Comfort Food

His touch was like heroin in my veins, and I was a grateful addict.

He said it with everything he did, every touch, every caress, every physical pleasure he bestowed upon me. Give it all to me. Give me your will.

I'm your responsiblity now. You created me. You made me this way. This is your fucking mess. If you suddenly care about morality, then don't make me go. "Let me stay. I'll be your slave. I'll be your whore. I'll never fight you. I won't disobey. Whatever you want, just don't make me go back. Please. I can't live in that world anymore. You know it's true. I just want to be yours.

I know I need him. And I hope he needs me. What we have is fucked up and twisted, but it serves a need. I know I've always been wired differently. He only brought to the surface what was already there.

If you haven't developed morals by the time you start reading erotica, it's probably too late.

He always gave me choices. Or maybe what he gave me was force wrapped in the pretty package of pretend free will.

Over months of being with him, my prison had become my sanctuary, and now that I was free, the world was my prison. There was nowhere left to run.

I'd convinced myself it would have been different if he'd been as ugly on the outside as he was on the inside, but he wasn't. He was cruel beauty, a sculpture, a god, and I couldn't tear my eyes from him. I'd seen his expression soften in the dungeon with the whip. I'd do anything to have him look at me like that again, no matter how insane he was.

People always think that they'll never break. They'll never give in, CIA operatives somehow crack, but not them

Blackmail. It was the socially-approved equivalent of blow me, and I'll get you some of the good stuff.

He'd gone from being just my tormentor to being my tormentor and protector, though I needed protection from nothing but him.

Can I take a few things?" Mementos. How fucked up was that? I wanted reminders of my imprisonment.

And that was when I knew. I had to kill him.

Fiction had sold me pretty lies, and none of them did me any good now.

In our modern age, some are concerned about the practice of keeping animals caged. Although this is a valid concern, unfortunately once an animal has lived in captivity for so long, it’s more cruel to release them back into the wild. They no longer have the survival skills. This is more true for those born into captivity, but is also

I dog-eared the page and closed the book, letting it fall to the floor and looked up at him. The

I couldn’t scream because he was taking such good care of me. He’d gotten me bandages. The

Monsters aren’t supposed to be beautiful.

No . . . please don’t leave me. I’ll be your whore. I’ll be whatever you want, please.” I

His touch was like heroin in my veins,and I was a grateful addict.

He smiled that soulless smile that made me feel warm and like I was dying all at the same time.

I found myself wanting the monster because it was honest, a level of honesty most go their entire lives without confronting, always content to hide behind their social masks and business cards. It

Where he’d wanted her to remain very still, she saw he’d spelled out a word with wax. Mine. She

His hands skimmed across my flesh, cupping my breasts, stroking my back where the blood was slowly pooling. His touch was like heroin in my veins, and I was a grateful addict.

And despite all the empowering speeches and the women’s movement, in the grand scheme . . . women are prey.

When you’re a part of society there are certain behaviors that aren’t okay. If you do these behaviors and then feel nothing, that’s worse. But I’ve been trying to determine when I’ve ever been a part of society.

You see, I've never been free. Not one day of my life. I've always given in to the wants and needs of those around me. My confidence has always been a social mask and my success as a motivational speaker was because my mask was just so damn convincing. At times, even to me.

But I've never followed my own will. What I wanted. It was always what you guys wanted. Or what society wanted. Or I almost took my pills like a good little girl, had my cathartic trauma moment, and put the pieces of my world back together so everyone could say how brave and good I was. Almost. But I couldn't. As I write this letter I can't decide whether I'm acting from strength or weakness, but I know that I'm acting for the first time of my own will. Yes, I know that's hard to accept.

unfortunately once an animal has lived in captivity for so long, it’s more cruel to release them back into the wild. They no longer have the survival skills.