Tiny Pathetic Cock.

His hands wander so close. They graze over the pit of my abdomen and the insides of my thighs, never quite making contact with the cunt between my legs, but always making it seem like they might. Each time he strokes my skin, I feel myself clench and as soon as I do, the right side of my belly cramps into the familiar knot of shame, pain and desire that I have come to associate with arousal. Around me, people are constantly attributing the most uninhibited form of their honesty to substances and inebriants, but nothing loosens my tongue like arousal.

"I beg you, please touch me," I tell him, "Please, please touch my pathetic cunt."

"It is pathetic, isn't it?" He asks.

I cannot see him, but I can feel his breath in my ear and I can picture his face. He always parts his lips when he degrades me like this, his eyes remain unchanged but his jaw tightens, just a little bit, like he is holding onto the tension in the room with the weight of a single syllable.

"Yes, it is so pathetic, I'm sorry for being so pathetic," I confirm to him, "Please, please touch it."

He laughs into my ear but his hands make no motion towards my cunt. I apologise to him for my cunt all the time. I apologise for being aroused, for being wet, for being needy, for wanting his touch but not just that. He makes me feel like my cunt is an affront to him—too dirty, too ugly, too unkempt—and even when he does touch it, every touch is a reminder that I should be ashamed. Apologies are all that come all out of my mouth.

And need.

I moan as his hands wander. I moan as a sense of dread fills me. Maybe there was a time in my life when I moaned my pleasure, or at least, a time when the act of moaning felt like expression and not defeat. It feels so helpless now, like it is being pried from me. I don't even believe in dignity, yet it feels like my dignity rests in holding them in. Funny how that is, the contradiction, if you ask me whether a woman should feel any shame when she goes every length to ensure her pleasure, I'll say no, tell you why it happens, how it stopped happening to me and why I am so much happier here, but when you touch me between my legs, I feel nothing but shame. It's not really a contradiction, though, my shame is contained, it is benign outside the realm of pleasure, and within it, it feeds the pleasure. It becomes it. If you touched me and I felt no shame, not fear, I would probably feel nothing at all. It's wise not to get rid of all of one's terrible toys, for the nice ones are only fun to play with once, we always go back to sticks and stones, the pleasure we know to be true, in our bones. It's not just me who is pathetic, we all are.

That's of little comfort to me as he lets his fingers wander so close to my clit, in circles, he plays with the hair and I let out sounds so gutteral and unmelodic, they sound like pain more than pleasure.

"You sound like an animal," he says to me, "Other people seem attractive in pleasure, but you make it seem pitiful."

As he finishes speaking, he places his finger right on top of my clit. He barely presses down on it but it somehow feels like the tip of his finger is touching my entire body all at once. Is this all I am, now? Am I just the tip of a clit? Is this what they mean when they ask you to centre yourself? All of me feels like a single point on my body, made real only by his touch, until he touched me right there i felt like a mass, like a mess splattered across the floor. Now, this point of contact feels like all the reality there is in the world. He wriggles his finger around, so slowly and gently, and I howl my panic in pleas and hopeless amends. His finger feels like it is walking me to a cliff and I know exactly where I am going, and what happens there, but we're still plodding along, with no sense of urgency on his part. We're taking the scenic route to an execution.

"This clit feels so pathetic under my finger, it twitches and aches in need," he contemptuously tells me, "It really, doesn't even feel like a clit anymore, you know? I wonder what it feels like."

I know what I am supposed to say but I hate this tone. It makes me feel a bad combination of sadness and dread, in the right measure those two are like peanut butter and chocolate, in the wrong measure they're like cake and ketchup. This is the wrong measure, I hate this tone. You know how movie villains like to tell you exactly what they are going to do to you while your family is tied up and there's already one person dead on the floor? It's that tone. It's a completely unnecessary display of evil. It's not enough to cause misery, you must see it prostrate on the floor.

"What does it feel like?" He asks me, again, without the slightest aggression.

"It feels like a cock," I whisper into the air, before I grab the sheets and stuff them inside my mouth.

It's much worse when you feel shame that compels you to declare your humiliation in an act of hiding, as opposed to pain that compels you to protect yourself in an act of defence. It's so much worse.

"Well, if you feel like you have a cock, you should put on your cock," he instructs.

I worry that if I move, I will shatter and perhaps he senses it as he leans over me to grab the strap-on that rests on my nightstand. He hands it to me and I look, resolutely, at my chest as I take it from him and slide it on me. I hate having a cock, it feels like the worst thing I can be made to bear, because of all that I have come to associate with this space.

