Porn, Piss and Pieces…


I really need to write a blog, but the muse isn’t biting. This was my third attempt tonight after “My parents, the pod people” and “Grazed Anatomy” about writing conventions that make humans do things they never would, and inspired by an episode on Grey’s Anatomy. Both good blogs, but I couldn’t get past half a page of each. So, stuck as I am, I shall do what I always do, I’ll give you something out my archive of unpublished work. Inspired by Karl’s comment on my bugbear, “bad porn”. I thought I’d find something to celebrate the theme.

Now here is a REALLY BIG WARNING. Especially for those delicate, delicate fangirls that can’t seem to stay away from me and mine, the following story fragment was written for an extreme fetishist publisher. It was going to be a novel (novella really, as porn doesn’t come in big sizes) called “Diaries of an Extremist”, about a ‘real’ dominatrix – i.e. someone who actually dominates rather than a whore who charges men to dominate them exactly the way they like. This was going to be a story where the men actually got treated like trash. I started it on the date you see here (it was going to be date-headed – hence the “Diaries”) and I got exactly two pages done before I decided I really did not want to go here. It still felt too much like serving up man-pleasing porn to me. I wrote another version of it that I might let you see next blog, if I’m still stuck then. At least that one got finished into a short story.

However, THAT REALLY BIG WARNING AGAIN – THIS STORY IS VERY SEXUALLY EXPLICIT. By which I mean explicit with the “very” part being as in not ‘nice’. You have been warned. DO NOT READ THIS IF PORN OFFENDS YOU, YOU DUMB BASTARD.

I’d be more than happy to see someone finish it, but only if you publish it through here. No putting it elsewhere on the net. This fragment is still copyright, such as it is, and so it stays here, okay? But please, any would-be porn writers out there who fancy finishing it, feel free. Maybe if you’re really good I’ll give you a contract – we’ve got two new books in the pipeline, you know; you could be number three. Short story works for me; it doesn’t have to be a novel/la.

Regardless, enjoy………


23rd June 1997


Went to the Unemployment Benefit Office today. What used to be the DHSS. They want me to go back to work. I don’t. Little shit behind the desk thought he was something. About the same height as me, dark hair, back in a pony-tail, ear pierced. I can just see him after work, with his black jeans and his Motley Crue T shirt, pissed off that he doesn’t get to live the Rock ‘n Roll lifestyle and determined to take it out on everyone else. Namely me. Probably thinks piercing his ear is the height of Bourgeois rebellion.

Went back at ten to four, just before it closes, and sat outside in Daisy Street in the van. He came out at three minutes past four, practically on the button. I bet you could time how long the little shit took to get out of there each day to the second.

Started the van up and followed him down the road that goes past the Glenrothes Hotel – this is even better than I imagined. He’s going to take the path that runs round the back of the St Vincent de Paul High School.

I park the van quick, don’t bother to lock it, and am down there after him.

It was too easy. He was too fucking macho to turn round to see who was behind him. Just slid the pad over his mouth and nose, couple of struggles and he’s out. He feels good too.

Back at the house, I reverse up to the door and drag him out and into the house. I enjoy bumping the little cunt down the stairs to the basement.

I get his clothes off and get him on the potty stool. Once he’s secured I’ve got time to admire my catch.

Hardly a scrap of hair on him, dead white skin, nipples that look like cigarette burns and a little silky nest at his groin that looks like the scrap of fur you might find on a kitten. Really cute. His dick’s brown and looks hardly developed yet. Undressed he’s even more of an upstart kid than his cheap grey suit and white shirt would let on.

I slap his face a couple of times. He groans. I catch hold of his cock and pull it up slowly until the skin is stretched taut and pulling away from his body – just enough to make him uncomfortable. He groans again and I pull it some more. His eyelids flicker.

“Come on,” I say. “All good boys find favour… providing they wake up pronto.” And I give his dick an uncomfortable tug.

He groans again but does not surface any further. More drastic action is called for.

