The heat is making my brain swollen and raw. The sunburns on my back and shoulders are so ridiculously painful, but at the same time I marvel at the deadness of the skin, the way it pulls and puckers with my every movement. I love summer, I dearly do, but I sit in my apartment in shorts and nothing else, slowly sweating to death.

This heat has made me more than a little volatile, so a session spent trying to tattoo Killian Skarr was rather unsuccessful. I became convinced he was deliberately trying to mess up my linework, shifting and jerking, a foot stretched out there and an arm raised up behind the head there, and my lines were from neat and solid and black to spidery squiggles. I tried to confront him with it, asked him to hold still; oh, hold still he did, but it was a dangerous stillness, and the words he spoke, pitched to carry over the thrumming whine of the machine in my hand, were rough and abrasive. I was reduced to tears, hunched over his upper arm, my eyes blurred and my hands cramping from being in the same position for so long. I immediately cleaned up as he admired my work, calling my lines perfect and thick. When I told him I wanted to go back upstairs, he gazed at me levelly before relying in a flippant way, "Have fun."

Fun. I tried to muffle my heaving, ridiculous sobs as I raced up the three flights of stairs, and I barely had time to kick off my shoes and bury my face into a towel before he was upstairs beside me, stroking my face and leading me to the bed. Killian Skarr asked me whatever the matter was, why was I so hysterical; I told him, and he claimed I did not have enough respect for him. He said that perhaps he was being too lenient, for my behavior was certainly disrespectful.

He made me kiss his dick and pet it until it was hard, all the while stroking my face and kissing my forehead, muttering. I didn't understand a word he said, but I knew that I was in the wrong. I had expected him, my mentor in the tattooing arts, to be unnaturally still, but that is impossible for a devilish imp like my master; instead, he enjoys my frustration and prefers to torment me, "lightening" the mood as he puts it with a smile.

But the feel of him in my mouth, the taste of him, is overwhelming and renders me a bit dazed, and I'm like a limp doll as he flips me over and takes me from behind, his hand on my neck, unnecessarily holding me down and still. With every pump and thrust, my worship is reaffirmed, his domininion over me reestablished, and I know next time I will be stronger and more determined. That is what he does for me, he breaks me down and remolds me, and I love him all the more for it.

On a different note, promotions are kicking into high gear here at Torture Device central. I've created a Vampire Freaks account (username pixie_doll) in the hopes of wrangling some lovely gothy female flesh to be strapped in for videos. Killian Skarr himself has just finished editing a video of our lovely nude model and we will be posting it everywhere on the interwebs for all and sundry to see. Hopefully this will kick up a) even more interest in the Cuddlebunny, and b) a shitstorm. Even negative publicity is still publicity.

My day job is writhing, the head cut off of the great machinery that is public libraries. With our funding slashed, I fear I will be soon joining the unemployed, an event made even more terrible by the fact that the strip club I applied to waitress at did not hire me. But I perservere! Ride on, little pixie soldier!

Such a long time since an entry! What's wrong with me? Many things, but that is besides the point.

I've been writing a horrible novel in which young women are kidnapped and mercilessly tortured. It takes place entirely in a basement, and ideally I would make a movie of it. However, I'm losing faith in my novel. I've been reading some excellent fiction lately ("Choir of Ill Children" by Piccirilli, "High Life" by Stokoe, "End of Alice" by Homes) and it just drives home that my writing is fairly mediocre. However! I have hit upon a plan. I will write the novel then go back and rework it until it is a piece of literary genius. Or at least something people will read. I want to be immortal, and the only way to truly accomplish that is to become an author. I want to touch someone the way some books have touched me. If anyone has an interest in what I'm writing, message me and I'll send you the first part. Because I'm egotistical enough to think it's genius. Yes.

