Letters of You

I figured I would make an introductory post of sorts.

My name is Mikael, but you can also call me Mika or M.

Some things to know about me if you decide to poke around: I'm pansexual, genderfucked, switch & verse (dom and top leaning), sadistic and masochistic, and a nasty, perverted bastard.

My intentions with this blog are quite simple, really: I'm here to write about the things that excite me and get me off. That's literally it.

Themes you'll see here: stalking, torture (psychological and physical), snuff, murder, assault/cnc/rape, self harm sexualisation, piss/omo, fauxcest, petplay, primal play, feet, religious perversion and more. This is not an exhaustive list.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

You are extremely likely to see something that you won't like here. Take note of that before going any further and don't say I didn't warn you. I'll try my best to tag but if you know me from my other blog you know my relationship with tagging is selfish at best.

Sticking around, dove?

-Mikael

If so may I suggest something that includes waterboarding? I know it isn't as bloody but there is always a way to add blood to everything.

Btw I just stalked this whole account and all I can say is thank you. U don't find many blogs like this that make me feel phantom pain in a good way :P

That is what I mean, yes. And, I'm rather fond of waterboarding anyway so I'll certainly use the prompt.

— 🕊

Oh, how fantastic.

With gore and snuff under your dislikes list in your bio but clicking that little heart on all my posts...

You doze, still strapped to the cool, metal table. It's not the kind of rest that actually refreshes you. No. You flinch every time something clatters as I move around the space and clean up. On alert, waiting for more.

You look perfect like this. Scared, in pain, but too exhausted to do more than roll your head to one side or the other as you attempt to locate me within the room.

My gaze can't help but catch on those damn sutures. I just finished cleaning everything up. I should hold off, wait until I visit you again. My dick has other ideas though, throbbing as I continue to stare.

I have no self control, really. And, who am I to deny myself such pleasure?

The rustle of clothes draws a broken whimper from you, sending a shiver down my spine.

A tug, a deep inhale, and then there's the head of my cock against the wound. Hot, hard flesh slowly tunnels forward, forcing the clean edges of the gash back open. The stitches pull, accompanied by the slick squelch of subcutaneous tissues engulfing my cock.

Fuck that's good.

I wish I had thought this through, I wish I would have given you something to make you more coherent so I could listen to you scream while I turned your thigh into a fucking fleshlight. Next time, next time for sure.

It's a fucking mess, chunks of yellow tissue sticking to my dick and pelvis with every thrust, blood spilling out and pooling beneath where you lay, coating my balls. It's a sight to see, really. I should take pictures and develop them so I can show them to you later.

All too soon, I'm spilling spurt after spurt into your reopened wound, huffing in ragged breaths.

The "let's get you cleaned up again" I murmur falls on deaf ears, considering you most certainly weren't truly conscious for most of that. Oh well.

Most likely, you are lost.

You put the kettle on, strip out of the clothes you wore to work, and take a shower. You have a cup of the same tea, in the same mug, sitting in the same chair to read. You make your dinner, watch a show, and tuck into bed at midnight on the dot.

Every other Friday you meet the same two friends at the same bar, always getting back home at the same time, only ever a few minutes late if the traffic is heavier than normal. Those Fridays are intriguing to me. Watching the way your expressions change around the people you're most comfortable with... Fascinating.

You're predictable. You feel safe, secure. Oblivious, really.

I have my own ritual. The same chair, the same time. My eyes glued to you, all prone and vulnerable as your chest moves in a steady cadence as you sleep. When it first started, I would slide a condom down my cock and put it into a bag I brought with me when I was done. Leave no trace, you know. But, that just wasn't enough and you sleep so soundly... I've learned that if I'm quiet, I can peel back the covers and cum all over your groin. You look so lovely coated in my essence.

The first time I left you with that gift, I watched as you woke up, looking puzzled and embarrassed. The tips of your ears turned such a bright shade that it made me hungry. I wonder if you still think you're simply having wet dreams.

It depends, really. I'm very into studying my prey first. What I see and find out will change certain things.

It's been nearly a month but, welcome.

No, I want it raw. As raw as the meat I cut away from your bones. Screams so visceral that your throat gets torn to bits, crying so hard you're throwing up, only softening to whimpers when your consciousness starts to slip.

There's nothing pretty about what I want. It's ugly. It's messy. It's putrid. Taking pieces of you because they belong to me. I want you dripping in blood and bile. Covered in the stench of the rust from where I keep you, your fear, and my excitement. Sharp and acrid.

I'm impressed, really. Almost proud of you for how long you have lasted. Six months longer than anyone else.

You're a shell of who you used to be, which really wasn't much to begin with. But, you're a vision like this. Not that you could see it, since I blinded you months ago. You've got less fingers and teeth than you had when we met, your once unblemished skin now marred by my handiwork.

The constant pain should serve as a reminder that you asked for this. You wanted this. You told me you had no desire to live and that your only hope was to be useful to just one person before you died. I'd like to know, do you regret those words now? You've certainly been useful to me. Very entertaining. But now, you're growing weak, becoming useless once again.

The discomfort in your knees is supposed to be a reminder, a deterrent to keep you from repeating the same sin. Ah, but why are you squirming like that? I can clearly see you- rocking side to side in a way you think is subtle, grinding your knees into those grains.

It's not. I can see you, I can smell you. That faint musky scent of arousal. This isn't a punishment. Not for the likes of you.

I daydream of bending you over, pushing you forward and digging those grains further into your skin, making you recite penance while I sodomise you.

"Fuck, you feel so good." while you cry for me to stop.