I straddle the stool and stand above his face. I pull my knickers to one side. “Come on,” I say, looking down at him. “You don’t want me to throw you in the shower, do you?”

He doesn’t even bother to answer that, so I let him have it. I lift one leg so that I don’t soil my clothes and squat over his face. My urine jets in his face briefly and forcefully, like a squirted Squeezy bottle. He splutters and coughs, trying to jerk his head away. He gets an ear full of piss. “Good boy…” I say, and yank his face back. “Now wake up.” And I slap him hard enough to wake the dead.

His eyes are open now and struggling to focus. I move back off him. He’s blinking up at me. I smile. “Welcome to my Paradise. I’m Belinda and I’m your tour guide for today.” I can see him looking at my blank rubber face and trying to work out where the fuck he is. No go. He hasn’t a clue. “Nice dick,” I say, by way of conversation. And it is, strangely, despite being on the small side. It’s cute, like I said.

I pull his head upright by the pony-tail. He cries out and tries to lift his hands – then discovers he’s tied down, or up, if you prefer.

I smile again. “Oh dear, looks like you’re a little tied up today… Derek.”

I can see how confused he is at me knowing his name. I can see him trying to work out where he is, what’s happening, why he’s covered in piss.

I pull the elastic from his hair nice and roughly, bringing out a few long dark hairs with it and making him grunt with pain. His head drops back as I let go and this long silky black hair fans out over his shoulders. I can visualize him at Jilly’s Rock world every Saturday, damaging his cerebral cortex and whiplashing his neck as he shakes it around to Kiss, or maybe Guns & Roses.

“Nice hair,” I demur. God, I must like this one – two compliments in as many minutes. He says, “Where am I?”

I laugh; I can’t help it.

“I told you, in Paradise. And I’m here to make my every dream come true. You’re here to help.”

I can see him struggling with that one too. Shame. Don’t want him to wrinkle with concentrating too hard. I say, “Don’t faze yourself. You’re here to do what I say and be enjoyed. I’m sure you can manage that. I have faith in you. I knew you were trustworthy the first moment I saw you.”

“Who are you?” he says, as if I would tell him. Does he think I wear this mask for fun? Thinks it’s my kick?

I hunker down and slide one finger up the spread cheeks of his arse. I see his eyes widen in disbelief. It goes up quite easy, I think because he’s still drugged maybe.

He says something like, “Grunk…” and squirms in the awkward potty hole. Of course he can’t lift himself and all it does is tense his muscles round my finger, giving which one of us the extra thrill I’m not sure, so I say, “Is that nice? Does ‘oo like that then?” And wriggle my finger around right up to the knuckle in case he’s enjoying it. More, if he isn’t.

He says again, “Who are you?” still trying to lift his little butt up out of the big nasty hole it’s in while I push my shiny finger in and out, massaging his nice tight little sphincter.

“I told you, Belinda, your guide for today. You know you’ll only hurt yourself doing that. Why don’t you sit still and enjoy it?”

“Let me go,” he says.

I’ve always wondered at that one. I mean, considered it weird. What’s it about? Here they are waking up out of drug heaven, in some alien basement, suspended in a curious coffee table-sized contraption, butt first down a hole, ankles and hands manacled, arse spread to the woman in black, and they say, Let me go.

Of course you’re going to say, ‘Sorry, my mistake,’ unfasten it and help them out.

“No,” I say, curious to see if he attempts to take it further. But he doesn’t. Instead he says, “What am I doing here?”

“Well, let’s say you’re something in the nature of a redcoat, minus the coat. You’re here to provide entertainment.”

“What d’you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?” And I smile again. I’m quite enjoying this.

“Who are you?”

I slap him, because I’m tired of answering that one and I could see this going on all day. He looks at me in angry surprise. I see his mouth snarl, wonder if he’s stupid enough to do it, but he isn’t. He doesn’t say anything.

“Good boy,” I say. “I see you’re learning already.”

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