All A's in school. Hooray for me. I had fallen out of the practice of school, had forgotten it was easy to read teachers and to write papers specifically for them. It doesn't hurt that I enjoyed my classes. I like cataloging materials, coming up with those impossibly long Dewey and Library of Congress numbers, finding out what subject headings to assign. It's a puzzle, with very specific rules that you must remember. It's like trying to hold sand in your hand, remembering all the rules, they keep slipping away and I keep moving and re-cupping my hands, trying to shift it around to keep it all in.

Killian Skarr and I have been busy little bees, buzzing around the building. Perhaps ants would be more apt? Industrious workers. We've been tattooing like mad, he has had a real burst in clientelle, and luckily at least two have been darling little things. Kay has been back for more work, bringing with her other clients, among them a little beauty I'll call Star. She is small and curvy and bitchy, though lacking breasts but I've been drawn to that lately, the tomboyish quality of it. Or perhaps the fact that it makes her look like an even younger girl, just starting to develop. She is quite sassy and makes me laugh, having a number of strange endearing quirks, and Killian Skarr has taken a little bit of a shine to her. It helps that she's eighteen and impressionable, feeling very alone. He has plans for her, and I just hope I will be allowed to watch; she, though, seems to somewhat sense the danger that creates an electric halo around him and is sometimes rather reluctant, steering the conversation away from all matters sexual.

The website is finally going to happen. A new friend of mine is taking the place of the old webmaster (he was a lazy slob who would rather spend him time delivering pizza, pfeh), and she promises progress. I'm excited. The potential of finally having the ability to promote my dearest master is dizzying, the thought of posting fliers with the website on it and a photo of the -Primitive Torture Device- is thrilling. I dream of helping plan the eventual art show he will have when more pieces are completed, the magic of finally seeing the expression a crowd of people would make when seeing it in action.

I also thrill at the thought because, once the site is up, he will escort me to various fetish-themed clubs, where we will invite them to commission him for functioning torture art. I relish the thought of us dressing to the nines and maybe even picking up some sweet little goth girl to play with.

Killian Skarr has a renewed interest in smothering me until I pass out, his lovely calloused hands covering my mouth and pinching my nose until I start to panic. I woke up late one night to find him hovering over my bed, and it seemed like all the world was black, deep and dark and dreamlike, and all I could do was feel, feel the sensation of his cock driving into me without preamble and feel his breath on my neck until the panick overtook me and I kicked and flailed and grabbed his arms in terror. He would let me take a few shallow, panting breaths before covering me again, a delicious torture.

Everything is fucked and weird, and I feel the beginning of depression making itself known, the edges of my temporary happiness curling up at the edges like worn wallpaper. Underneath the walls are cracked and yellow with smoke and faded and let all sorts of bad things in. I can feel the deep self-loathing starting again, I start to question my value and worth. A tattoo I did needs retouched, and all I think is perhaps this is a sign I'm not cut out for it. My last final is coming up and I feel the pressure of having to memorize and regurgitate all of that stupid, pathetic nonsense, the numbers and words that amount to so much noise in my brain. And after that I need to find a second job. Everyone watches me expectantly, hopefully, and they ask what brilliant thing I'm going to do next, what trick is the puppy going to pull out next. Self-image issues and disgust at myself rises up and fills me, drowning me, an ocean of shit inside.

I can't sleep tonight, instead I read and ate some toast and waited to be sleepy, but I already know it's too late. I have to be up in three hours. Work. For what? $7.80 an hour? It seems so meaningless now, but I'm addicted to the stuff. To the books and clothes and toys and electronics. I'm a consumer whore, but I secretly love it because it fills me up and means I don't have to be alone with myself. When it gets dark in my head, I've taken to curling up in my closet with the door closed. The suffocating heat and claustrophobic space makes me feel like there's cotton inside my brain, like my skull is nicely packed with fluff so that I never have to worry about a bad thought getting in. But I try to leave that as a last resort, when I feel so fucked up I just want my face to melt off because crying isn't enough. Crying and whining aren't enough to express what I feel, so I want my body to start collapsing in the most horrible move-special-effects kind
of way. I'm too cowardly to inflict it on myself.

Whatever.

