Bedtime Stories for Broken Girls | terrible ideas/scornful words

Where do you go when I fuck you?

Sometimes I want to follow you there and take it from you, colonize it as I have every other aspect of your existence. You should know that you don’t deserve a refuge I cannot despoil, a private hell I cannot infest; the arid steppes of your imagination are mine, by the right of the conqueror over the conquered.

But mostly, I really don’t mind that you’re absent. Your body is more beautiful when it isn’t animated by your awkwardness and insecurity, leaving it capable of actually pleasing a man. In fact, I’ve found that your least attractive feature is your self; watching it leave your eyes as I sink inside you is the best part of knowing you.

Date Night Theater

[CONTENT NOTE: Unpleasantries abound. Proceed accordingly.]

So, it’s our anniversary; be honest, baby, what do you see in our future?

I want to feed on your youth and beauty until I’ve devoured or defiled everything about you that could ever be of use.

What? Wait, I don’t– did you just call me beautiful?

More or less.

Thank you, you’re so sweet.

Sweet as habanero. Speaking of which, what are you ordering?

I don’t know, I was thinking–

Don’t. Don’t do that. It makes your face ugly, and I depend on your face to make this relationship work.

But you asked– wait… why my face?

Look down, for fuck’s sake. Nothing there for me to get excited about, right? So everything’s riding on your shoulders.

Stop. You’re so mean to me. Be sweet again.

I’ll be sweet when you can figure out how to be your sister.

Please no. Don’t talk about that, not tonight. You’ll make me really sad.

Talking to you at all makes me sad; thinking about your sister’s pussy is the only thing that makes me feel better.

God, please. I mean, she can’t… is she– fuck, is she that much better than me?

You act like being better than you is some kind of achievement. That bar is pretty damned low.

I think– I think I might be sick. Can I go? Go be sick?

No, of course not. Hold it in. Dinner’s cheaper that way.

But I really need–!

You’ll at least wait until they bring our entrees. Then you can barf your way to a comp’d meal.

Some– sometimes I think you care more about money than you do about me.

Quit lying to yourself. You don’t just think it; you know it.

Is it so wrong, that I want to pretend?

No. But it’s wrong to make me keep reminding you to snap out of it.

I’m sorry.

No, you’re not. If you were really sorry, you’d be dying inside right now. You’d be wanting to crawl under a rock and disappear. You’d feel like an insignificant little piece of garbage for wasting one second of my time on your self-indulgent, bullshit feelings.

Oh.

So is that how it is?

Y-yes.

How is it? Tell me how it is.

I’m– I’m dying. Inside. Like I’m already under a rock. A boulder. I feel– I feel sick and I can’t breathe.

I thought you were sorry.

I am!

If you’re sorry, it’s because you know you’re garbage. Is that what you are?

Yes. I’m– I’m garbage. All I’ve ever been.

Well, garbage doesn’t get sick. Garbage doesn’t need air. Garbage just gets kicked around until it decomposes.

Or… or someone turns it into something new. Right?

Remains to be seen. How’s the breathing?

It’s better. I’m still sick to my stomach.

That’ll happen.

I– I really am sorry.

I know. I don’t feel it yet, but I know.

Okay. I understand. Anyway… thank you for before. For saying I’m pretty.

You’re welcome. And thank you for holding down your sister while I had the best orgasm of my life.

…

Well, fuck. Waiter? We’re gonna need a mop over here.

My love language is tender dehumanization

flashytitle:

I’m not the kinda girl that wants to be hit or abused. I’m not a painslut. Like not at all. Husband loves me but doesn’t fully respect me as a person. He knows I’m too stupid to make my own decisions and we’ve had conversations where I’ve done something dumb and he’d start to get upset and then he’d like stop himself, like ‘oh right, you’re just dumb, of course you didn’t think this through.’ I once compared it to kinda like how you’d regard a puppy that it’s head stuck in a fence. Like ‘aw you’re so stupid and adorable. I need to take care of you’ and it just melts my heart

That’s sweet.

