Human Punching Bag

» My Inner Life

Violent Stories of Sadistic Passion

His lips were bloody, the areas around his eyes were already blackening. His head had made a good punching bag.

It was the work of moments to come to climax and ejaculate into his face.

Pissing in his hair was a nice last touch before I - leaving him bound there - went off to bed.

Unamazingly that never happened.

I’d been sitting on my couch thinking about Saint Paul (he being my idea of one of the most evil men in history he comes to my mind almost as often as a Baptist preacher’s). The scenario above came out of nowhere and left me in something of a daze.

Had I been fantasizing about being the human punching bag I’d not given it a second’s thought. I’ve at times had a very ‘sick’ fantasy life. My saving grace is that I know the difference.

I’m normally very squeamish about the idea of other people being hurt. Even people I despise (Alberto Gonzales’s current sense of victimization being an exception).

The mind is a foolish thing.

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