Immovable Feast

Ava Ex Machina
Sep 18, 2016 · 17 min read
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“Alex on Pig” by late artist Bryten Goss

Kneeling on my floor he stares at the carpet. I put my foot on his half erect cock and ask “What is this?”

With an almost involuntary shake of his head he says “it’s nothing.” I lean in and ask him why he thinks a beautiful woman like me would want to see that nasty little thing on my rug, and press my foot in harder, his now completely erect penis pressing painfully in to the floor between his legs.

“I don’t know,” he says to my knee.

“Filthy boy, dripping on my things, you disgust me.”

With my hands now wrapped around either side of his head I whisper more humiliations and insults continuously in to his ear, feeling his wet tears splatter one after the other across the top of my thighs. “No wonder you love this so much, depraved animal, craving my abuse because you know there’s no other way someone like me would ever come near a hideous sack of shit like you.” His cock throbs against the sole of my foot.

With my hands around his throat I turn his head and lick his cheeks in turn, tasting the tears rolling down them.

“I know Miss, I’m sorry Miss,” he softly spits out between sobs, “so much uglier than the others you’ve had.”

“Creepy too,” I supplied, “showing up reeking of cigarettes and scotch, I hated it. The way you constantly tried to put your stinking mouth on me. What do you think people at that bar thought of you?”

“They thought ‘why is someone like him with someone like her?’ didn’t they Miss?”

They did. When he had showed up and planted himself next to me at my favorite neighborhood bar, I barely recognized him from when we had first met during my graduate research abroad. He had messaged me after seeing me on Fetlife, shocked as I was to see someone from that time in our lives on there after so many years.

I had first met him as the work colleague of a mutual friend during my first extended stay out of the country, and even then I barely ever interacted with him beyond gatherings at her house. I remember that he was quiet but nice, and suddenly now in his messages he was bright, articulate and interesting, well-traveled and intelligent, doting and kind. I agreed to meet with him.

When he showed up at the bar he looked now 10 years older than the silent, mild brown-haired and boyish-faced man that I remembered, and certainly not the man in what were his clearly outdated Fetlife profile photos. He now had so much graying hair, sagging skin on his face and around his mouth and a gut from what was clearly drinking too often. He stank of day-old cigarette smoke, and it made my eyes water.

The bartender at this favorite and regular cocktail spot for me raised his eyebrows with surprise as this ugly, sloppy man pressed himself in too close to me, breathing his scotch in my face, clearly throbbing with excitement. Later at the back of the bar he could sense my discomfort and asked if he disgusted me, and when I winced at the awkward question, continued, “because I wouldn’t mind if you do, I might actually like it a lot.”

Now I sit on the edge of the couch, he kneels in front of me and I hold his face and neck in my hands, flexing my fingers in to his flesh as I demand to know his secrets, his pain, his most shameful urges. For hours my mouth breathes my hunger in to his brain, my lips grazing his ear and neck as I degrade and interrogate him, teeth grazing as if to bite him open. He bleeds his answers willingly in to my waiting mouth. Lost inside his subspace he sobs, groans and drips on to the hardwood as he answers. I feed and feel the serotonin pumping through my brain, setting off fireworks behind my eyes.

“Thank you Miss.” He cries harder as I place my hand on his small but erect cock, “No one touches me, no one will come near me.”

“Because your cock is tiny and pathetic, completely unfuckable. You’re a perverted monster, an ugly internet slob using old pictures on your Fetlife profile because you know otherwise no one would ever want this.” My fingers tighten on him, I can feel it pulsing in my grip as I squeeze and begin to tug at it.

“You’re willing to tell me the truth, willing to see what I am. It’s so real, it’s like oxygen.”

“And yet I can barely breathe with your stink in my face. I can barely stand what you are, pile of filth, pig boy.” He cums hard and loud as I call him that, as if it’s the first time he has orgasmed in months. I make him lick the mess from my hands.

“No one has been with me this way in so long, no one can stand me and you’re so beautiful compared to me, I feel like barely a person.”

