tonja

In a writing post of mine on FetLife, I gave my own description, as best as I could of my own personality:

I can be completely despicable in my own selfish nature, because there are times where I simply think I'm better than everyone else and the world revolves around me. I can be petty, snide, sarcastic and rude. I've been jealous and never admitted as much to the men who I've claimed otherwise to. And somehow, I can turn that around and make it their fault, and still feel justified in the end.

I like to hold back my negative emotions, and keep them safely tucked away, because I've convinced myself that to admit them is akin to weakness. I hate confrontations. I can sometimes leave problems to stew and morph into bigger issues because I just cannot be bothered to make the effort to change them. I rarely admit when I'm needing emotional comfort, or could use an ear. When things in life scare me, I laugh them off and even lie when asked what's really bothering me.

I have a deep capacity for affection, but fail to understand what being loved or giving that love really means. I tend to avoid emotional entanglements because I'll sabotage the relationship eventually, out of my own inability to understand what it takes to make one work.

I have an amazing understanding of my own sexuality, and how I see myself in that capacity. I am masochistic, and lovely in the simple hunger that has become as a result of exploring the sensations of pain. I am intelligent and witty, and have an excellent sense of humor which sometimes makes even me laugh and on the odd occasion, snort like a piggy. I love to dress up and go out, and enjoy the company of people.

I cry watching sad movies. I love the smell of rain and the morning air as it comes through my window. I prefer my pillows cold but must be buried under a warm comforter. (That oddly feels as soft as a suede jacket!) I never got chess, and suck at checkers. My hair can piss me off when it does not do what I want, and I have even thought how easy it would be to chop it off. I have no pinkie toenails.

I love the idea of forever after, even if it's a fairy tale. I'm determined that waiting to find the perfect match is better than a string of relationships that don't work. I'm alright with being alone, but hate going to bed alone at night.

I am a complex and even contradicting cunt at times. But, when it comes down to it, I'll almost always admit to myself who's really at fault.

And, I'm still the tonja.

The Sadist

You are an arrogant, selfish bastard. You revel in your own sadistic creativity and how easily it frightens and torments those who bare it witness- their responses delight and spark your vicious nature, which with each newly resulting cruel machination testifies to the profoundness of your own depravity.

You inflict pain. But, it's not just the infliction of pain that satiates your perverted lust. It is the sight of the twitching, writhing and anguished body laying beneath your brutal touch; the cracked sound of pleading desperation in the trembling and uncertain voice which reaches up even through the depths to tease and taunt your self-restraint; the feeling of utter control as no matter how shrill the resulting cries become, or how violent the body movements of your powerless victim- the pain only stops when you're no longer itching with a relentless, crazed desire for gratification.

You do all this, without remorse or guilt but instead the knowledge that what you have done echoes an internal desire to release your sadistic nature to it's fullest capacity. And, relishing in the ability to simply be who and what you are without fear of reprisal or vehement disdain from within, you take pride from the feeling of accomplishment and purpose such freedom can give to creatures like you and I.

Topics

Hey, everyone.

I know there are a few of you who do follow my blog. Keeping that in mind, I'd like to ask you for a bit of input.

What topics would you like to see me write on? I'd be interested to see if anyone has some great ideas for a couple good essays.

Feel free to leave your idea in the comments section for this post.

The Unconformable Masochist

I don't exist, to be defined.

I will not defer to the ignorant desire of some, to classify my person and rape me of individuality. I do not belong in an assumed category of superficial pain sluts dancing on weakened puppet strings directed by the hands of a man. I am a brick wall to weakness, insecurity, or indecision; insurmountable.

Greed without shame; selfishness without remorse; desire without boundaries - those are of me. Intelligence without conceit; power without arrogance; sexuality without depravity - those are not of me.

I do not adhere to any set of standards or rules that others than myself devise. Any inconsistency fuels my defiance, and excuses provoke only disgust. I'm less than you will see, and more than what you can possibly imagine.

I tread on the outside of normality. I'll tip-toe the edges of insanity. And then laugh at your hesitancy.

I am the unconformable masochist.

A Reflection on Pain

As a masochist I am asked, more often than any other question, what it is that I receive from pain itself. I've been asked so many times that my answer has been dumbed-down (especially for some people) quite simply to, "I crave the mental and physical stimulation and release which pain provides."

In many ways, there is nothing more to it, than that. I am not after sexual gratification, nor do I have the need for a sense of absolution through punishment for past offenses. I'm definitely not an endorphin junkie, and yes, pain does hurt. In fact, it hurts a lot. That's why it is called pain, and why so many people spend their lifetimes finding ways to avoid it.

So then, what is it really? Am I crazy?

Not quite.

