non sexual sadomasochism

The urge to ram my dick and balls against the edge of the table was far too great; I excused myself from the meeting, desperate for some kind of relief, and staggered into the bathroom. The thumbtacks in my shoes were old news. The staples in my torso barely registered. I sighed then searched for anything to swallow, something sharp enough to lodge in my throat, to choke me, maybe make me pass out. I punched myself in the ribs. It felt good, but not good enough.

I dug two thumbtacks out of my toes and drove them into my torso, infected wounds, nipples, belly button, anywhere soft enough to bleed and sting. Then, in a sudden flash of clarity, I took both thumbtacks and jammed them into my eyes. It gushed. I couldn’t see anything. This seemed to be permanent, but I loved it.

I pulled my shoes back on, buttoned my dress shirt, and felt my way out of the restroom toward the office. I realized my pants were still down, but it was too late; surely I would lose my job. One week in, and I couldn’t help but obliterate myself, physically, mentally, spiritually, and financially. That’s the only way I feel alive.

They threw me out. I begged them to pull up my pants; they didn’t. I stumbled away, searching for the bus stop, squeezing my cock and balls in my fist until I felt my testicles rupture, soft tissue turned into floating grit inside the sack. I punched myself in the face, split my nose, and bruised my eyes black. 

That’s where this all began, in the mirror, hitting myself in the face. Back then, I cried. Back then, the pain was a novelty.

If only hurting myself were sexual, then at least I’d know when to stop. Instead, I can’t stop, and I don’t. The police dragged me off, then yanked the thumbtacks from my eyes.

The cell is nice and quiet, but they haven't fixed my smashed testicles. The straitjacket isn’t that bad. I can sleep and can’t hurt myself anymore. If they keep me in this straitjacket the rest of my life, perhaps I will not meet an early demise.

Unfortunately, they didn’t keep me locked up for long; they released me after a few days, and I had nowhere to go. I’m trying to find the edge of a bridge to jump from, but it’s a bit difficult to know where to go. 

Fuck Island

1.

I was completely exhausted after wiping my ass and changing my pants. I told the producers I was desperate for a nap. When they denied my request and said I had to finish taping, I faked a seizure. They circled around and watched as I thrashed, kicked, and foamed at the mouth on the floor. They didn’t buy it. Once I settled down and closed my eyes, hoping they would just leave me on the floor, they didn’t. They stood me up, took off my shirt, straightened my fedora, held me by the arms, and walked me to the soft sand beach.

“I cannot continue. Please discharge me. I cannot bear to be on this island anymore and I am surely going to be sexually assaulted by one of the many closeted homosexual men. I believe I heard one of them speak a racial slur, one he had permission to say but I do not. I cannot participate in such an unfair competition.”

The whole time I was weighing them down, trying to lie on the ground. Then a beautiful woman crossed my path. My eyes grew wide and my asshole threatened to loosen once more. I stood and ran toward the women with my tongue out while the other men stood behind ogling them like cowards. 

I immediately dove for the vagina of one of the models stepping off the giant pirate ship washed ashore. I missed, landing in the mud. The several women wearing swimsuits beat me senseless. I grabbed at their tits and pussies while they punched me, which only made them angrier and stronger. Once they stopped punching and kicking, I yelled, “I’ll sue you broads, I’ve been assaulted, there are cameras and witnesses!” 

The producers and women just ignored me. I walked off. I was completely out of it. I didn’t feel well. I needed a brownie and hot chocolate, but my requests were denied. I started crying and couldn’t stop. The women felt bad for me for some reason, so they asked to suck my weiner. Of course, I was in no mood, and I was sure one of the homosexuals would try to watch from behind a palm tree. 

2.

Black, brown, and Asian women all want to have sex with me. I’m supposed to pick between them, that’s the big hook for the show. Honestly, I’d rather just fuck the host; she seems wealthy. I’m very excited to cash in my fifteen minutes of fame after this.