“You’re not, you’re a disgusting pig, and if you behave properly, if you do exactly what I say, you can be my pig.” He shudders and curls over at the word “pig” each time I say it, kissing my stomach.

“Yes Miss, thank you Miss, your Pig.”

People like Pig are everywhere in the BDSM world, but even they think that they’re often too far beyond the pale for most kinky people. Beyond pain and humiliation, they seek out and attach positive, eroticized satisfaction from degradation. Humiliation is meant to put people in embarrassing or uncomfortable situations for arousal, but it does not reflect on the “value” of the person it happens to. Degradation by contrast is meant specifically to devalue the person, to make them feel gross, disgusting, ugly or unworthy.

Degradation like all play can be done consensually in a way that lets both partners know that this is about constructing a taboo fantasy, one they can “safeword” or opt out of at any time. I can say from my own experience that it’s mostly people who are very strong at their core, with great self-esteem that end up able to find humiliation and degradation to be a very satisfying fantasy because it is actually so far from their emotional day-to-day reality. It heightens that “oooh I shouldn’t be doing this!” feeling that many people find very arousing when added to other kinds of sexual activities.

Many I meet who are in to humiliation and degradation figured out that this is what they like from early childhood, (not from trauma as might be stereotypically thought but) from cravings and feelings attached to kids’ pretend games, or from incidents meant to be bullying. Pig was no exception.

“At camp, a bunch of girls beat me up, kicked and punched me on the ground. I don’t know why I’m telling you this…”

“Keep going.”

“…I secretly masturbated to it after they did it, I did for years. And I knew then what I was doing was so freakish and not normal, that I shouldn’t be masturbating to that.”

“I was the same way at the same age, but I was the girl doing the kicking. You are how you are, it’s more common than you think. I meet lots of people who are this way, people who fall in love and have normal relationships.”

“Could you love someone like me?”

“I could, if they let me.”

“Do I feed your desires? Do I give you what you want?”

“You’ve given me a taste, I want more.”

“I just haven’t met others like you who aren’t turned off and freaked out how good this kind of degradation makes me feel. Please don’t hold back with me. Please let me give this one thing to you.” He sinks down on the floor and kisses my hands, rubs his face on my thighs.

“The things you made me tell you, the way you make me feel. I love it and I treasure it,” he says, “I still can’t believe things I told you.”

I can believe it. He tells me everything, and soon he will tell me even the things I do not want to hear.

“I chatted with a male dom yesterday. He had messaged me a long time ago. I was online yesterday and he messaged me again.”

My dynamic with my pig boy had exploded from our encounter in to a full Mistress/slave relationship. While we did not go on dates or even anywhere in public together, when I was in New York he would be entirely subject to my will. Our time was spent with him cooking for me, servicing me while I worked on my thesis on my laptop on his couch, calling him names and deriding his ability to do anything for me, edging his tiny cock and make him beg me for relief for hours, using his mouth to make myself orgasm, and most of all interrogating him.

His secrets, his thoughts, the inside of his head all now belonged to me, as he surrendered it gladly. When we were apart he was to tell me each time he masturbated and what he was thinking about. Now it seems that he had done so while talking to this male dom online. I was so confused.

“Am I not enough for you?” I asked.

“No Miss it’s not like that. It’s just that these feelings, they make me so desperate. I sometimes go online to find male doms because they’ll be cruel to me. It’s what I did a lot before I met you, it was so hard to find a mistress and I could just find brutal male doms on Craigslist instead.”

“And now that you found one you still give in to these urges. Do you think that’s respectful to me?”

“I guess that’s why I’m telling you, hoping you’ll talk sense in me, forbid me or something. Whenever I turn to men in desperation I also feel disgusted with myself afterwards and… I lied. He didn’t message me. I saw him online and messaged him. I’m sorry for lying.”

“Thank you for telling me the truth. Why do you talk to him still?”

