Non-consent Fiction and Me, Also “Punished!”

Belly button gazing time.

It occurs to me that both I do a lot of writing about non-consent, and that I think this both bugs people and somewhat sets my writing apart from a lot of the other badly written, self indulgent porn. For example this well meaning, distressed person scolded me, after reading the first two chapter of Catamite.

You make us feel and sympathize for Phillip, and then you decide to destroy him w/o any chance of vengeance or retribution (b/c we ALL know you aren’t about to punish the female). It’s kind of like watching a puppy beaten for kicks.

There’s nothing wrong with having a thing for pain/nonconsent/femdom themes, but there’s a line you cross once you start adding depth to your characters that you’ve obviously failed to learn.

There’s a lot to unpack there, and it’s not the first time I’ve gotten that response. I’ve also had people earnestly write to me to tell me that “a man does not submit to evil” and that they’re otherwise bothered by the character of Annette.

I think one of the things people don’t like is that it’s not a clear story of good ‘punishing’ evil, but when you get down to it that’s actually something that squicks me. There’s a lot of non-consent stuff where the victim is introduced, usually off stage and without any evidence other than the narrative voice of god, as adulterous, a thief or some other petty crime. That sets up a dilemma for me: first of all I don’t think torture is actually a good punishment in real life and second of all, for my sexuality I like the idea of my ‘victim’ being worthy.  I’m one of those people who cringes when other people talk slaveringly about prison rape for pedos, and not just because I know that most prison rape is guard-on-prisoner (even though the fantasy of Bubba in Cell Block B is that it’s simply a side effect of being in proximity to evil) and treating it like part of the prison experience is creepy, but also I just can’t mentally do the ‘not worthy’ thing for any sub guy I’d connect with.

So, back to writing criticisms and non-consent. It’s actually kind of flattering that the people who try to reach me do so intelligently and as if they’re only speaking up because this troubled them rather than an incoherent cry that I’m sick, sick, sick.

If you write BDSM, the regular publishing houses, and even many of the freebie erotica publishing areas of the internet are very careful about rape and undesired torture. A lot of them ban it outright. Literotica, for example allows a category of ‘non-consent’ but turns a but queasy at the word rape. Fetlife’s giant erotica group specifically bans rape and non-consent violence in the same category of illegal nonos as bestiality and minors.

On the other hand the stuff that’s okay, is in-itself  a head trip for feminist sensibilities. A small sampling of stories picked at random from literotica’s non-consent/reluctant shows a lot of ‘reluctant’ where it’s rape, but it’s okay because the female victim is being sorted out and goes from stuck up to liking it. Or her rape is a sexual awakening that concludes with her consensually screwing everything in sight and/or loving her first magic cocked rapist.

I can’t defend Annette’s actions in my story from my moral perspective. It’s not supposed to be ‘okay’. But I haven’t the foggiest how her being ‘punished’ somewhere over the course of the story would make it okay. He’s still going to be raped even if he turns around and rapes her. Mostly I’m just going to keep writing fiction that suits me (because it’s my fetishes and fantasies and you’re not paying me) but unless we were all writing about pan-gendered utopic informed consent sex (“May I touch you?” Zie breathed huskily and held back, hir hands hovering. “Yes, you may!” Zie moaned in response, “Treat me like an equal! Respect me! Oh YES! I want this! I am speaking with a clear mind and no social biases! YES!”) there’s always gonna be the ‘Ewwwwww’ moment, and at least my icky-no-bad-wrong doesn’t need to hide under retribution or justice.

Catamite Pt. 16

On the other side of the new year, when the short, sharp winter ran frost traces in the gaps of the brick sidewalks of the capital, and everyone who could afford it wore their furs pulled tight against the cold, Phillip found himself deferentially following after Annette through the fashionable shopping district. He wore the uniform coat of a member of the Harrington household, and found himself as over looked and ignored by people who knew Annette, just as they ignored her bodyguards and other attendants.

Change had come a piece at a time, starting with a bookcase that had appeared in his little room the day after the house party, and followed by access to paper and pencils, and then a regular supply of necessities and amusements. The gift of an under bed trunk meant had choice in his clothes, instead of garments appearing in the arms of a servant according to Annette’s immediate whim, and his unoccupied time had a small measure of freedom to choose his own pursuits. There was even limited freedom to leave his room and walk in selected parts of the house.

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Catamite Pt. 13

The ropes were a dirty dun colour, thin, but wound several times around his body in rippled bands so that the bite of one cord was negated by its sisters. Such comforts gave him the full ability to concentrate on the hanging weights and the cross linked cords that made each of the four men intimately connected and gave them one contact point with the ground.