And this cock.

This is a tiny little cock, it's smaller than two inches and deliberately designed to look like it is angling to apologise for its existence. It's not made of very firm or rigid material. It exists solely to make me feel this way. Like I have a pathetic, useless, little cock between my legs. I never intended to discover that this works for me, it happened quite by accident in a brief but intense tryst with a pro-domme who told me that, sexually, I behave like a man. When she said that, it felt like the dirtiest thing anyone had ever said to me. She referred to my clit as a cock and it rendered me incoherent with the headiness of feeling simultaneously too humiliated and too seen. It got to this place where I am wearing a little cock that truly feels like mine as an act of reductive humiliation because I never met a notion I couldn't take too far. And now we're here, we're at too far and it's just as revolting and desirable as I imagined it to be.

"Stand up and show me your pathetic cock," he says to me.

I inch off the bed and stand up beside it. My cock droops a little and I hold my hands in a ball in front of me in an attempt to hide it. I don't know if having a cock is a feeling, but to me, it's a very specific feeling. I imagine the features of that vary for each person, but mine emanate out of the same shame I feel when he touches me, except the evidence of my need protrudes out of me, making an unmistakable display of itself. My cock feels like desperation and like pitiful need; like a sad little appendage that would do anything just to be touched.

"Stroke your tiny little cock for me," he says to me, "I want to watch you struggle to hold it between your fist, it's just like you to have a cock that's too small even to wank."

I agree with him. Why do I agree with him? Why does it make me moan? I grab my cock but it is too small for my fist so I hold it between two fingers instead. As I stroke it, I can feel the sensation travel into my skin and it feels like I really am playing with myself. I don't do that with my cunt and in the most immense of mercies he shows to me, he never asks me to do it either. It's perhaps as hard a limit as I am able to have, the act of playing with myself is so alien to me, it feels instantly like nausea and petrification. I would never play with my cunt but right now, I am playing with my cock and it doesn't feel as alienating from myself as it should. It feels like what I should be made to do. It feels like all my cock is good for. Mindless pleasure.

"How does it feel to stroke your useless little cock?" He asks me.

I cannot answer but he can see me. I'm touching myself in a way that I would never want to be touched. Stroking, jerking, pulling at a pace that isn't desirable to me at all, I like every decadence slowly savoured, but this doesn't feel like decadence. It feels helpless, like need, and sad, like hope. It feels likes like it clumsily barreling towards the most base from of gratification. I haven't even been stroking it for a minute and I find myself begging for permission to orgasm. He grants it instantly. He never would have done that if I had been touching my cunt, we never would have been here if he had been playing with that.

"Did you seriously already come?" He asks me, as I shake and break into tears at the same moment, "You weren't even stroking it for a minute? How can you be so pathetic that you cannot last a minute?"

I feel like the Earth has swallowed me whole, it feels like a dream, like I am floating into a derealised state simply because my brain understands I'm going to need to remember this as a fog. He stands up and comes up behind me. He reaches over grabs my cock in his hand, I cry even harder. I bring my hands up to my face and lean onto the bed with my elbows.

"This is the most pathetic you have ever been," he whispers, leaning over me and squeezing my cock in his hand, "This is the most pathetic cock in the world, it cannot fuck anyone and even if it could, it would be done in under a minute."

As he repeats himself to me he rubs his cock against my ass, I cry into my face and shake my head; I've never before felt my entire body begging him not to make it any worse, but his body has never been any louder either. I can feel him against me and I know everything it means. He pushes me over the bed and forces his cock into me. As soon as he does, I realise how much I needed him to hurt me, it's the only thing that feels like relief. It makes me forget the shame for a second, it disappears completely into the embrace of a more familiar nightmare. For a second.

"Stroke your cock as I fuck you," he instructs.

It feels like too much. Too much is going on for me to be able to understand. I know who to be when he fucks me. I know who to be when he humiliates me. I don't know who to be when they happen together. I know how to process him with my cunt, it's all invasion and sorrow. I know how to process him with my cock, it's all reduction and need. I don't know how to do it together. It feels good to stroke my cock, it feels horrible to have him inside me. It makes no sense to stroke my cock, the pain inside me makes complete sense. I wish it didn't feel good to stroke my cock from the same place where I wish it could feel good to be fucked, but I don't want either of those things.

It's too much.

Have you ever heard yourself break? It's a delicate little sound, a little tink, like a droplet of water falling into a pond. It's almost quiet as a sound. More soothing than silence.

But it looks like a fucking massacre in the morning.