Today, a good day, actually. Driving with Killian Skarr we stopped at a number of scary little convenience and dollar stores, sight-seeing as much as errand-running. An ancient crone came up to me in a CVS and told me she loved me, which was more terrifying than the gutter trash yelling at the local bus stop about whatever the fuck drug addicts and losers yell about. At the dollar store a shocking pretty young girl with her mom, something we commented on. Killian Skarr suggested perhaps she bordered on too young, but to that I replied that it was better that way. We talked about how uninteresting most other people outside our strange family seemed anymore, how the average skin sack walking down the street was nothing worth investing time or energy into, but I commented that I would indeed like to try playing with him with a girl at our mercy. Would he want me to play victim or accomplice, though? I have dreams of holding a girl down while he fucks her.
But not in the mood I'm in now. With the portfolio nearing completion for the first -Primitive Torture Device- and the mirror under his belt, we will soon start hitting night clubs and fetish shows to draw more interest. Hopefully some young, lovely thing will want to play. Another dream, getting dressed up and escorting my beloved Master into a place where people would openly recognize the strength and power he innately possesses, and to be on his arm as his cosseted little pet.

Sex tonight was wonderful. I felt sick when I came home, horribly so, but after a mug of hot tea and snuggling naked in my bed waiting for him to come up, I felt better. But nothing cures like sex. Hearing his groans and grunts and feeling him thrusting into me is the only medicine that works for me anymore.

Sometimes I miss the Lexapro, and I can't remember why I went off of it. But that's just the addiction to normalcy talking.

So, to round out the evening in a more positive state of mind, the nude photos of our lovely, curvy model in the sculpture. It's impressive seeing her strapped into it, the way it contorts and distorts the body but somehow renders it even more beautiful in contrast to such a dark and wicked thing.

Yes, finally. This Wednesday the lovely girl with purple hair will be returning for a nude/semi-nude shoot. I can't wait, I'm madly in love with her gorgeous little body.

So. My life. Killian Skarr. What the fuck has been happening? These week has been ridiculously awful. Being out of anti-depressants (and simply too poor to purchase a refill), I've been unable to combat the ghosts that have haunted me since childhood. Depression swept in, scattering everything else, and I became something resembling a useless lump. This kind of mood seemed to infect the household, and Killian Skarr was also effected. He was angry, terribly angry, and I had never seem him in such a mood; he was violent and anti-social and sarcastic, and he took it out on everyone. He tried his best to retreat to his basement to work on his art, but life intruded, and that coupled with the fact that the mirror did not sell on Ebay made him nearly impossible to be around. I was terrified of him. The worst day was when I skipped dinner with Killian Skarr to visit a friend that lives nearby. This, in my mind, was something of a faux pas, since nothing could ever surpass the importance of my glorious god. When he returned home, I texted him, asking if he might be upset or mad that I had skipped dinner, to which he responded he was not. I am, however, nothing if not neurotic, and I constructed some kind of horrible scenario in which he was infuriated with me and playing sadistic mind games. He knows my darkest secrets and it felt like perhaps he was twisting them to torment me, shoving them back in my face in the worst manner possible.

This was all delusion.

But, I was inconsolable. I retreated to my closet where I constructed something of a tiny nest with a blanket and a stuffed animal and hid in the dark, sobbing hysterically and trying to decide the best way to kill myself. Carbon monoxide poising seemed the least horrible, but I had no garage in which to park my car (little did I know about running a hose from the exhaust to the inside of the car, oh well). I went to work the next day in a daze, my makeup unable to stay on my face for my tears washed it all away, and I was unable to concentrate, running into objects around the room. However, I was lucky enough to be able to spill my heart and pain out via text (how 20th century) to my beloved master, and we talked out what was bothering me. That night he came to me out of the dark and pulled me off of my couch, only to push me over onto the bed and drop my jeans, fucking me violently and quietly, his hand on the back of my neck so that I couldn't even lift my head. His dick is a perfect fit inside me, and I was ridiculously wet, to the point of needing a towel afterwards. My shirt and bra were shoved over my head and trapped around my arms, and I was pinned like a butterfly, trapped under his loving rough hands.

