Rossissime

| by Cassandra Troyan |

[excerpt from KILL MANUAL, 2014]

Fully formed stockings with keyholes, heels, red lips, rossissime, everything red, gag a girl. The mouth and everything in it, the smell and the taste of sweat mixed with the feeling of stockings.

Sweat stuck between your fingers, the stench of what comes out of a woman.

To create and re-create emotions: sad, horrible, nightmare, terrorize a whore, humiliate her, compare herself to nasty things, the grime, the conflict, the time at which the woman fell, her feet, etc.

I hate smoking, flakiness, tardiness, women who do not know what they want, topping from the bottom.

I do not do things I love to hate.

The conflict is central to everything we do.

I want to force you to do things that you do not like, but still make you wet. Things full of shame. It is shame that makes you wet, and the fact that you’re wet makes you ashamed.

Tell me something you’ve never done but you secretly yearn to do, something you can hardly admit to yourself, out of shame.

Si che voglio che tu venga a trovarmi e vivere incatenata al mio letto come una vile schiava.

 

RE:

this is a dedication to a lack of devotion
like watching yr ego explode backwards in a mirror bomb.

wanna put my brain in a voice activated vault and present questions to yr forehead
as if a larynx stretched out in a tomcat giggle could exude spiked perfumes.

jigger sail them out!

switch to yr favorite pair of cuff links and light yr wrists on fire.
you’re the bobcat tonight.
you’re the best friend i love without cause without persistent distress
as i wonder how many people can one woman call Daddy?

can’t you see i don’t stalk you
i just miss you

can’t you see i don’t stalk you
i just miss you

*

In the beginning when you had me hooded and gagged, I felt a peaceful terror. I had no idea what was happening, so I took the event for at face value. I was already so disoriented from not sleeping or eating properly for the past five days, I went all the way out when you first blood choked me. After blacking out I always have an extended moment of not knowing where I am, or even how I got there. I lose all time. Within that forgetting space is much guilt. How to recover the unknown. What could I have done, how can I better ensure that in the un-conducted space of heresy know that I am not burning you. Our flames are kept for all the good services. I will keep my neck cold for you.

I don’t believe in subspace. Pain is always cerebral and hidden, just like a hatred of betrayal. I am conscious of the pain I am feeling and I prefer to experience its presence in escalating terror. I don’t often go into physical panic, but when I know something is being pushed into a darker zone, what the fuck is going on, why am I doing this to myself, do I even like it? During those moments, something is going right. When a trigger is pulled, I can push past it even further into the scene. It’s not the absence of fear; it is being complicit in its presence.

The bizarrely beautiful moment when you had me chained and tied up in the dog cage while you were playing piano. When you gave me the bowl to drink from, its hovering aroma piss, cum and milk amalgamate, a sweet sour salty stench, yet appealing since I couldn’t really tell what I was drinking. I love scenes where the friction becomes absurdly grotesque through juxtaposition.

Aida by Verdi was playing, the “Celeste Aida” aria sung by Pavarotti, while you were beating me with a baseball bat. Jumping around in those binding heels, flailing and falling to my knees from the blows, slipping all over my own juices as you forced me to squirt and scream. Your timing and pacing was perfect. Precision mixed with the unpredictable. I’ve played with many sadists in the past who let their impulses get the best of them. They simply try to destroy you all at once, or in a way that cuts the play short instead of making it a more expanded and tortuous affair. I could have let you keep me captive for days.

I felt horrified excitement when I heard your ice machine go off. Slow pain drives me crazy, I despise and fucking love it at the same time. Burns and needles have the same effect for me as they create inescapable pain. You must stay in it. I think that might have been the most humiliating moment for me. My helpless ass has been terrorized for such a long time in my life and the ice cubes became a continual motion that I knew I couldn’t stop, but I underwent it for you. The pain was always changing, so it never abated. Afterward, I was freezing and shaking on the floor and you were nicely petting me. It was exceptionally lovely, but the whole time I felt that Oh no, I am fucked, and that now you were especially going to destroy me. I had an incredible desire to touch you the whole time, but I didn’t know if or when I was allowed to. You put the first needle through my lip I grabbed your foot but pulled my hand away, terrified by my own boldness. You touched me and said it was all right as you licked a tear from my cheek and moved to press your face against mine and taste the drops of blood collecting on my lips. I was stunned by your generosity, my affections pooling to full release. Only the smallest gesture and suddenly I knew everything. By the time you were fucking me, and cutting the sutures out of my mouth, I got so excited that I became stupidly impulsive and accidentally pulled your hair. Mi dispiace!

In my silence, I hope you understand I am never bored. Depending on the scene I can be more vocal. I only ever react in a way that is authentic to the moment. At the beginning I was in a trance. I was silent not in that I wasn’t feeling anything, I was attempting to get used to the way that you play and you in general. When you were suturing me, you said you felt that I really wanted to die. I think that is very true. Much of my life I have wanted to get as close as possible to death without dying out of a need for that intensity to make the rest of life even matter. With you, I would rather absorb the moment than panic or complain about getting what I asked for. My silence is my appreciation. How does anyone play with someone else after you? If you’d like, before I leave for Italy I will let you mutilate me. That would be a great farewell until the winter.

________________________________________

Cassandra Troyan is a writer, ex-artist, and pétroleuse living in the bay area. They are the author of THRONE OF BLOOD (Solar Luxuriance, 2013), BLACKEN ME BLACKEN ME, GROWLED (Tiny Hardcore Press, 2014), KILL MANUAL (Artifice Books, 2014) and the chapbook HATRED OF WOMEN (Solar Luxuriance, 2014). Forthcoming in 2016 is a chapbook from Kenning Editions’ Ordinance series, entitled “FREEDOM & PROSTITUTION.” http://onemurderleadstoanother.com/