fine hair on my back standing at attention testing the air that swirls around our bodies…

it is frightening that he has seen parts of my body that most women hide from their lovers…the back of my knees, where he spent hours just exploring them with his tongue and fingers; the curve of my hip…that entranced him for a few days…he was enamored by my jutting out hipbone as i laid down across the table; the webbing between of my feet…the delicate torture he put me through with his teeth and matches drove me to madness.

i come to him in disjointed pieces…he asks for something specific the night before, and i deliver it when i come upon him. there have been times where he has tried to slide his fingers into the taunt vinyl that hides my body from his touch, but safe words protect me from his inquisitive fingers.

my family does not understand my love for flesh and pain…scabs have always resulted in scars on my body…i am demented…i have picked scabs and eaten the hard flesh off my skin in front of my brothers…they do not understand it…even he does not understand why i never heal completely. hard flesh, loose skin, nails, mud, scabs, chalk, paper, rubber, oil, flowers, grass, glass…i have ingested it all with relish…

today, my mother actually screamed out loud in horror as i presented her my back to zip up a dress i was trying out in a boutique…she screamed out loud…loud enough to have this plump blond sales associate run to the change room to check on us. even she stood and watched me in horror…i have forgotten that my body is something that one has to get used to. the criss-cross raised scars on my back, coupled with the burn marks and fresh razor scars and the blackened bruises make for a beautiful composition…but many do not understand this performance art on my skin. the blond plump one only uttered one word before she turned away, ‘jesus’…my mother trembled and sank to the floor.

i have lived under the same roof for the past twenty five years, my parents have seen me through my worst…the damage that he inflicts is just a fraction of what exists on my body…i was scared way before he came into my life. that night i spent my night back in my box…i thought i had escaped this prison five years ago…but here i am again. dr. patodia is a strange man, he reminds me of one of my brother’s best friend, the only one i wanted to fuck so desperately. by and by i find that i would really like it if dr. patodia flipped me over on his mahogany desk, hook my legs over his shoulders and fuck me… i sit in the deep red chair at his desk and drool over his taunt muscular body, his eyes on my heaving breasts as he tries to fumble through the psychiatric questions that he has all lined up for me.

i usually only wear my supportive corsets when i visit him, with my buttoned down shirt stretched against my naked chest, gaping holes between the buttons…i see the way he looks at me, and yet he is the best psychiatrist i have ever been to. his questions are quick, precise and probing…like my scalpels…he gives me the opportunity to talk to him in my own terms. he knows my history with my fetishes…he has in turn guided me to less destructive and ultimately more creative outlets…i started writing again because dr. patodia thought it would help me verbalize my inner demons…though he has never asked me to exorcise them.

rituals may make you late for work…be wary…

every time i say this is the last time…but as i pick at my old scabs, i wince with an audible moan of pleasure. i am back here again, sitting splayed legged on the small wall of my white porcelain tub, my legs draped in searing hot water…i am back here again willing and needing to be healed. i have too much that has passed between this porcelain and my body…these tiles have seen me at my worst and vulnerable…singing power ballads in the shower to me huddled in a ball scrubbing at my skin to the point of rawness…

the scabs heal slowly…they would never scar my skin but like a twisted child i pick at them with surgical precision, forcing them to imprint on my body like the riddling of shrapnel wounds…my blades sharpened to the point that they could cut air with a whiz. slowly i slide my favorite blade…Teflon coated (so nothing sticks to it) surgical stainless steel…under the purplish blue scab on my shin and flick it off with glee. dead and new skin rips up…straining to hold the plug at bay, bright red blood balling up at the upper left corner of the two inch scab…mmmm…god i love bright blood running down my skin.

leaning forward i ease my left bleeding shin into the boiling water…i wince at the sudden hit of pins in my cut, but i move down more, sitting waist deep in the searing water. red spider webs dissipate from my leg…floating in desecrating patterns from my shin…it looks like i dropped a blob of oil paint in water…beautiful swirling patterns are forming around my raised knee…circling it like a ring paying homage to my blackened knee…i feel spasms run up my leg as the pins circle around to my thigh…

its locked…my leg muscles have rejected the scab and it floats in the water like a dead cockroach. i almost expect it to start scuttling about in the water angry at my interruption of its daily Monday morning bath…now begins the ritual.