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Catamite Pt. 12

Annette sat just above his groin, her bodice in disarray and her skirt in crumpled folds to that her lace covered legs were fully exposed. She was pinching, all over his skin, where there weren’t freshly sealed cuts from his last misadventure. Her hands would grab a patch of skin and yank hard until he groaned and this would make her twist on top of him, pushing her pelvis hard and scrubbing back and forth.

Phillip remained inert under her grinding, letting her use his body like dough, pummelling and kneading it. She pulled his ears, put her fingernail into the delicate skin just inside his ear canal and bit his lip when she kissed him. Cruelty begat cruelty, her nails raked his neck and shoulders and she slapped his face.

Slapping carried its own sort of pain, so close to the eyes that it picked tears out of their ducts, despite his acceptance. He’d let his whole body go flaccid, surrendering to whatever she was intending until her barrage of hurt ended, but every time she slapped he had to scrunch up his face and move his jaw.

“Adam, darling?” Annette had her hand around his neck, but she’d stopped hitting him.

“Please, my Lady, is this my punishment for losing tonight?”

“No, I gave you a choice. You are mine and I simply draw satisfaction from seeing you suffer. I am very happy with you.” She gave him a slow, tender kiss.

“Yes, my Lady,” Phillip closed his eyes. His body was tired and he stung all over.

“But Adam, really…” She was wistful.

“I’m sorry, my Lady?”

“Kiss me back. You are my lover and companion. So act like it.”
“I didn’t know I was allowed to, my Lady.”

“This was the whole point. I own you to enjoy.”

Phillip craned his head up, not daring to put his hand on her. Their mouths met.

“Undress me like the lover you are supposed to be.”

It took him a moment to figure out the closures on her dress, undoing the hook capped zipper that peeled down to let the stiffly cut dress fall away from her body. The fabric was the most muted shade of red possible, more brown than scarlet and heavy, but still the loudest thing he’d ever seen her wear. Her slip was white and soft, covering the brassier that kept her breasts in the fashionable level and the fastenings on her lace stockings.

“You wore another colour, today, my Lady” Phillip left the dress laid out beside them, pulling the net and pins out of her long hair.

“I was feeling less confined,” Annette drew him against her breasts. “Blue is for work and quiet, at home. Adam, I will use you some more.”

His arousal was reticent, not from lack of want for her body but from the previous and lingering pain. Annette seemed unperturbed, taking her time to get him ready. She brought his hand to her groin and he felt she was saturated, and showed him how to crook two fingers inside her the way she liked and circle her clitoris around until she was breathing in and out, with the same ferocious lust that rose up when she hurt him. When he mustered a passable erection, she took it, awkwardly finding the right position by first mounting and rocking her hips and then switching to a squat.

This time she did the work, vigorous and rapid. Her hands were back on his throat. “Tell me how it feels?”

“Good, my Lady, good.”

Phillip saw her flushed face, loose hair tangling and falling in the way. She brushed it aside. “Don’t reassure me, tell me when it feels good and when it hurts.”

The hand on his neck was just enough to make him aware that she could cut off his air, but not enough to strangle. She took her time, patient with his timorous libido, coaxing out his lust until he was able to muster an orgasm.
Feeling the sperm wash into her, she let herself stay lodged firmly down on his cock until he finished his spasms. Under her tutoring he had begun to touch her, tentatively stroking what he could reach as they fucked. Still aroused, she levered herself up and off and knee walked the length of his body.

Phillip felt her hover over him, before he felt the release of their mixed coupling land on his neck and chin.

“Prettier on you than on the bed sheets,” Annette said by way of explanation.
She made him take a hot shower with her in the guest bathroom; a smaller room than her lavish bathroom in the Harrington country house, but still large and almost excessively decorated, with green flecked marble surfaces and gold worked into the surface of the pipes and taps. Annette was gentle as she soaped down his body and worked a lather into his hair, but the least little motion of his head was still restricted by her hands.

He could feel the pads of her fingers pressing into her scalp, finger combing and focusing on the sensitive edge of his hairline and behind his ears. Annette stood behind him so the majority of the hot water hit his skin, letting him relax against her body.

“You’re going to sleep beside me, tonight. I can’t have you all sweaty and tacky to touch.”

 

Catamite Pt. 11

He looked down to undo the buttons on his vest, and loosen his tie, before buttons on his shirt. If he didn’t look anywhere but his hands, it made it less humiliating, though every woman in the room was watching as he revealed more of his naked skin. He followed Annette’s usual preference and folded the silk vest after he’d taken it off, and then the starched linen shirt, leaving the silver cufflinks atop the pile. Maria stopped her pulling, leaving Vitaly a moment’s respite.