“You’re gone so much and he wants to see me. We talk about what he wants to do, nothing all that creative like you, just that I’m just a bitch, just a pair of holes for him, that he’ll break me, makes me call him Sir. I keep coming back to chat with him. I guess his words feed my need for degradation and it gives me something to touch myself to.”

“You need to stop lying to me and stop this cruising for male doms horseshit, your attention is for me. I need to trust you and believe that you appreciate what I give you.”

“I do Miss, I’m so sorry. I want to feed you until I’m all chewed up and there’s nothing left of me.”

And his purpose was just that, to nourish my own difficult and long-repressed desires, the way I am. So I let it go. Our every interaction centered on my treatment of him as an object and a slave, and so it was easy to take back what was mine.

He lays quietly on the floor wrapped around my feet in fetal position for hours as I tap my way through another draft of my abstract. Once in a while I stop typing and kick him sharply, then stand and grab him up by the collar, delivering a series of blows to his face and body. He yelps and whimpers, then rolls over to lick my feet apologetically, “Thank you Miss.”

I have him crawl to the bathroom where I slap and spank him, spit on him. I throw him in the shower and then piss all over his face and body with my foot up on the soap holder, “Pig, I know you love being dirty, that you love me making you dirtier.”

“I love it Miss, so much.”

I step out of the tub and turn the shower on cold. He howls in pain as the freezing water hits his body, and after thirty seconds I turn it off. “Finish washing yourself properly and then I’ll allow you in my sight again.” I leave him shaking and frozen and head to the bedroom.

After showering, he crawls in and asks if he can have permission to come on to the bed with me. I check if he is clean enough, and then pull him up on to the mattress. He lays quietly with his head in my lap with his eyes closed for some time.

He opens them, “I love you Miss.”

What did he just say?

“…Why do you think you love me?”

“Because you accept me for what I am. When a beautiful woman like you is willing to let me be in their lives, to treat me the way I like to be treated, I am grateful and I love you for it. No one ever says they accept me and means it. Do you love me Miss?”

“I could, but you’ll have to earn it.”

“Yes Miss, I will.”

“I’ve never shared these things before with someone else, the dirty binges I go on. I need to tell you because I promised to, because you own me.” Pig has texted photos to the man of himself, his genitals tied, things inserted in his ass. I am beside myself.

“I knew you wanted to, that all that nonsense about wanting me to tell you no was bullshit, you can’t stop yourself.”

“Please don’t leave me because of it Miss.”

“I will leave you if you keep lying to me, keep trying to lie to me by omission.
You said you wanted me to tell you no, that you wouldn’t go see him but that wasn’t the truth. You want to.”

“I want your permission for it, Miss.”

“My permission is a privilege, it’s something that I take extremely seriously. If you ask for my permission to do something and I say no, breaking that is something that gets you a very severe punishment.”

“I understand Miss, completely.”

“Ask for my permission, ask me for what you want.”

“May I have your permission to go to that man’s house?”

“No you absolutely may not.”

“Yes Miss.”

I put the hood on Pig, then chain him by the neck to the pipe that runs up from the radiator on the side of his living room. While sensory deprivation and confinement is one of his favorite games, I ignore him for hours as I work on my laptop, a punishment for his impulsive ask.

I decided after making him wait long enough to walk over once in a while to force his mouth on to my pussy, to pick him up by the collar and slap him, to stuff bits of food in him, to let him kiss my feet, touch him just enough to get him close and then refuse to let him cum. He sees only darkness, hears only my commands muffled through the hood, gives me only silence save for his satisfied whimpers. He lays so still, so deep in subspace that when I decide to finally let him have it, I bring him to a jerking powerful orgasm with my fingers in his ass, never touching his cock.

I unchain him from the pipe running up behind the radiator and then chain him again to the foot of the bed while I sleep. I wake to him gingerly trying to crawl up the bed next to me, stopped by the short length, which clanks and jingles as he strains against it. I unclip him and take the hood off, pull him close. I kiss him as he whimpers in to my mouth, “I’m sorry Miss,” before I fall asleep on his chest.

