Poet’s Corner – Noelle Boone

I asked for this.

It’s quiet anxiety at first.



Raising waves of succulent fear, and anticipated horror.

I’ve been given only morsels of insight at this point, every crumb of the terrors to come careful scraped from my own tepid requests. We are bakers of a hateful bread, unleavened and unleaving fear that sits in the back of the throat, taking residence for weeks upon my palate. We bake and break our bread to serve appetites grotesque. A hungry mouth needs to eat, and how can we leave shit behind if digestion doesn’t occur?

I asked for this.

It’s the hill upon which I make but another last stand. I am scared of the prayers I’ve offered to dark things, yet I am scared of myself more.

For all of the looming pain and misery, I asked for this.

I asked for this.

I begged for this.

I needed this.

What kind of creature does that make me?

I am here to receive, and we aim to please.

Escorted to my demise by my lover and protector, my trembling feet cross a threshold that I’ve only seen in nightmares. “Welcome to the dungeon.” Careful lips beneath sympathetic eyes hurl these atrocities against my quaking form. I am spat upon, drenched in the mucus of their amity. Soaked, stinking and stained in the filth offered by only the truly gentle. I hate them, and they know it. I hate this, and I hate that, but most of all, I hate me.

What the fuck am I even doing here?

I asked for this.

The music is loud, the lights are low and I have sunk to the floor. My ever-watchful guardian is Judas, treasonous and dancing to the ministrations of my dark things. She seals my fate with a butterfly’s kiss, pulling me to my feet just to throw me upon the altar of the iniquitous. Her beautiful, quivering liar’s eyes are the last thing I see before stifling darkness swallows my sight and drinks the stagnating liquid air from my lungs. Arms wrap around the bag wrapped around me and I am pulled away.

I asked for this.

The dark things lead me to a pillar, lashing my arms around it with tape to keep me firm in their clutching grasp.

I asked for this.

Claws and talons dance down my back, twirling and cascading against feverish, needy flesh.

I asked for this.

My clothes are torn off, but the dark things are so overwhelmingly gentle. I’m screaming on the inside, but my lips are disobedient to the whims of these monsters that I have submitted myself to. Tongue, cheeks, curses and pleas, I bite down on them all, crushing this weakness between my teeth until all I can taste is blood behind the arterial fear.

I asked for this, and I will give no quarter. I will not beg for mercy.

I asked for this.

A knife rings out in my darkness, and I feel the point dragging lightly against my ass. I can only just tell the difference between metal and a monster’s claw. Knees pressing together catch the fall that threatens to take me, and an all-too-familiar burning swirl blossoms in my belly. I want this, these demons and their silken caresses. I starve willingly, and my soul grasps vainly at the last gasp that slips away, taken from me just as my panties are sliced apart and pulled free from the panicked grip of my thighs.

I can see nothing but I can sense the loving way that evil fingers trace and grip implements of cruelty. I crave that touch for myself. These moral deformities deny my silent urging, and in that denial, I am deprived of myself. Suddenly I am gone from this place; suspended in void, and held captive by the swelling tide of gazes that pierce and sounds that crush. I am finally endless in this instant, a mote that is pressed into submission and being by all the violent potentials of infinity.

My silent forever is broken by a single sound, a thought served by the flaming chariot of my cusping fear as it transforms to something more, and my prayers to dark things are answered.

I asked for this.

The first hit is something personal, just for me. It explodes around and through me, as if the combined voices of my dark things had shouted down from the doorsteps of Paradise, “Let there be pain,” and I am gifted through a veil of wood, steel and leather. My mind goes blank, and my body awakens. The pain comes to me, just as I feared, in bright blasts of wanton lust and devastating sensation. I have lost track of myself, and my whimpers. My feet tear free of their bindings, heedless to my commands, and my lips are pried apart by screams. I do not know who is hitting me. I do not know is being used to hit me. I do not know what I am. I only know pain.

I asked for this.

I am being cut loose, allowed to slump on the cold floor. The dark things are patient with me, and they ask if I want to stop. There is just enough of me left in myself to say no, to say that I am not done.

My mountain still hangs above me, the peak of my challenge yet to be crested.

I will not have mercy, and though I cannot see it, I know my dark things are pleased. They move me to a more opportune spot, and continue to wage my wars for me, the drums of their efforts thunderous against the battlefield of my heaving body. Blood has been coaxed from me, soaking the slope of my ass and thighs in thick sheets of crimson. I feel a splash and smile through my screaming, understanding that the dark things are dancing in rubied rain; my rain. I feel the joy in their sustained effort, and I know love as their blows cascade with the violent roses that bloom and pour from me. This love is my mountain, and I have overcome. I have claimed it.

This is what I asked for.

Written Nov 5, 2018 by Noelle Boone

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