i need no light, nor do i need patterns to guide me through my ritual carving. the scars on my body pay enough tribute to my deviated mind…all i have to do is cut slightly deeper this time to plow through the scar tissue…cut cut cut….god…the hot water just furthers the bliss of a fresh cut…pins stab into my legs as i moan low and guttural from the bottom of my belly…

euphoric and blessed for the day…i apply shampoo to my dry bone straight hair and dunk my head backwards into the red water around my body…foam melts into pink cascades as it blends in the porcelain vat of my sins.

i have cleansed for the day, i soap up my body and brush it raw with my skin files…grained like sand paper, they leave little tell tale signs of rawness on my skin. having completed my ablutions, i rinse off and dress for the day. i need no bandages…the cold sting of the artic blast sends delicious lines of scalpels into my flesh…i remind myself to walk outside for lunch today, as i rush off to catch the metro to work…i can not afford to be late, i might be a sinner but i always come on time.

blood on carpet…vinegar does nothing…

i jumped out of bed early this morning ready for my meeting, strode into our hallway only to thud onto out carpeted hallway in horror…why is it only the beautiful who are struck so violently?  my heart in knots i have been clutching at the cordless since morning, trying to make sense of it all. i feel like in moving in a haze, mind clouded with a marshmallow fluff that i am trying so hard to slop away with my shaking fingers. i feel disjointed, my limbs in suspension and pulled around helter-skelter like a marionette…i am a doll running on the strings that i have always fallen back on…

 its hard to see him like that…vulnerable and sickly with tubes pumping life into him…ventilators pushing stale oxygen into the lungs that have always held a kind word or a complement for any who crossed his path…his parched dry lips crackle like paper, i have to look away to remember the soft easy smile that always greeted me as i pulled up to their home…he has nursed the people i love with my heart back from deaths door…and now i weep to stand at a cross roads. 

i am closed…i have nothing left to offer, my tear ducts are dry, only salt lines my face…i stand behind glass walls with numbed skin and unanswered prayers…

my best thinking i do on the train…

i saw him in the corner of my left eye, his back to me…on the last metro train of the night. i knew from the way his body slouched, fingers working furiously that he was getting off in the biggest way. he looked like he was fourteen with his red tie thrown over his rolled forward shoulders and his backpack over his lap…trying desperately to hide the intense hard on he was stroking. now i have no issue with any man or woman getting off, but it seemed ridiculous to have this young ‘man’ jerk off on the train without being entertained myself. say what you want…i’m a dirty bitch, but i wasn’t going to waste something so rare as an exposed, vulnerable and horny pervert…so blatant…on the train.

five stops to go…i knew exactly what i was doing as i slowly slid into the seat across this young man and without as much as a single glance at him and pulled my skirt to my thighs exposing my chocolate stockings. i heard his gasp as he caught sight of my bright red panties through the crotch of my stockings. my fingers touched my panties…and i started with a slow stroking rhythm with my index finger. four stops to go…determined not to look at him…i slowly increased the pressure on my panties…working the rhythm with two fingers as i stroked myself a little more furiously…i heard his breathing pattern change. he was speeding up…so close to his peak, but i wasn’t going to have him come so easily. three stops to go…what is the point of putting on a show, if your viewer can not last as long as the performer? exhibitionism can only get you off so far, i find it more of a turn on when the ‘other’ comes violently…

 i crossed my legs, blocking his view as i slide my free hand to my hip and gripped the hard seat to my left…moaning slowly i uncrossed my legs and braced my hips with my free hand in the space between my legs. two more stops to go…white knuckled i lifted my ass off the seat slightly as i fingered myself hard…giving him a full view of my damp red panties and my fingers sliding into my engorged pussy…straining against the taunt stockings. one final stop to go…his breath came in gasps and pants as he hit his climax..the smell of sex hit my nostrils like a olfactory bomb…instinctively i licked my lips.