All is well.

Killian Skarr is still in a terrible mood, a dark tempest that wanders throughout the building, leaving destruction in his wake. I am much better, no longer depressed and instead working on the novel I have been putting off. I am afraid of him still, but I crave his dick so much that I don't care how angry he is. I'm willing to brave the storm.

And photos! You ask, I deliver. Aren't I a good girl?

... THE REVEALING!

Sort of.

It's a picture of one of the gorgeous girls we had pose recently for a photoshoot. I'll try to upload more. I was just so excited by this picture that I had to share it.

I'll post a real entry soon... Maybe...

Killian Skarr has completely another device, but not a -Primitive Torture Device-, no, this is the Objectifying lens #1. It's absolutely beautiful, it's a mirror framed in this bizarre, thorny, twisting wood sculpture that looks like bones and thorns. It's difficult to describe, obviously. He's selling it on Ebay to raise funds for future torture art (we are both distressingly poor).

The text below is what Killian Skarr wrote himself to describe the newest piece:



This authentic replication of an “Objectifying lens” was designed and executed by Killian Skarr, measures 32" x 48", and is fully functional for the restraint and torture of a human subject. For more information or to commission work, go to killianskarr.com, or nihilophile.livejournal.com, or killianskarr@gmail.com

1. Objectifying lens #1
2. Diabolical revelator
3. Optical Oraculator
4. Billy blind’s bride
5. Licking mirror

Coinciding with the invention of quality mirrors around 666, and fueled by the superstition that the soul is revealed in the reflection, the “Objectifying lens” (also known as, see above) was used in various parts of eastern Europe during the early dark ages... Thus the victim was shackled before a mirror of sinister appearance and made to endure the worst of tortures to their exposed buttocks.... ergo an expression of sublimity when staring into such an abyss is as unlikely as finding one innocent...


“...And so upon Thee Objectifying lens revealing thine guilt, thou art to be killed in a manner befitting the crimes of witchcraft... intercourse with the Devil himself... May god have mercy upon thy soul; because we certainly do not...”
– Archibald Crankenstein, Bishop of ‘Nova zagora’


“...With the grace of the Lord, thee Diabolical revelator utilized this 6th day of the 6th month, 666 Anno-Domini, to extract from 6 witches and 9 heathen's the truth regarding ...involvement of a most diabolical nature... ...congregating for nefarious purposes... hath revealed to the satisfaction of all present that ‘tis the Devil himself in the eyes of the accused...”
– Schleppo McMasters, Magistrate


“The superstitions of the masses regarding thee “Objectifying lens” is as appalling as it is logically incoherent. If the Lord wanted us to see who the devil possessed he would have made the means available himself, by natural means, as if grown from a tree or some other such process... ”
– Baruch Spinoza



Check it out... http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&Item=180345849715&Category=60442

We set up lighting equipment and did a for-real photoshoot the other night. (An inherited, intense interest in photography has given me access to a considerable amount of equipment, courtesy my family.) A model was expected to show up, but never did unfortunately; on the bright side, both Killian Skarr and I got some excellent shots of the -Primitive Torture Device-. The photos I'm posting now are just for fun, but I expect I shall be posting some of the real photos soon.

I hate people today. They're smelly and dirty and disgusting. It's repulsive when the speak and their ripe, rotten breath wafts towards me, or when they hand me their library cards and I can see all the grime covering it, strange stains and dark, smudgy fingerprints. Yuck. Killian Skarr often talks similarly, I think he's also repulsed by people, though his disgust seems pretty relentless. He would prefer, ultimately, to be alone in the woods, using his knowledge and strength to survive; but he has such as strong desire for beautiful girls, to dominate them, his lust for them, has kept him in society. That, and his other passionate desire: to bend the world and all reality to his will through his art. If the world will not conform to his standards and wishes, then he will take the strange, sick things in his brain and flesh them out for everyone to see, to warp and twist minds with it.

