exploitation

Succubus Queen

Prose

Carrella walked in a slow circle around the bound-and-blindfolded man. He was stripped naked, and sat with his legs together on his own heels. His penis splayed limply on his lap. 

Clack. Clack. Clack. The sound of Carrella’s heels pierced the heavy silence. She prepared herself.

Whack! She drew back the riding crop she was holding to reveal a red mark across the man’s back. 

“Take that, you lowly little sub,” she sneered into his ear. She adjusted the sleeve of her suit jacket. 

“Yes, my queen,” he whispered back breathlessly.

“What did you say? Say it LOUDER!” she screamed.

“I will take that and more, my queen!” he exclaimed. 

The interaction ended with the man giving Carrella hundreds of dollars while in tears and kissing her hand before he left. 

Carrella didn’t think there was anything bizarre about anything she did. She made a business out of weird, lonely creeps who are willing to pay for her to act like an abusive mommy or daddy. They’re usually so ashamed for asking that they’ll agree to any price. 

She wondered if any of her clients had to face financial trouble because of her. Oh well. Not her problem. As long as they’re the one opening their own wallet, it doesn’t matter what she had to say or threaten to get them to do it. It was their choice. 

She loved what she did. She felt powerful. She felt in control. She got to be who she wanted to be, and everyone was rewarding her for it. Praise, wealth, superiority— she had it all as a dominatrix. It was better than drugs. It was better than having sex; although sometimes she did that with her better-looking or well-endowed clients. The high she got from it became her primary pleasure and drive in life. She brought this dominating energy to other areas of her life. 

“I expect my clothes to be properly clean in a timely fashion, by noon precisely,” she told the immigrant woman at the laundromat. Carrella made it a point to speak loudly and quickly, as she felt it made her seem smart— and here was the perfect opportunity to flex her superior intellect over another woman’s inferior language skills. The woman scowled and said nothing as she took the bag from Carrella.

This woman would be punished if she were her sub, Carrella thought to herself. How insubordinate! Carrella decided to say nothing as well, smirking sardonically in response as she sipped her cappuccino latte au lait. 

But the woman had put Carrella in a bad mood. She decided to give herself a little treat and lift her spirits. She veered off her usual path to an adjacent neighborhood. Even if she hated that she couldn’t afford to live there, she still enjoyed walking through to look at the facades of the homes she envied. 

Their dog park was more spacious too, which is why people tend not to notice if you slip in without a dog. Comfortable communities are easier to target because they’re trusting and unsuspecting. All you have to do is smile and wave, and when they’re not looking, kick a pup or step on their little paw and distract them with a toy or treat if they yelp. 

But someone did notice. And Carrella never knew they knew. She couldn’t even feel that she was being hunted. She could never conceive of ever really being the prey herself. Sure, she would pretend to be the victim every so often to keep herself out of trouble. But real victims were weak, and she felt strong. She was invulnerable, she felt. It couldn’t happen, she thought. 

So when it happened, she was completely unprepared. It was too late. She wouldn’t get any more chances. 

Golem (poem)

Poetry

Breathe life into clay,
Mud man does your bidding.
No will of his own,
Sacrificial statue.

Taking orders from mortals,
Temporary despots.
Life cycles and replacements,
Varying continuity.

Possessed by a demon,
Unmanned bodies.
Settle into controls,
Gears and buttons to maneuver.

Unformed in its form,
Burst suddenly into chaos.
Descent of a cipher,
Unanticipated by all.

Gamble (poem)

Poetry

My life was sold in a devil’s bargain,
Born to a mad king and slave queen.
They got sent to hell but I started here,
Demonic imp to do their bidding.

Saddled and ridden on a carousel,
Parading my scars for praise.
Bronzed and shining like a token,
Robbing her riches in the shadows.

I’ve already lost everything and lived,
There’s nothing I can’t give up.
Nothing to lose and everything to gain,
This world will tremble before me.