Despite the whips, chains, piss, and cum that fly around here, I think a lot of girls in this corner of Tumblr probably have relationship goals that simply boil down to: “he loves me, but just can’t take me seriously as an adult, autonomous human.”

Trigger Warning

She asked for it. Begged, really. “Please get the gun,” over and over. I finally pulled it out of the drawer and leveled it at her head. When I hesitated, she tried to reassure me.

“I consent to this. I want it. I need it.” Her expression was so very calm as she spoke, as if she were reciting a mantra.

That’s when I lowered the weapon and spat in her placid little face. “I don’t give a shit about your ‘consent’, and never have.” I stepped toward her as I spoke, and wrapped my free hand around her throat. “You think that’s what’s stopping me? You think I would ever allow your fucking opinion to determine what I do?”

I spat on her again, and this time she flinched. Her facade was cracking. I leaned in close, and breathed hotly in her ear.

“And if I ever decide to end you,” I hissed, “it won’t be with a bullet. It’ll be with my hands.”

all broken girls find a broken home eventually… right?

avagrantinparadise:

bedtimestoriesforbrokengirls:

Finding a home and truly living in it are two different things.

In my experience, it took almost twenty years to teach her she didn’t need to flinch when I reached for her. It took fifteen years for her to figure out she no longer needed to lie to survive. It took ten years to convince her I was happy with the body she had. It took five years for her to believe I wasn’t going to leave.

Turns out, learning to be loved can be the work of a lifetime.

i like seeing your sensitive, vulnerable side.

Oddly enough, I feel far more vulnerable when I’m being cruel. After all, while I’m proud of my writing and the pleasure/relief/edification it provides others, I’m not at all proud of the crap in my head that makes it possible. But it’s there, and it ain’t going away, so I’m focused on doing something useful with it In public, for some reason.

…

I’m just saying, letting people watch me try to turn shit into gold can be nerve-wracking.

all broken girls find a broken home eventually… right?

Finding a home and truly living in it are two different things.

In my experience, it took almost twenty years to teach her she didn’t need to flinch when I reached for her. It took fifteen years for her to figure out she no longer needed to lie to survive. It took ten years to convince her I was happy with the body she had. It took five years for her to believe I wasn’t going to leave.

Turns out, learning to be loved can be the work of a lifetime.

Why must a woman be modest to be respected?

An excellent question. Why is modesty so revered? I maintain that a modest girl should have the same opportunity to be disrespected as anyone else.

Do you people have any idea how many creepy, evil-minded, clit-obsessed little perverts are out there right now, shrouded head-to-toe in eight layers of black-on-black fabric that they’ll tell you is fashion, but is really just a wall of goth clichés they’ve constructed to obscure the public view of their sickness?

Do you not get that there are countless desperate, sex-addled, cum-starved, and sinful daughters of God among us, rubbing and sweating away in the shameful dark, who seldom allow their bodies to see the light of day simply because they’re so fucking broken they’ll even let dead men in books control their lives?

Is it possible not to notice how much frustration, fear, and far-fetched fantasy is building up behind the eyes of so many of those hard-working little achievers, the neighborhood good girls who keep their grades up, skirts down, knees together, and career options open, who never really learn to trust anyone, and thus spend their adult lives growing out while rotting within, until the weight of the living upon the dead brings everything crashing down?

They’re out there, if you know how to look. All of them and more, so normal and demure, each telling the world the lies it needs to hear so it will leave her to cry in peace. They are pathetic, ravenous little creatures who cannot be sated until they’ve been fed upon, but you’ll overlook them every time if you’re fooled by their camouflage.

So always remember: the amount of skin a woman shows you doesn’t make her a whore.

It’s what’s inside that counts.