At least, that's how I perceive it, based upon some of the ranting he's done lately.

I want to be home, in my quiet little apartment where it smells nice and is clean and is dark and safe, with Killian Skarr and Beloved and all the dogs. I had a dream last night that everyone had left, but a tornado was coming, so I had to herd all those dogs into the basement. Upon daylight reflection, I probably could have just thrown some treats down the steps and been done with it. The strange thing was that tornados kept popping up at work; my coworkers mentioned them repeatedly, and then books on the subject kept coming in.

I wonder if it turns him on when I sit on his lap, when I wrap my arms around his neck and lean into him, crushing myself to him. I can feel him inhaling deeply, sometimes, his face buried in the crook of my neck. But the best is when I can feel his erection pressing through his jeans, it drives me wild when I reach down and feel it under my hand, alive and hot and ready for me to worship it. He says my cunt is so pink and sweet and cute, and so tight, he fits in so perfectly and then it's all heat and wetness and his weight on top of me, his groans in my ear. I like hearing him moan and grunt, the deep and throaty sounds he makes when I have him in my mouth or when he's fucking me. A few nights ago he came up and I pleasured him with my mouth, I sucked him with my head hanging off of the bed while he tasted and licked me, but we haven't actually had sex in a while. I want it. Tonight, he promised.

One time he called me his little animal, his wild animal, like a bacchalian worshipper mad with lust.

I looked through my shrine book for some select quotes, some of my favorites:
-I want to nibble your toes.
-Pixies such ambrosia from my phallus.
-The tool you need to keep you entertained is attached below my waist.

And, a picture of my beloved Master.

Master, my glorious, beauteous, brilliant master, my lord and god, center of all attention and affection and adoration. Let me suffer for your pleasure. Let me bask in the glow of any heed bestowed upon my unworthy self. Let me fulfill your every whim that I may rest at your feet, undeserving. Defile me as you see fit, use and abuse these pathetic remains. I live only in your gaze, and so I shall die only by your hands. Your voice, body, and touch are the tools of my enslavement, the bonds that encircle my mind, body, and soul, and without them I am bereft, deserted, forlorn and forsaken. You are marked by a madness born of brilliance and pain, you are resplendent, you are of a pure and holy derangement. I wish to delve into the shadows of your mind, to feel the sting of your sickest fantasy, to be the implement of your vilest vision. Stern and sweet and harsh and jovial, my comely possessor, my lovely master. Enact thy will upon my flesh and form, o lord.

And now, for your viewing pleasure, photos of the sculpture.

I'm not in the mind for musings, but here I am again, writing whatever I can think of. I want to keep a record of the things that happen in my life now that Killian Skarr has invaded me like a virus. I save most of the text messages he sends me, which requires me to go through my little phone's inbox and relieve it's text constipation (this creates an unpleasant visual in my brain of me scooping shit out of a farm animal, I don't know why). I have a book, a fairly decent-sized photo album which can hold two photos per page; it's the kind with a plastic sheet you pull back because it has some kind of sticky substance underneath to hold the photos in place. But my photo album does not hold ordinary pictures of my last summer vacation or Uncle So-and-so's wedding, oh no, my photo album contains quotes. It has some pictures--all of them of my beloved Master--but mainly it contains quotes from him, things he has emailed me or texted to me or said to me, quotes I have lovingly and painstakingly typed up and printed out in tiny size 8 font so that I might pack as much of him into it as possible. It's my shrine book to Killian Skarr, and it has a very special place of honor in my living room on the tallest bookshelf, a lord overseeing his kingdom. In it are also quotes I found that portray him best, as if the author is speaking of him directly from first-hand knowledge, and it even contains a prayer I wrote to him. I am a devout Killianist, and I whisper my prayers with slick pink lips and glassy big eyes. Though my god is sometimes a vengeful, strange, and insane god, he is also sometimes merciful to those that please him, and so he descends--deus ex machina--to fill me with his glory.