While I was examining their vaginas, I was sexually assaulted. One of them tried to sit on my face, then the other two tried to rape me. I couldn’t believe their blatant sexuality. I reprimanded them: “I will fuck one of you when I am good and ready!” Begrudgingly, they obliged, while dripping wet.

In the morning, all the men woke early to make breakfast for the women. We have yet to be paired up as couples, where we’re expected to perform all sorts of disgusting sexual acts for the camera. The men seem completely desperate for female attention, while the women, for some reason, are overly concerned with my sexual desires. I, meanwhile, continued to fulfill my necessary ten hours of sleep even though eleven would have been preferable.

My perfect woman spends little to no time on makeup because her beauty is natural. That way she’d have time for a morning workout, followed by making me breakfast. I highly doubt any of these women are mentally attuned to my wants and needs. Going on a reality TV show suggests they lack the homely qualities of a traditional wife. Of course, I’m not against a more rambunctious, career-driven woman; I’ve already said I’d eagerly pursue a relationship with the host, Brittany Scottsdale, who, according to the internet, has a net worth of several million dollars. It only makes sense I try to win her over. Instead, I’m stuck with these bimbos, who, as far as I know, have no career prospects, which is likely why they’re willing to humiliate themselves on national television.

At about nine and a half hours into my sleep, I felt something crawling up my leg toward my cock, which stiffened at the sudden press of heat. Before I knew it, the blacl, the brown, and Asian, were in bikinis tugging at my pants, groping my erection. Breakfast trays were set lazily on the bed, syrup threatening to spill across the sheets.

“Help! I’m being assaulted by wenches!” I shouted. The three women looked sweaty, as if they’d just finished a workout, then decided to cook me breakfast. “What’s wrong with all of you? Hand over the platter before it spills and leave me be!”

“Can we suck your cock?” one asked.
“No!”

They left, visibly disappointed. I couldn’t believe how brazen they were, and as tempting as it was, I knew the moment I showed interest they’d test my empathetic nature.

My mother signed me up for this nonsense, telling me it was Jeopardy. In my naive trust, not even the shirtless pictures she took of me raised suspicion about her real intentions. 

After eating the breakfast, I was so stuffed it clogged my digestive system. I had to curl into the fetal position well into the afternoon.

3.

When I finally arrived on the patio with a pool and half a basketball court, covered in turf and surrounded by palm trees, the men were shirtless, playing three-on-three basketball, probably just trying to graze each other’s genitals. I wanted no part in such nonsense.

The women sat together on the nearby couches, watching the game. They appeared to be waiting for me, and immediately called me over. When it’s all seven of them at once, I get nervous. Three seemed completely obsessed with me which is fine, I can reject their desperate advances but the other four didn’t show outward interest and I knew they secretly wanted me too.

I sat in the middle of the women, pretending to watch basketball, but the closeted homosexual tension on the court was nearly pornographic. I had no choice but to turn my attention back to the women, who were lustful animals for me. I tried dividing my eye contact evenly, because it quickly became an issue whenever I lingered on one longer than the others. Did my mother pay these women to seduce me? I’d seen other seasons of this show, and the attention was usually spread around the men, never so singularly focused on one contestant. It terrified me.

“You desperate wenches,” I declared. “I refuse to participate in sexual intercourse until I am married.” At the word marriage, they became hysterical and ravenous, grabbing at my shirt collar and jerking me around, demanding answers about destinations, colors, rings, all that dumb shit. I had to escape. Climbing onto the couch, I shouted, “You are all unworthy!” then bolted up to the deck and back into the house.

I raided the fridge, arming myself with potato chips and granola bars, then retreated to the room with the comfiest couch and dim lighting. Shutting the door, I imagined them outside, furious at my rejection, plotting their next move. They were domineering, horny beasts, no wonder the men cowered and whimpered like children. Naturally, I wanted nothing to do with such an unnatural courting process.