Dead from the start and learning to live,
Nothing to fear when the return occurs.
Numb embrace of my oldest friend,
Kill the pain and drop it in the jackpot.

Surrounded by winnings I can’t carry,
Shackled to the table to play the game.
Earning it back and then some,
Paid what’s owed with interest.

Bed (short story)

Prose

She always dreaded bedtime. They were emboldened by the cover of darkness. They always knew when she was most alone and vulnerable. They knew to strike during the times when no help was available.

She would delay the inevitable in the ways she could, but nothing ever worked. She hated brushing her teeth. She refused to change into pajamas. She wore her daytime outfit to bed, armored in her defiant act of rebellion. But that never deterred the monsters.

She slept, open and exposed, on the altar for her impending sacrifice. Try as she might to fight the night, the exhaustion nonetheless soaked into her bones. She urged herself to remain wary and vigilant, but no one ever came to relieve her from her night-watching duties.

Life became a dream. The nightmares crept into reality. She listened to the blackness breathe, and felt its rhythm pulsing in her chest.

She squinted into the shadows, too fearful to call out. Scared of what might answer. But she knew they were watching. They were waiting for her to drop her guard.

They’d take her for the night, and she’d wake up the next morning, chilled by the wetness of the sheets. She could feel bruises that the mirror couldn’t see. She bled without being cut. There was something inside her that she couldn’t purge.

No one noticed until her belly began to swell. Clutching her abdominal bulge, silent tears betrayed her pain.

“Tummy hurts.”

Doctors were nonplussed. Their tests and experiments revealed nothing. Their recommendation? More bed rest.

The monsters smiled.

Her skin erupted in rashes. The poison was bubbling out. Her organs grew sick. Eventually, they ruptured.

She woke up in an unfamiliar bed. The uniformed woman bustling around her was not her mother. Machinery chirped and beeped, a foreign tongue to translate comfort.

Cool skin touched her forehead, hellfire beneath its surface. Screams trapped but inescapable. But under the kindly gaze of this strange nurse, she allowed herself to sleep.

But the monsters were in the hospital. They came during visiting hours, wearing human skin. She watched in horror, seeing them dressed in their disguises. Behind their gifts of flowers and balloons, their blackened teeth grinned with menace. Their eyes were most telling; cold plastic buttons plugged into the socket.

Her mattress was stuffed with their nourishment. They fed on her terror. Her vitality was being sapped, but no one could discern the cause.

Wasted and skeletal, her world became small. Confined to her bed, trapped in their den. Her restraints were her body. She couldn’t make it obey.

She shrank and became listless, and the monsters grew stronger. Her eyes retreated into her skull. Turned up towards the heavens, rejecting visions of reality.

They attached strings to her limbs and thrust stilts into her flesh. Propped up like a puppet, they stuffed her skin bag with pillows. Sometimes her soul leaked out, so they sewed up all her holes. They draped her in blankets to hide her corpse.

They tore out her vocal cords to string their instruments. Her long fingernails scratched the grime off their backs. Percussive teeth were extracted and shaken: a macabre orchestral arrangement, symphonic and haunting.

Flossing with her hair and sponging off with her body, she became a washrag stained with their sins. They painted her face with her blood and vomit. Her rotting stench was masked by floral potions. They pressed beads into her eyes, polished and reflecting the viewer.

See yourself in the eyes of a decaying girl. Preen yourself and comb your hair. Wipe your dirt on her cheek. Harvest her parts. Present her on a platform. Swallowed up by her bed, her humanity becomes inscrutable.

Her bones are the frame, clothed in a skirt. Her head’s just a board, flat and uncomplicated. Rest on her form, lay yourself to sleep. Embraced in her arms, enveloped in her sorrow. Comfort yourself in her misery.

Take turns with the monsters, allow yourself some fun. Take her for a ride. But when you cooperate in her destruction, make no mistake: the rapes in her bed will follow you too.