So scratch what I said, I guess I am in the mind for musings.

News, news! The first -Primitive Torture Device- in the series is near completion! In fact, it may actually be completely done, but it's hard to tell with Killian Skarr sometimes. He's been in a foul mood lately, so I don't feel comfortable asking; yet I know he goes into his basement workshop regularly to work with leather. Does this mean the cuffs are not done, even though there are in fact a full set of cuffs on it? Who can say? Not I. But we did take pictures of the lovely, glistening beast a few nights ago, which was difficult because I am a very, very amateur photographer who has no knowledge of lighting setup, and Killian Skarr is a demanding artist who would sometimes take the camera from me to take a series of shots. Sadly, my ineptitude regarding the lighting was enough to render most of the photos useless, the sculpture nothing but a blur. It was fun, though, crawling on the floor and climbing the gym equipment so that my head would brush the ceiling; some of the shots turned out rather nicely, and we will be posting at least a few here. At one point I did end up posing in all three potential positions for possible victims, including being strapped and locked into the main part of the device. Killian Skarr undressed me, piecemeal, slowing releasing a limb so that it might be freed from my clothing, and then he proceeded to spank me a little with his belt while rubbing my clitoris. His face is so beautiful and unholy when he's in his most masterly of moods; it's all planes and angles and the play of light on beautiful skin and copper hair. He was particularly sinister as he fucked me and I watched it in the mirror placed conveniently behind my head. There are some pictures of that, but I'm not sure yet if those will be posted... Ehe...

Killian Skarr messaged me and said "It is done. I may change some of the cuffs, but it is done."

On a similar note, he let me reciprocate a few days ago! We had a conversation again about me dominating men, which ended up with me digging through my clothes looking for a belt I used to wear; when I produced the leather belt, he showed me the best way to use it so that it hits flat on skin. If a corner or the edge of the belt hits, it is unsatisfying (usually) for the dominator and the dominated. Killian Skarr has often used a belt on himself, and I have heard that once Beloved even used a studded leather belt on him; these are not acts of submission, but rather of strengthening, of enduring. Once I was sufficiently trained, he walked over to my bedroom doorway and stretched out, his hands on the doorframe as he leaned his weight forward, shirtless, dressed only in his jeans. I am ridiculously in love with Killian Skarr's back; he has broad shoulders and a narrow waist, with thick arms and a smattering of freckles across his shoulder blades from going shirtless in warmer weather. Whenever he is shirtless, I find myself leaning against his back and kissing it, stroking it, feeling the warmth and strength there. It makes me want to melt into his flesh. So as he stood there, I--naked except for a pair of panties--proceeded to rain down blows on his back. I stretched the belt out straight between my hands and, like a teeter-totter, tilted them back, keeping the leather even, and then whipped it down with all my strength. It was so deeply satisfying, a warmth and joy spread through my limbs and my head, I felt drunk with pleasure. And the marks! As I watched, solid rectangles of red, abused flesh arose, reminders of the pain I inflicted (which, for him, was quite minimal); I couldn't resist stroking them, which induced more pain. I wanted to lick them. By the time we stopped, I was giddy and giggly and fell into his arms, squealing. It was so much fun.

This entry had been written a couple of weeks ago, but it had been pulled down from the blog because the sorrow was too fresh. Killian Skarr actually broke his foot in a fit of rage and depression, storming through the apartment and destroying things not long after this all occurred.

However, when we discussed it recently, he said that all encounters with death much be documented.

So here it is...




I'm actually writing this from Killian Skarr's own computer, oddly enough. Sitting here, in silence, while he works on cat-saliva-covered speakers behind me, strange red devils with third eyes staring at me from his background. I don't usually touch his computer, much less write entries in front of him (or behind him, as the case may be), but today it calls for it. Today is special in a fucked-up kind of way.

Today Killian Skarr killed one of his dogs.