Then came a knock at the door.

“Go away!” I yelled.

But they didn’t. Though I swear I’d locked it, the door opened. In walked the producers, fat white men in their mid-forties. They showed me something I hadn’t expected. I’ll be honest, though, it made for damn good television.

4.

Turns out the guys in the house had been making fun of me for shitting my pants and calling me a gay virgin because I hadn’t had sex with any of the women.

I couldn’t believe it. To think I had once considered them acquaintances. They were fake friends. And fakeness, as everyone knows, is a feminine trait that belongs exclusively to women’s social groups, even progressive women have moved past fake attitudes. But these men were devolving. I couldn’t let them spread rumors behind my back. Someone needed to be slapped.

I stood up, leaving a mess of crumbs on the carpet, and prepared to kick some ass. I went to the bedroom, put on my long leather jacket, slid my black fedora onto my head, and stepped outside onto the patio. Night had fallen. Everyone was gathered in a grotesque chain of oral sex I was glad I’d missed out on.

When the women saw me, they snapped out of their orgy and scrambled to put on swimsuit bottoms. They rushed over, sensing the rage radiating off of me. I adjusted my glasses, tightened my fists inside fingerless gloves, and lowered the fedora brim dramatically. These steroid-fueled men needed to understand that I was the alpha.

They quickly pulled up their shorts to hide their shrinking erections. I curled my fists and pressed one to my forehead, I felt like a samurai. “Do you so-called men have something to say to my face?”

The tallest one, clearly the leader, spoke up, “Yeah, man, we just feel like you’ve been kinda distant this whole time, and we wanna get to know you. You’re honestly one of the bros. You seem cool as hell.”

Their fake sincerity disgusted me. It dripped of estrogen. 

“Give me one reason I should show mercy to you normie plebs?”

The shortest, most tattooed man, whose crush was inching toward my crotch, muttered: “Niggas be straight psycho-sexuals, bro. Just fuck a bitch, take a swim, and drink a margarita.”

“How dare you!” I shouted. “Do you not realize the N word perpetuates negative stereotypes about the Black man?”

“Nigga, what?” he replied, yanking up his shorts which is the American male gesture of preparing for hand-to-hand combat.

I looked at my fist, contemplating my power levels, while keeping the other resting at my waist. The women were softly moaning, kissing at my clothed body.
“Don’t you dare take another step forward,” I warned.

“You ain’t gonna do shit, nigga. On my mama, I’ll fuck you up.”

He stepped forward anyway, ignoring my advice. I knew this would make for good TV. I lifted my shirt, pulled a ninja star hidden beneath my fat stomach, and hurled it at the black man. I missed him completely, but the star flew so hard it embedded itself in the eye of another guy behind him.

The black man tackled me to the ground, knocking some of the women down too. I felt the other hidden star pressing into my belly as he sat on me. He swung at my face, clipping my jaw and nose. Luckily, my frame was superior, and I rolled on top of him. The star dislodged from my gut. I ripped it free between our groins, slicing us both in the process, and raised it above my head. Everyone’s attention, however, was on the other man now screaming about his eye.

“I am the Alpha! I shall not be challenged!” I declared, then slammed the star into my opponent’s stomach, just below his eight-ball tattoo.

Immediately, several strong men lifted me off. I thought they were going to attack, but no one disagreed when I muttered, “It had to be done.” The EMTs pointed out my groin was bleeding.

At the sight of so much of my own blood, I grew nauseous and collapsed. “Someone, please, escort me to the hospital. Ask my mother if this is what she wanted when she sent me to this dreadful island. Lord knows she’ll blow my life insurance on drugs and liquor. Oh God, spare me Your wrath!”

“Dude, you’re not dying. You’re fine,” an EMT said.

“Easy for you to say, you’re not gushing from your scrotum,” I snapped.

He examined the tear in my jeans. “It’s your upper thigh. Nowhere near your scrotum.”