“I told him I could see him. He wants me to go this evening.”

Pig was supposed to see me tonight and had started to make odd excuses. I kept pressing him for the truth, and at his confession I am furious.

“You’re going to let that man do every depraved thing to you and then you’ll crawl back to me begging me to forgive you. You never wanted to give yourself to me, not really. You were never mine.”

“Miss, please don’t say that. That devastates me.”

“It fucking figures all male subs really just want sexual gratification, they never really want to actually be beholden to anyone else.” I am crying so hard, so grateful he can’t see me all the way here in Tribeca, sobbing over my phone.

“Please Miss, how was I supposed to handle this? How can I pretend I’m not what I am?”

“You were supposed to care about me more than your urges, to be what you are just with me.”

“I want to stop, I need your help to stop. It just feeds a dirty addiction. Please don’t leave me Miss.”

I am silent for a long time. I feel embarrassed that I have grown so attached to him, ashamed that our intense connection has me considering how I could possibly ever try to scrub this sloppy but brilliant and devoted man in to someone that I could admit I was dating, have a relationship with outside of our homes, to go with to dinner and museums and travel back to the part of the world where we first met. The shame of it makes me weak and I relent.

“I know even if I tell you no you’ll still go tonight. So if you don’t want me to leave you, you’re going to have to confess to me every detail and I will decide your punishment and apology to me after.”

“Yes Miss, I will. He told me to be at his front doorstep at 7:25pm Miss, and not a minute later. I have to go. I love you Miss.”

I sit on the couch and stare at the wall until it has become dark. Although it is a sticky, sweltering New York summer night, I feel so cold.

I pace around the apartment from 7:25pm until I give up and sleep at around 3am. At 10:21am my phone buzzes, and I snatch it off the table.

“Miss? Are you there? I didn’t want all this, so much more than I wanted.”

I respond testily, “You were fine with it or you wouldn’t have stuck around at his place for this long.”

“I didn’t really have choice once there, I changed my mind but he wouldn’t let me leave. I’m sorry Miss.”

“What do you mean no choice? Where are you? Don’t move.”

I hastily pull my sweater over my head and dash down the street still jamming my arm in to the sleeve, sticking my other hand up to hail a taxi. My cab rolls up to the block where Pig told me the man’s house was, a wide tree-lined Park Slope street full of huge, well-kept brownstones. This man has money, I thought to myself.

Pig is still sitting on the steps up to the apartment where he had been asked to arrive the night before. He won’t look at me, and I already see the red and now slowly purpling rope marks around his neck. He winces at my touch, and I realize that there are small spots of blood soaking through his clothes.

I pull him in to the cab and hold his head on my chest as we drive back to the apartment. Once inside I strip him and the marks on his body are prolific and angry. I pull him in to the shower and he sits slumped as I wash the caked sweat and dirt out of too much broken skin and open wounds, dabbing them gently with a clean cloth under the running water. As I squeeze it out, the brownish red tinged water spirals down the drain. Psycho, I think with a shudder as the sight makes me recall the scene from the film of the same name.

I have cleaned and bandaged what I can, forced several glasses of water in to him and put him in to bed. He sleeps so hard and so noiselessly that I find myself watching to make sure he is still breathing from the wide cozy armchair next to the nightstand.

The moon is so bright outside the high windows that I can still see his cuts and bruises, now darker after several hours of blood pooling under his skin. I pull my feet up in to the chair and wrap my arms around my legs, put my face in to my knees, and finally allow myself to cry.

For a day he won’t speak about it, won’t heed my insistence that he to go to a doctor, go to the police, tell me the man’s name. He asks me why I have to know what happened, why it matters.

“I know that this is your first time having someone know about this thing you do, but it went wrong this time and so you have to tell me what happened.”

“Yes Miss. I… I showed up and… I guess I’ll just say the first thing that made me worry. He made me take all my clothes off, and then he took my clothes and phone away in to another room and put them somewhere I couldn’t see, and that’s when I started to get scared.”