the show complete and my stop finally here, i stood up, smoothed out my skirt and as the chimes rang…i walked towards the doors and whispered..next time i won’t wear any panties…

i always make it home for curfew…

i woke up in a cold sweat today…the clammy hand on my back had been digging into my ribs displacing organs as he reached in deeper and deeper into my skin. its been sometime since i have screamed out in bed, so long that i can not for the life of me remember what i had called out…strange things have been coming an settling at the foot of my chambers recently, creeping about and catcalling as i strip for bed. it has changed, the need to lie next to a warm body… it has dissipated into something more intense…more alive and pulsing under my skin. i am alive with  only the memory created by my mind’s eye, limbs entwined and fingers slicked with blood…it keeps me alive and sane…

i miss him…my lower sensibilities ache for his presence, his filthy commands and hysterical claws in my thighs. is it wrong to want so badly? this created figment tortures me so, black pools reflect my face back to hazel ones, as he stares into my contorted face…tongue snaking out to slick back a gleaming razor. like an artist he is meticulous in his precision, though he lacks in the delicate skill of pulling my skin taunt as he carves. i always leave with gnashes where recognizable patterns should have been, my skin too destroyed to heal properly as i limp home. it is to be a continuous masterpiece adorning my body…it will take ages to complete for i have yet to learn the Herculean magic trick of displacing my mind from my flesh.

i call out in agony too loudly, and flustered he refuses to continue further with the maiming. he wants perfect silence…pin drop silence…he claims he needs to concentrate on his technique. he does not breath in when he raises his crusty blades above his head to my suspended thighs, but like a failed mannequin i shiver as the pressed notched blade cuts into my alcohol soaked skin…

he has given up for tonight, and i have been thrown out to the street, once again. i must have aggravated him with my involuntary twitching…cause i’m fucking filthy, bloody and ragged up lying on my back in a back alley of the city…i  know i look like i have been raped…my dress balled up in a corner, blood sliding down the cuts on my thighs…my black panties ripped and tattered around my knees because he didn’t even bother to dress me up again…

i realize i don’t even have my phone as i wince my way to the metro station…the looks i get are hilarious, whispers follow me as i stand at the platform in a ripped up aqua dress and no shoes…dried blood on my arms and down the hem of my dress. i know if i sit down i’m going to pass out, so i stand by the tube door swaying to the clack clack of the tracks. i have to be home in ten minutes…my curfew is running out.

my Russians fuel vices with creditcard debt…

most nights i sit still in my room, slowly rocking my body to a dull sleep. its become habit for me to often stay awake to the point of numbness and then pass out…sleep often brings dreams i tremble to behold. they unfold in my mind…sycophantic plays of bodies wrapped in slick papers, dripping blushes that travel down exposed skin in waves of crimson and purple. i fathom these creations in the day during my mind numbing processes of cut and paste cut and paste, as i pull together money from hysterical Russian perverts to fuel their vices. their heavy breathing, and flirtatious behavior does wonders for my craving ego, but i know that there is a line i will never be able to cross. this realization frightens me, for i fear that this single hesitation is being chipped away by the hand that slips further and further into the honey pot of vice…

slick and slithering shadows move in conjunction to a heavy bass beat in my mind…the whining of a low fluttering gale pushes together notes that explode into jumbled madness…throbbing migraines result as i bang my head against the keyboard. i have needed to expunge this chaos in my mind since i could sit still, but shame and fear has always held me back…properly breed and cultured lasses have no reason to be fidgeting in class, writhing in anticipation for the next ruler to smash down on their fingers. violence has always bought me pleasure, pleasure to the point where a thorough beating would have me whispering for more…

fuel and sustenance are all that i need. the madness i can easily provide, so much so that some have walked away shaking their head in disbelief. as the circle grows smaller and tighter my walls have grown higher and deeper in width, they engulf my frame as i strain to look past the creations of my psyche. few have ever tried to jump past the engulfing trenches and scale these false walls…many give up in the first few minutes of conversation with me. the dilated pupils, pursed lips and clicking tongue is a face that i know to well, for i have seen it on the faces of exhibitionists and introverts alike.

i do not know what drives me to these dreams. fantasies eager and twisted play out in my mind, disgusting things done by me…they make me tingle as i explain to my Russian roster that they will eventually get all their money. i have been known to stop mid sentence, glance to the floor and whisper sexually charged exploits to myself…its a guided tour and i know all the happening and dirty little places. places you want to go to…to be seen, heard, fondled, groped, ripped, stretched, slammed, mounted and when you finally are too dirty to enjoy, spit out. you will come back begging for more torture…this i know because i always do.