I find my fulfillment from the discovery that pain can provide a genuine challenge to my ability for self-control as a female; as a human being. A contradictory statement in itself, because while the continued struggle to remain in the position to manipulate the intense and overpowering sensations that pain provides, is intoxicating and addictive to my masochism - so too, is the desire to have that compelling drive to resist completely stripped and removed; even, destroyed.

Seen. Exposed. Acknowledged. Manipulated. Used. Discarded.

Released.

Freedom is in surrender. Pain, is but my catalyst.

Degrade Me.

I want to be degraded.

Now, I don't mean simple acts of humiliation that make a sweet little cute blush appear on my round cheeks.

No, fuck that. I want to be spit on, slapped, kicked, screamed names at, and psychologically degraded in every filthy and abusive way for being the fat, useless whore of a slut that I am. Yes, I said that. Did it make you cringe?

FAT.

USELESS.

WHORE.

I bet you think that's easy. I can almost see you smiling. But, it's not; in fact not at all, actually. I am more than likely going to laugh at each and every attempt you make. I'll sneer, roll my eyes, and taunt you to do better. I'll get up, brush myself off, and tell you to get your shit together or call a friend who might possibly be able to give you pointers on how to do a better job, because I'm fucking bored with your pitiful lack of skill. Grow some balls.

Can I make this any more clear? Do you understand what I need here; what I crave? Should I get out the big red markers and draw a picture on the wall? How about Charades?

I have to be reduced. I have got to find that place, with my face to the floor and the tears splashing down my cheeks; pounding my fists against the ground beneath me in anguished defeat as every word, every remark from you cuts through the carefully constructed unbreakable walls of my ego - bruising each one and marking it with your will as you slap them down one by one.

And then, the silence. The acceptance. I've surrendered it all. There is no lower place to be reached.

Don't make me wait. I've waited long enough. You know that, I know it, and every sadist who finds himself in contact with me, knows it. The unmistakable yearning, that unquenchable desire... it's there, waiting. Rape it from me.

Do something. Do it, now.

Degrade me, if you can.

One Girl, One Bucket. (One very big mess!)

If there is one thing I enjoy the most about R, it is his complete and utter unpredictability; I just never know what the fuck he is going to have me do next. And, let's be honest, he knows damn well that I'll do anything he tells me to do. (Unless it involves diapers or clowns, right?)

I was kneeling in the bathtub yesterday morning, naked, with my piggy bag filled with the piss that he had me collect over night. (Every time I had needed to pee after my initial hop into my nice, warm bed, was to be made in the ice cream bucket eying me from right beside my night table.)

"Make sure you clamp the line this time".

Nice cheap-shot. I think I learned my lesson from last time! -- It was quite unpleasant to have a sudden onrush of liquid spurting into your ass only to realize that there are actual levels of release available for the line from the bag to the nozzle which would otherwise control the flow.

I clamped it, and inserted the nozzle. Dammit, I knew the pee was going to be cold. And through the hours before I heard his familiar voice on the other end of the line, the fear of what that cold pee might do to my insides was making me nervous as hell.

"Ready?"

"Uh huh.."

"OK, release the clamp"

Now, this is the interesting part, you see. I had no intention of becoming a blubbering, whining, crying female. However, this particular form of humiliation seems to have the most profound effect on me. I hate enemas. I detest them more than you could udnerstand. I'd rather do almost anything else than have one. It's all about control for me, and who the hell can control the natural urge to empty your ass when it's being filled with liquid?

However, after ten seconds of cold pee flowing freely into my ass, I was reduced to everything I hate the most. I knew it it was coming, and yet it did nothing to prepare me for the violent urge to release. And that, is what had me crying and pleading into R's ear, while I grabbed onto the side of the tub, disgusted with the predicament I found myself in and the lack of control I was left with.

"You're being incoherent."

"I can't hold it in. Oh, God! The pee is coming back out!"

"Clamp it."

Breathe. Yes, That's important. The piss was running down my leg and into the bottom of the tub, and soon I was kneeling in a nice pool of cold, stale, smelly pee. Of course, that served to probably make my whining into R's ear more pathetic.

"Open it up again."

"No, no, God, no..." I was almost sliding around the tub in my own misery. It no doubt, would have been quite a hilarious sight to see. A fat, smelly, whore such as I, almost bathing in her own piss.

"Do it."

I reached around and opened the clamp, and the rest of the piss flowed into my ass. I really started blubbering then.

"I can't hold it. The pee, it's coming back out. Oh, God, it's not staying in.. R, please!"

"Take the nozzle out. Good, now get the bucket. Release into it."