The women sighed in relief, though to save face they pretended to care about the other two injured men, typical, cleaning up a man’s mess (mine) without hesitation. Meanwhile, I lay in a syrupy pool of blood, fading with every second, praying my death made for great television. Then, my head grew light and I passed out.

5.

Shortly after the battle I woke up to find eight women surrounding me, their hands shoved down their bathing suits, presumably fingering themselves.

I shouted, “You wenches! I’m tired of this brainless, immodest sexuality! Are you too horny to think for yourselves?”

It was then I realized my pants and underwear had been pulled down while I slept, leaving my erect penis exposed. Mortified, I yanked the blanket over my indecent self, praying the erection was of the morning wood variety and not the result of whatever foul play these women may have committed upon me.

Several of the more attractive ones immediately froze at my outburst. The Black woman calmly said, “I’m a neurosurgeon.”

The Asian woman chimed in, “I’m a professor of musculoskeletal oncology.”

The Brown woman added, “I’m a lawyer.”

The others, though not doctorate-level professionals, were either professional cheerleaders or supermodels for luxury brands.

“I understand why the models come to this island for the thrill of total transgression, but why do those of you with careers far more lucrative and socially vital debase yourselves on this godforsaken show?”

The neurosurgeon shrugged. “Because girls just wanna have fun.” Then, without hesitation, she pulled her bikini top away, revealing breasts so large they didn’t bounce but swayed like cathedral bells.

I was taken aback. My first instinct was to say thank you but I bit my tongue. I could not allow them to wield my gratitude.

I had to think fast. For a fleeting moment, I considered faking a seizure, but knew that medical professionals would diagnose it immediately as counterfeit. Which left me with no option but to sit there, silently, as they demanded once more to see my penis.

Though I refused, I could tell they had detected a tremor of uncertainty in my voice.

6.

I hate this show, I hate the very concept. There is no storytelling, only the endless stirring of drama. To replace the men I injured with ninja stars, they brought in an electric toothbrush and a female furry. Now, I am not a furry, I find them revolting, but she seems different. Something in the curve of her tail, the way her fur gleamed… it was soft, inviting, hot. I bet she had a truly voluptuous ass beneath that purple costume.

The electric toothbrush was another matter entirely. A smug bastard, made of plastic and arrogant. He became the leader of the DJs and pool boys. Worst of all, he was encroaching on my woman and succeeding. I knew then that I must choose quickly or risk losing my status as alpha.

My decision rests between the neurosurgeon, the professor of musculoskeletal oncology, the lawyer, and the furry. Yet before I can commit, I must first know what kind of lawyer she is, defense? corporate? Personal injury? Surely her morals, if she has any, must be called into question. 

And as for the furry… God damn. I am aroused by her. She sends a shiver down my cock.

After mustering some courage, I slicked what I had left of my hair to the side, threw on my fedora and leather jacket, walked straight up to the Furry and said,

“Hey, sexy… you ever been with a real man?”

The Monster

I stood on the clouds in the Kingdom of Heaven.

“It came through the back door in the middle of the night while we were all sound asleep. I didn’t hear it, nor did the dog. We were oblivious when it entered the bedroom, crawled onto me, slithered into my brain, and infected my heart.”

“Then what happened?” God asked.

“Well, a few days later, while my kids were asleep, I went into their rooms. I duct-taped their hands and legs together, then of course, their mouths. I did really terrible things to my kids. After that, I shot my dog and my wife. And around that time, the sun was rising, so I hung myself in the garage.”

That is what I told God. And then He told me I was now the entity that sneaks into houses at night, then convinces fathers to molest and kill their children.

Resigning to my fate, I wondered how long I would be damned with this burden of inflicting torture. I figured eventually I would grow bored, but I knew not to ask questions in the Kingdom of Heaven.