Clamps bit into the little bumps of his nipples and everywhere on his chest that she pinched and clipped off, choosing a more random distribution than the neat stripes of pain Maria had inflicted on her fiancé.

Phillip looked at Annette’s hands as she worked, accepting the discomfort but trying to keep his vocalizations to a minimum. He was quickly decorated with as many clamps as Vitaly, and then Annette made a spider’s web with more ribbon, starting on his belly and looping everything together.

Annette stroked his face. “Good boy, Adam, I was sure we’d have to restrain you.”

“Thank you,” Phillip knew what was coming next.

She started by tugging just on the individual toothed mouths, giving little shots of pain as the stretched and bit into his skin, and then pulling more than one pinch, using the ribbons. When they’d been on his skin for a while, she grabbed the skin next to the clamp and released it for a second, fluttering on the spot so it gnawed.

Hissing and grunting became yelping. Annette was in front of him, biting her lip and breathing slowly. “Were it not for propriety, I could kiss you now,” she whispered. “You’re so handsome in this little bit of pain. Oh Adam, are you going to scream? ”

“Thank you,” Phillip repeated, tightening the muscles in his core and kneeling straight upright like a pillar. “No, I think I can bear it.”

“Oh please,” Maria’s wheedle broke in. “Let me do something?”

“What is it, dear?” Annette put her hand on Maria’s arm, swallowing back some of her lust. “Don’t neglect Mr. Yardley.”

“Let’s have a tug of war! Until one cries off!”

He and Vitaly faced off, each little metal spot of pain tied to a corresponding clamp on the other male. Maria was behind her fiancé, hands on his shoulders and looking across at him, while he could feel Annette’s hands on his forehead and throat, tilting his head back.

“So, what do you think, Adam, do you want to win this?” Annette whispered in his ear. “Mr. Yardley is going to have to pay some sort of forfeit if he loses and I know you are tougher and outweigh him.”

“Win this, Vitya, or there’s going to be more time on the bench!” Maria’s unrestrained zeal made her shout in her fiancé’s ear, “though maybe a slut like you would see that as a reward. More time stretching?”

“What do you want?” The metal teeth were starting to tear his skin. “My Lady?”
“Your comfort, darling. Maria doesn’t care as long as she sees someone humiliated, though personally I see you as private property. But it wouldn’t bother me to see you lose; I just wondered if you wanted the responsibility for Vitaly getting gang raped.”

“Nhhhh…”

“Come on, Miss Maria, be fair. Let your fiancé be a man!” Patricia spoke from her comfortable chair. “Make him pull!”

Annette’s hands relaxed, stroking his shoulders. “This is not a mind game, this is pain.”

Phillip felt the lack of Annette’s presence as she stood up and joined Maria off to the side. Without the two women tugging on them, the two men locked eyes. Vitaly was scared, his makeup smeared past recognition and his hands clenched into fists.

“Mr. Yardley, pull” Phillip said quietly.

“I am!” Vitaly said through clenched teeth, so quietly that it was almost inaudible.

Phillip knew he was putting on a good show. They both leaned backwards, edging away to the limits their flesh would let them. Further trickles of blood came from the stretching bite of the pin sharp metal teeth. The women were leaning in, as was Patricia’s Pitor.

The first clip pulled off his flesh, opening up a channel in the skin where the heavy sprung jaws dragged through. Phillip screamed, but not before Vitaly, both men putting red droplets on the emerald green rug.

Annette was panting. She could take or leave Vitaly, but her man was gorgeous, arms swung behind his back for better balance and pain writ in large font, from his spare muscular chest and belly, to the hard cords of his neck. The alligator mouths were fastened all about, pulling and tearing and putting little amounts of fresh red blood on his pale skin and amongst the feather light, dark hair on his body.

In the end, after they’d both lost several clips and Phillip guessed Vitaly was near his tolerance, Phillip asked for mercy.

“My Lady!”

She was behind him again in a whirl of heavy skirts, arms on his and chin on his left shoulder. “I believe your Mr. Yardley is the winner!”

Maria squealed in competitive triumph, taking scissors from Patricia and cutting the ribbons to separate the two men. Annette was deftly and gently taking the clips off him, not minding the small amounts of blood she got on her sleeves. Phillip let himself slump against her.

“Lucky I broke with my usual habit and wore red,” she whispered. “You are coming to bed with me tonight.”

Agatha seemed unperturbed at the state of her rug. “Well, then, that was delightful!”

“Awww, but you lost! Vitya, maybe you should give him your panties.”

Phillip looked at the filmy piece of fabric being proffered. “You are too kind,” he said, from the vicinity of Annette’s lap. “My lady?”

