"The pina colada song" Joey Fairbanks volume IV (read disclaimer)
Disclaimer: from time to time I post stories in my LJ that may or may not be true. Some of it might be, some of it might not be but they are all graphic and speak to very adult themes. Due to emails in the past from people who found them disturbing (mainly the person in which it was told) you are formally forewarned.
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“I was tired of my lady
We'd been together too long
Like a worn-out recording
Of a favorite song
So while she lay there sleeping
I read the paper in bed
And in the personal columns
There was this letter I read
"If you like Pina Coladas
And getting caught in the rain
If you're not into yoga
If you have half a brain
If you'd like making love at midnight
In the dunes on the Cape
Then I'm the love that you've looked for
Write to me and escape."
That song kept playing over and over in my mind, to the point where I was actually beginning to hum the words in odd situations. She was a good woman, in the sense that she would do just about anything I wanted physically but there was always that emotional detachment. I often found myself referring to her as “it” you know “it puts the champagne bottle in its cunt” or something like that.
Objectification was such a naughty forbidden fruit that I couldn’t help but take a bite, and sadly with her every bite of the preverbal apple was beginning to have a worm in it. Effort was important to me, God knows I tried to be normal, tried to change that inner demon that continually lashed against my brain like waves lapping against the shore.
I had eroded my sense of humanity all but gone and I muttered out loud that one line in the song I always applied to her “if you have half a brain”. She was so devoted, some completely devoid of need for her self that it was hard for me to find value with her any more. As she squirmed against her bindings I knew she was almost to her sub space yet I didn’t want her to achieve it.
Selfish? Yes but I was Joey Fairbanks, why the fuck shouldn’t I be selfish?
She fluttered her eyes at me, her signal that the light was still green, I could precede with whatever I wanted physically. Her arms were over her head attached to a harness and beam on the ceiling, her ankles bound together and she was just dangling there. We had performed all the normal rituals up to that point, the flogging, making her beg etc…..
It kept fluttering its eyes and I undid her gag and simply said “speak”, she of course complied with the standard remarks. “please Sir, I beg you to fuck me” Again, par for the course a very standard antiseptic situation. I looked at her I smiled at her devotion and her ability to fulfill my every desire, save for one.
“No dear tonight we are going to do something different” I said coyly.
“Yes Sir” She replied dutifully
“Do you want to know what it is?” My voice was slow and deliberate
“Yes Sir” was her whisper
“Tonight I am going to kill you” Was my equal whisper in return
“Yes Sir” she said with a tremble
Did she believe me or did she think I was trying to scare her? Was she the devoted slave girl she had always proclaimed to be? Was she simply aware that it was always her fate?
I didn’t love her, but I loved what she represented. The act of submission is the ultimate act of Domination, simply because for one to give themselves over to it requires either trust or complete self awareness, both of which is an indication of domination of ones spirit.
I used a cattle prod and continued to press it into her chest until she expired. She never screamed only whimpered slightly. I often wonder now if she liked pina coladas and getting caught in the rain?
******************************************************************************
“I was tired of my lady
We'd been together too long
Like a worn-out recording
Of a favorite song
So while she lay there sleeping
I read the paper in bed
And in the personal columns
There was this letter I read
"If you like Pina Coladas
And getting caught in the rain
If you're not into yoga
If you have half a brain
If you'd like making love at midnight
In the dunes on the Cape
Then I'm the love that you've looked for
Write to me and escape."
That song kept playing over and over in my mind, to the point where I was actually beginning to hum the words in odd situations. She was a good woman, in the sense that she would do just about anything I wanted physically but there was always that emotional detachment. I often found myself referring to her as “it” you know “it puts the champagne bottle in its cunt” or something like that.
Objectification was such a naughty forbidden fruit that I couldn’t help but take a bite, and sadly with her every bite of the preverbal apple was beginning to have a worm in it. Effort was important to me, God knows I tried to be normal, tried to change that inner demon that continually lashed against my brain like waves lapping against the shore.
I had eroded my sense of humanity all but gone and I muttered out loud that one line in the song I always applied to her “if you have half a brain”. She was so devoted, some completely devoid of need for her self that it was hard for me to find value with her any more. As she squirmed against her bindings I knew she was almost to her sub space yet I didn’t want her to achieve it.
Selfish? Yes but I was Joey Fairbanks, why the fuck shouldn’t I be selfish?
She fluttered her eyes at me, her signal that the light was still green, I could precede with whatever I wanted physically. Her arms were over her head attached to a harness and beam on the ceiling, her ankles bound together and she was just dangling there. We had performed all the normal rituals up to that point, the flogging, making her beg etc…..
It kept fluttering its eyes and I undid her gag and simply said “speak”, she of course complied with the standard remarks. “please Sir, I beg you to fuck me” Again, par for the course a very standard antiseptic situation. I looked at her I smiled at her devotion and her ability to fulfill my every desire, save for one.
“No dear tonight we are going to do something different” I said coyly.
“Yes Sir” She replied dutifully
“Do you want to know what it is?” My voice was slow and deliberate
“Yes Sir” was her whisper
“Tonight I am going to kill you” Was my equal whisper in return
“Yes Sir” she said with a tremble
Did she believe me or did she think I was trying to scare her? Was she the devoted slave girl she had always proclaimed to be? Was she simply aware that it was always her fate?
I didn’t love her, but I loved what she represented. The act of submission is the ultimate act of Domination, simply because for one to give themselves over to it requires either trust or complete self awareness, both of which is an indication of domination of ones spirit.
I used a cattle prod and continued to press it into her chest until she expired. She never screamed only whimpered slightly. I often wonder now if she liked pina coladas and getting caught in the rain?