Hell Is In The Heart Ch. 01

That feels so dumb to verbalise, doesn't it? How emotionally stunted do you have to be, to be so attached to one fantasy? To dream about reliving it, over and over? But I can't stop.

Out of all the things she told me, there was one in particular that... It was this kink...

I give out a tiny gasp as I realise my hand has finally snaked its way between my legs. Just reciting her words in my mind has been sufficient to prime me for this, which is honestly fucking pathetic, and that only makes me want to play with myself even more.

I should yank my hand away, I really should. I'm merely reinforcing my obsession by behaving like this. I'm flooding my brain with happy chemicals every time it tortures me with memories of Remy. That's just gonna make me fall deeper, become even less inhibited, more impulsive, more self-destructive. I should totally stop.

Unfortunately, my hand isn't listening.

I bite my lower lip and squirm under the sheets, my muscles beginning to contract. I almost feel like a passenger, as my brain walks down familiar, disturbing, mentally harmful memories.

She would drive me to my knees, and tell me that her grip on me was so tight, that she'd make me betray my own lesbianism just for her amusement. That she'd force me to submit to men.

Eventually, it became a totalising fantasy. An adrenaline rush. It's not about the hypothetical man in question, at all, see? It's about the power. The power to violate me in the most personal way possible.

Over time, it became our favourite fantasy. My brain learned to associate that with the crazy adrenaline rush, the weakness in my limbs, the furious beating of my heart.

I bet you'd suck cock for me, she would say. Little lezzie would put on a show for Mistress, right?

She never did make me do it, of course... though each time she mentioned it, she sounded a bit more serious. And I felt more and more incapable of pushing back.

How could I, when she trapped my chin between her fingers, and drowned my eyes in hers, and whispered that...

You love me, right? If you truly love me, let me see your lesbian identity fade from your eyes. Let me see the moment I use a man's cock to break you...

Men never actually feature much, when I'm touching myself, poisoning my brain, pushing myself closer to the edge. The attention is all on Remy and me, on her voice, on her words, on my shattering self-respect.

They're just formless, faceless figures, plot devices really, tools in Remy's hands. They have no agency, no impact on the story. They're just there for Remy to do her magic.

But this time, as I think back of her promise to break me with a man's cock, the faceless visage swimming before me studies my weakness with a pair of inquisitive, unsettling, pale eyes...

And that's when the orgasm hits me. My tribute to Remy, to my damaged state, my self-conditioning that guarantees that I'll do this again. My breathing is shallow and my muscles contract, but it doesn't even really feel good. Almost perfunctory. I chased one because I needed it, not because I actually wanted it.

That's a shame. It means I'll need to go again. Because, unfortunately, I do need it.

That's the point, isn't it? That's how conditioning works, the power of association. That's how Remy domesticated me, like I was just some dumb farm animal for her to harness. I'm just... carrying on her grand tradition. And to hell with the consequences.

As I close my eyes, readying myself to go again, it occurs to me that Eric is not like the men in my fantasies. He's not a tool in Remy's hands, or a plot device. He's a real person, with thoughts, feelings, and his own agency.

I've been making myself a fool in front of him. I'm behaving inappropriately, and even if he doesn't know, I've been acting out a fantasy without his consent. Because I'm twisted, and sick, and I really should stop.

But those thoughts recede rapidly. After all, that's what whispering Remy's utterances does to me. And the masculine, amused eyes I'm imagining, that make my hips twitch and my fingers rub faster, well, is it my fault if they go oh so well with Remy's voice, with her words?

What's the harm? It's only a coincidence, it doesn't really mean anything that they're so cold, and inquisitive, and pale.

Nothing at all...