He told me the rest so fast I barely had time to process it, the man’s refusal to let him leave, the immediate intense violence, unsafe impact play, unsafe asphyxiation bondage, unsafe scat play, violent and prolonged (but thankfully safe) oral and anal sex, how badly the man would beat him, tighten the rope around his neck when he said he wanted to stop, wanted to go home.

I find myself holding Pig’s face the way I do to comfort him when I interrogate and force out all of his secrets during our play, but this time he lets them go freely. This is the one time he isn’t crying, and it frightens me.

When he finishes, it‘s my own tears hitting my lap. “Please stay with me, please let me feed you,” he says, looking up at my traumatized face.

“Why would you ever want that from me again after what he did to you?” I whisper.

“I want it from you, from a woman I admire, and worship and love. Once I crossed the threshold of not wanting to be there anymore, of feeling so conscious and aware of what I was doing, of not being allowed to escape the horror of it by just melting into sub-space, I thought of you every minute of the way. You kept me going.”

“You need training and supervision. We need to get you to understand the difference between what we agree to do together and what other people are trying to take from you, it’s how we keep you safe.”

“I want to focus on just you, I want the way you get inside my head and care for me, I don’t want the cheap physical bullshit that men like him offer, not ever again.”

He kneels down and slides his hands up my legs, pushing up the hem of my skirt. “You don’t have to do that right now,” I say, tugging it back down.

“It’s all I’m good for, Miss. Please let me apologize to you, please let me show you that I love you and I want to serve only you.” I let him pull down my underwear, and I try as his lips touch my inner thighs and work their way up, to focus on the thought that maybe he will be okay, that I will be okay.

But I can’t hold it in. I stare out the tall industrial windows, and the tears roll down my cheeks and land in his hair.

After I left his messages tapered off again, panicking me as he soon dropped off the map completely. I go from angry to suddenly terrified that he had maybe been hurt again by the man or had hurt himself. No one knew about our relationship, knew we were even friends. Who could I ask to go find him and check on him? What reason could I give for why I knew him or why I cared? Should I fly out myself and find him?

It is an enveloping, opaque, liquid nitrogen cold silence. I become brittle, and when I see his cruising profile reactivate on Fetlife, I shatter.

Months later, I get a text message that he is in town for Folsom Street Fair, begging to see me again. I am disgusted, tell him that I can’t believe that after all of that, after abandoning me after everything we had together, he’ll just booty-call me because he’s horny and in town for a fetish event.

“Please Miss it’s not like that. We had so much potential and it was a mistake, it was wrong, I just freaked out.”

“You can’t treat women this way, our time and our attention and our dominance is valuable, and you treated me like a pro-domme you didn’t have to pay. You’re selfish and you broke my heart.”

A dozen more messages roll in, each begging and pleading more insistently than the next.

“Please Ava, there’s no one like you out there, I was an idiot. Please give me a chance to make you happy, I’ll never find anyone like you again.”

“No, you won’t.”

I shut off my phone, and I stare at the wall until I realize that the sun has set, and that I am crying in my dark living room.

He lied so much, I wonder if he even knows what the difference is anymore, what it means for something to be true or to be false, what it means to be what he is and what I am, the difference between giving and taking, between consensual kink and self-harm, between feeding and starving.

I only lied to him once, a lie meant to suppress my own degradation. When he asked if I loved him, and I said he could earn it, I already did.

Valley of the Dommes

Tales and lessons from a life as a dominatrix brought to…

Ava Ex Machina

Written by

Silicon Valley’s femdom sweetheart, security witch, memoirist, postmistress general.

Valley of the Dommes

Tales and lessons from a life as a dominatrix brought to the modern Silicon Valley workplace.

Ava Ex Machina

Written by

Silicon Valley’s femdom sweetheart, security witch, memoirist, postmistress general.

Valley of the Dommes

Tales and lessons from a life as a dominatrix brought to the modern Silicon Valley workplace.

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