“No Maria, I have a different forfeit in mind. I think Adam would be rewarded, not punished with those.”

“Like Puppy? What a pervert!”

Riding the next morning made the perfect excuse to retire early. Without even retrieving his shirt, Annette steered him in the direction of the guest rooms, and a brief conference with a servant was the only pause before she shoved him through the door and backwards onto the guest bed and straddled him.

“Mine!” She grabbed his jaw and forced a kiss on him. “I want you, now.”

Phillip recoiled back into the bed, feeling her nails dig into his neck. Arousal might be driving Annette but he was tired, tense and stinging from about a dozen and a half little bites. She was struggling with the button on his pants when the knock on the door interrupted them.

A servant bought a bottle of alcohol and a folded cloth. “Ah, right.”

It woke up all the pain again when she lightly dabbed his best and belly with the disinfectant, but she was gentle and careful and cleaned him up. “Adam…”

“Yes, my Lady?”

“I love your flesh,” her second kiss had more gentleness, but she didn’t lose her urgency when she undressed him, and very quickly the last of his clothes were on the floor and he was on his back on the bed, head cradled by the pillows. “I am going to hurt you some more, shall I tie you down?”

“No, my Lady.”

 

Catamite: Pt. 10

His vision returned after some blinking, helped by the filtered nature of the light from the big stained glass panels along the hall. There was thick carpets and heavy bunches of flowers in blue vases, a citrus heavy scent saturating the air, another fancy home with a wife taking care of the decoration, though not as quietly opulant as the Harrington country house.

The trip had been an hour by car, with the hood on, sitting on the floor of the car with Anette’s hand on the top of his head. She’d had him dressed in new clothes, fashionable but a bit more foppish than he’d have personally chosen, and locked the hood in place, pulling tight straps on the back of his head so it pressed against his face and made it hard to move his eyes of blink.

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Catamite Pt. 9

Walks without Annette turned into jogging sessions, followed by running broken with intervals of hard exercise: push ups, stretches and crunches to keep him limber, made harder by the dark hood. Every time he adjusted to the new routine, he would hear Annette order something new to the guard that only spoke to give him an order. First there were weights on his ankles and wrists, and then one day she joined him for his daily walk with an enormous wooden yoke, with swinging buckets attached by metal chains.

One length of rope looped around his arms and wrists bound him to the yoke firmly, and held his arms out in cruciform position. Even before he saw the rocks piled up in the buckets he knew it was heavy. Two servants had brought it to Annette and dipped their heads politely before gratefully grunting the yoke to the ground and taking their leave.

Standing, Adam could walk forward at a snail’s pace, the buckets swaying slightly. Annette had the picana in her hand, its orange plastic bright, but not out of place among the countless, vibrant layers of gaudy flowers that were in bloom for late summer.

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Catamite Pt.8

Phillip lay face down on his bed, lying on a new feather pillow with his battered ass still throbbing. There’d been light pain killers with his meal, and the ache was bearable afterwards. He’d taken a worse beating in the hands of the guards back in prison, with their fists and boots, but this was another novelty that was still threatening, but rather than giving him pride in his conviction it made him ashamed and awkward.

Capital city prostitutes that catered to the jaded tastes of metropolitan clients would offer flogging and binding as a novelty service. He’d been exposed to that once, mid way through university when he went out whoring with his friends and a plump woman with two bow decorated braids had tried claiming to be a bad little girl in need of a spanking. He’d passed her over in favour of a less creative red head with more straight forward services and put it out of his mind as a weird perversion some men paid for, but now he wondered if he should have learned more about the practice.

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Catamite Pt. 7

The hood was padded cloth, and went over his head, lacing up tight so that light was blocked out and he was warmed by his own breath. Muffled claustrophobia made him struggle.

“Why are you doing this!?” Masculine panic, with the tinge of a whine , tainted his voice as the ropes bit into his wrists. “My lady, what did I do?”

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Catamite Pt. 6

It was a better meal than he’d had on a long time, though eating too fast gave him indigestion. After the second course he’d tucked away a large bunch of grapes, three strawberries and an apple, the latter of which Annette neatly segmented for him with a little knife. Finally there was the breakfast liquor, a thick and pungent beverage quaffed from tiny glasses, fermented with the after taste of metals. Most women drank it for their health, more men abstained, but under Annette’s watchful eye he took it down with one swallow.

“Adam…”

Phillip shifted in his chair, belly distended with all the food he’d gobbled. The maid was clearing up the dishes from the table. All this time the ever present body guards had lingered in the background, one of them holding the threatening alarm-orange picana.

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