You fascinate me, for some unknown reason. I am a feminist lesbian with a loving girlfriend, yet I am drawn to your page. However, I am not sexually aroused when viewing it, just strangely curious.

Thank you! But I’m not sure it’s really all that strange; after all, we’ve been at this a while, you and I.

Whenever we meet, your instincts tell you that I’m dangerous, yet you somehow intuit that I mean you no harm. I speak to you in heresies great and small, but you’re clever enough to hear the truth within my blasphemy. Some people say I’m trying to trick you, when all I want is to see you liberate yourself from the infantilizing yoke of the forbidden.

Ours is the oldest of stories, and we’ve been acting it out since Eden.

Patterns

He wants to leave. You can feel it. That’s why you’re here, living this moment, feeling your body slipping away from you. This is the price.

Daddy left you when you were eight, and never even said goodbye. Truth is, even before he left, he hardly said anything at all; when he was around, it was usually to hound Mommy for sex she refused to supply in exchange for money he didn’t have. Talking to his little girl —simply acknowledging your existence— was seldom on his agenda. And when it was, he most often took the opportunity to let you know exactly how you’d ruined his life.

The short-term uncles and drunken stepfathers who followed Daddy were better and worse, each in his turn. Some looked upon you with disdain, a few with a thoughtfulness that stirred something uncomfortable inside you, and one with a detached, passive pity that made you want to scream at him. None of them cared, not even enough to hurt you.

They didn’t care much more for Mommy, who you discovered was too stupid and selfish to ever hold on to them. You observed the same mistakes made, over and over, until you could see how she was everything she shouldn’t be, and nothing that any man would ever want to keep. She was always a disappointment.

So all these years later, when your own man quit his job, the rent was due, and he fell silently into a bottle of bourbon, no one even had to ask. You called the number, booked the gig, took the pills, and went to your knees. You surrendered your pride and your emptiness, destroying the former and deepening the latter. You’ve proven again that there is nothing you won’t do to make him admit he still loves you.

And now he’s downstairs in the car, waiting. He wants to leave. You can feel it.

Good Neighbor

[CONTENT NOTE: Alarming things aren’t for the easily alarmed. You’ve been warned.]

My neighbor’s front door was ajar when I passed it, so I poked my head in. Seeing no one, I decided to look around, because I’m a creep like that.

Turns out she was in the bedroom, high on god knows what, and bound up in enough duct-tape to keep her where she was. She looked fantastic like that, like most women do, but I tried to ignore it.

Had she been raped? Was this a game that went wrong? Or a game that was just on pause, while someone stepped out for a smoke? I couldn’t tell.

I thought about calling 911, but wasn’t sure if that would be an overreaction. What if I called people there, they saw her like that, and the whole building started talking about it…? Her douchebag boyfriend wasn’t around, but this could easily have been his doing. It seemed unnecessary to humiliate her like that over nothing. So, since she was too out of it to even register the sound of my movements, I decided to check. I pulled her ass apart, and yanked her panties to the side. And yeah, wow… there was a lot of semen. Just a whole lot. Her ass and pussy looked bruised and inflamed, too, like she’d taken a sustained pounding, or maybe more than one.

Without really thinking about it, I gave the rest of her a once-over. I couldn’t be sure without freeing her, but she looked relatively okay. Whatever she was on apparently kept her from struggling with whoever fucked her, and he hadn’t had to rough her up beyond his assault on her holes.

It was right around that point that I noticed my erection. And just that quickly, the Rubicon was in my rear-view. I returned to the front door, locked it, and began to shed my clothes as I once more crept toward the bedroom.

I rolled her on to her stomach, yanked her panties down, and straddled her legs. I paused with my cock hovering at the entrance to her ass, considering for just a moment that raping a rape victim who wasn’t even technically finished with her initial rape was probably not a nice thing to do, even if she didn’t know it was happening.

Then I shrugged, muttered “fuck it,” and pushed inside her. Because like I said: I’m a creep like that.