I think at this point, I was already starting to gag, knowing what was about to come rushing out of my ass. And it came, loudly, as I was on my knees squatting over an old ice cream pail, grunting and farting out the mixed filth. It certainly made a lot of noise as the mixture splattered into the empty bucket, bouncing back to stain my ass and thighs in a drippy, regurgitated shit cocktail.

I'm not sure what R was really saying at about this point. I think I was far too embarrassed at the audio effects which his ear was presently enjoying. The unmistakable stench, was foul, to say the least. I was already swallowing to keep back the insistent knee-jerk heaves which were involuntarily occurring. Though, I knew already the possibility was that vomit would soon be joining the mess on the bottom of the tub below me.

"Take the bucket out."

Fuck, what would be have me do with it? The thought had been running through my mind for a few days, that he must have other plans for that bucket other than just being something I emptied into. As I slid it out from underneath me, the gagging increased. My eye lowered and I tried to just shove it out of the way without directly looking into it. But, come on, we all get curious, right? Who among us does not turn around, and peer into the toilet on occasion? I guess this was no different. I looked, and then looked away rather fast.

"Look into the bucket. See that filth? Dirty whore."

"I see it, God, R, it's gross. I can't believe I just did that..."

"You ever piss me off, and I'll make you eat the whole fucking thing. Got it?"

"Yes, R. I won't piss you off! I won't. I promise!!"

I started heaving, and the more I heaved, the more I realized I also needed to pee. And of course, he made me do it in the bucket, which just added to the nice little offering already present.

"I wonder if I should make you dump it over your head..."

This is probably where the babbling started again. I am fond of saying to people, that I cannot beg. In some instances, like this one, it is true. I, instead, start to plead and mumble and trip over each word while trying to get out the point that I want more than anything to avoid the unpleasantness of the activity - and I'll do almost anything to avoid it.

"Stick your hand in there, and mix it up nice and good. Come on..."

No protest worked. My hand was in the bucket, swishing and swirling around the shit and piss. After a few more heaves of my involuntary response to the quite poignant aroma, vomit was added to the mixture. Everything was mixed together. Quite a cocktail, to be sure.

"Wipe it on your face."

"No, no, no, please, R, I can't. I'll puke, I can't, please!"

"Get some on your upper lip."

You must understand, that some of these actions took me more than a couple minutes. Really, I spent a lot of my time crying, and trying to protest. However, if there is one thing about R, it is the fact that seldom does he not get exactly the result he demanded in the first place. Yes, there was shit now on my upper lip, smeared with a rather shaky hand. And, as the fumes went directly up my nostrils, the bucket received another mouthful of vomit.

"Now smear some all over your breasts."

At this point, that was probably the easier of the two tasks, and performed relatively quickly. God, but there was so much left in the bucket. I had almost managed to completely mix it up, and there were few lumps. I suppose, it could have easily slid through the lengths of my rather unruly curls - had he instructed me to dumpy it over my head. It might not have been so bad, really, because the smell was already invading my nostrils. Would it get in my eyes? Christ, does shit burn?

"What should I do... hmm..."

A sadist, contemplating. Dangerous thing, that.

"I could make you masturbate in your own filth."

Yes, you could, R. You definitely could. You could have had me lay down in the tub, covered in the contents of my little bucket, while I tried desperately to orgasm for your pleasure. It might even have worked, if I had remembered to bring the Hitache into the bathroom. See? I'm not a perfect little masochist. I tend to forget little details on occasion. Some might say, on purpose. I tend to think of it, instead, as exercising the right to a selective memory.

Instead, he had me wash off my legs and feet, and find my way back to the bedroom, and to the Hitachi that was laying there waiting. No, I was not permitted to wash my face or breasts. I was stained with the sordid brown cocktail. I lay down on the bath towel, and I spread my legs. I grabbed the Hitachi and held it against my clit. Just... leaving it there, but not turning it on.

"Turn it on. I want you to come for me"

It went on, and I started moving around on that bed, writhing, moaning, and making some of the most pathetic sounds that a little dirty pig like me makes, when she is being aroused. Fuck, the smell; the sight; the texture of it as it coated my skin. His mind; his voice; the twisted fucked-up things he makes me do for him. And I do them. Why? Because he never asks.

I protested, knowing I would do it regardless. I cried out my own frustration, saying the orgasm could and would not happen. I grunted, groaned, and sobbed.

"Tell me, TELL me!!" I pleaded.

"Come for me, now!"

I came. I came, a dirty, filthy, smelly, naked fat whore, with piss, shit, and vomit painted across my flesh. I bucked against the wand, raising up and meeting it as my cunt spasmed and exploded into a powerfully amazing orgasm which made my words turn into blathered nonsense. All that uttered forth from my mouth, really, was a scream and my surrender. Just, what he had wanted.

"Thank you, R.. thank you."

"Such a dirty whore".

I am. I really am, you know.