The Fair

For kids, it happened during the first week of school, a time of uncertainty, when no one was quite sure of the new social hierarchy. At the fair, it was almost guaranteed you’d see someone from your school. A staple of American youth.

Unattended middle schoolers were thought to be dangerous. They wandered the grounds while other teens -whose parents wouldn’t allow them to go alone- stayed home. Adults drank freely. Fights threatened to break out. Every year there was a shooting.

For the other fifty-one weeks of the year, the fairground was just a barren two-acre lot. Next to it sat a neighborhood and a cemetery. The smaller buildings on the property were sometimes rented for weddings, while the event center hosted high school basketball games and graduations.

During fair week, though, it came alive. Rides and vendors filled the space, selling everything from wind chimes to luchador masks. Kids could milk cows or ride horses. There were performances by local magicians and church choirs. Families sat at picnic tables, eating the best of Middle America: Indian tacos, funnel cakes, sloppers, corn on the cob, turkey legs, lemonade, and of course, beer.

Tori sat at one of the tables, long red hair falling into her glasses, eating grape ice cream. She had just begged her mother to buy her a shirt when she suddenly looked up and accidentally locked eyes with a boy from her middle school class.

She froze. Her grip tightened on her spoon. Her face drained pale. Her eyes widened, completely embarrassed to be seen.

Tori and the boy, Kyle, had never really talked except during one group activity. She was quiet, Kyle was loud, he and his friends told people they were in a gang. Both of them had gotten in with free school tickets.

Kyle was Hispanic, with a buzz cut and an oversized black t-shirt and pants. He was with two older kids, on their way to buy weed. He kept talking because he was nervous, he’d never smoked before, but he desperately wanted to try. He glanced at Tori’s parents. They were weird looking, nothing like he had imagined.

Not knowing what else to do, Kyle waved.

Tori, instinctively, waved back. Innocent waves. The waves of children.

Kyle’s friend, wearing a silver cross, squinted.
“Who’s that?”

“Just some chick from my school. She’s chill,” Kyle said.

“Who’s that, sweetie?” Tori’s dad asked.

“Just some boy in my class,” Tori replied.

Near the rides, the smell of fresh popcorn mixed with the gas from the generators powering rows of neon bulbs, some of which, on closer look, had long since burned out. The gravel paths were uneven, and every few feet, another line stretched for food or rides. Michael nudged his girlfriend, Hailey, as they walked. She wasn’t in the mood. They’d already spent their money on a burger, which slipped from Michael’s hands and hit the ground before he could take a bite.

The fair was at its peak, a free day for local kids. Michael and Hailey, both still in high school, had gotten free tickets but hadn’t wanted to use them. They had jobs now, and tonight, Friday, they could finally spend time together. They went to different schools, lived across town, and usually only saw each other on weekends. Michael’s parents were stricter, so he lied and said he was crashing at a friend’s place, when really he’d stay at Hailey’s, whose parents didn’t care. Lately, though, they had been fighting more.

“I’ve got a few tickets left. What do you wanna ride?” Michael asked. Hailey glanced around: the Gravitron, bumper cars, the Power, giant slides, the mirror maze. She didn’t want to choose; she wanted Michael to decide. Hailey didn’t know what she wanted, and Michael was blinded by puppy love. They could flip upside down, spin in circles, race, or lose themselves in the maze, but both were afraid of their options. So they walked to the Ferris wheel and waited in silence.

Once locked in and lifted upward, they looked down at the swarms of people, then straight ahead to the glow of their hometown. The view hadn’t changed since they were kids, when the free ticket was exciting. Now, at sixteen, they used the Ferris wheel to make out. Midway through the ride, Hailey pulled back.
“I don’t know if I love you,” she said.
“Are you serious?” Michael shot back.

They argued about love -though neither of them really knew what it meant- then kissed again as the wheel went higher. Around and around they went, the passengers unloading one car at a time. Only briefly did they actually admire the view. In truth, neither cared much for the ride.