For the past several weeks, a pitbull has been living with both Beloved and Killian Skarr in their apartment, sharing the confined space with numerous other dogs rescued from the pound. The pitbull was actually very sweet and seemed completely unaggressive (note the "seemed"); he absolutely adored Killian Skarr, followed him with his little black tail wagging, his tongue hanging out with a silly grin on his big face. And what a big head. That dog was absolutely pure muscle, completely meat, but he never growled or snapped. In fact, I would often talk baby-talk to him and he would try to give me kisses, and I was completely unafraid. I think Killian Skarr came to really value that dog. He has one dog, Plutarch, that is his own precious dog, a solitary and grumbling mutt that watches the house from the back porch, but I believe that this pitbull was becoming important to him as well. He often said that, when he has a studio finally, he would like a dog like that pitbull to watch it when he was gone.

The pitbull loved Killian Skarr as well. He was recently neutered, but that didn't stop him from getting an erection while staring intensely at Killian Skarr. Honestly, it was a bit foul, that slimy-looking red needle of a dick coming out, pointing like an arrow, all the while his big, moist, bovine eyes locked on his master.

Unfortunately, the pitbull just couldn't help himself when it came to other dogs. Four fights with three different dogs now. One could make excuses for the poor thing, since most of the time it really, honestly seemed like he didn't instigate it. But the problem came from the fact that he simply wouldn't let go. He was so powerful and his jaws so strong that I actually witnessed Killian Skarr dragging the pitbull and another dog that he was biting across the entire length of the kitchen. Killian Skarr actually suffered a deep bite in his calf and currently is suffering from bites on his thigh and arm; everytime the dogs would begin he fight he would jump in, howling, roaring, a veritable animal himself, and try to drag the dogs apart. I heard from my third floor apartment his deep screaming and cursing first hand. His voice, when he's angered like that, deepens and lengthens, it fills the air around him with tension and fear. Even Beloved can't help herself when she hears him yelling and approaches his with caution.

After each attack, having the pitbull put down was discussed, but it was delayed each time. He was such a sweet dog normally, completely loving and obedient, that it was hard to even entertain the thought of him lying on a cold, steel bed with a vet filling his veins with poison.

The most recent fight--and Killian Skarr's most recent wounds--occurred last night. I could hear him bounding up the stairs, his pounding boots shaking the wooden frame, and he burst in with blood covering his jeans and pouring from his arm. Apparently, when he took the gauze off in front of one of the other building tenents, blood actually squirted out in an arc from his arm. When I saw the wound on his arm up close, there was actually meat--thick, bright crimson muscle--poking out of the holes.

He looked at me and without any qualms said that the pitbull had to be put down.

So tonight I drove Killian Skarr and his pitbull out to the woods by the apartment, with his shotgun and his newly-purchased slugs in his backpack. I sat for a minute in the car and watched as the leash was dropped and the pitbull did not run away, he simply continued to gaze adoringly at Killian Skarr and kept by his side.

I wasn't there when he shot him, but I heard some of the details. Killian Skarr had made a sort of silencer out of a pillow and tape which apparently kept it quiet enough to not worry about someone calling the police. He tied the pitbull to a log and pressed the gun against his big head; the pitbull just kept wagging his tail. When the gun went off, the dog's body just fell straight down, quick and painless. That was why Killian Skarr shot the dog himself, because he didn't want the pitbull's last days to be spent in a pound, or even his last minutes to be spent alone in a vet's office. Plus, as he said when he came back home, to be a complete human one must culminate a certain amount of ruthlessness.

The pillow came back with him, and there was a distinct metal stink to it and some traces of blood.

He said that he didn't want me there, because he wanted to protect me from hard experiences like that; he wants to shelter and coddle me little the sweet little pet I am. I appreciated it, because watching him come back from the woods with the gun, shovel, and leash and no dog was difficult enough. I want his protection, I want him to keep the harsh realities of life away.

The pitbull is now buried in the woods. Killed by the hand he loved, but killed in a gesture of love.

When Killian Skarr came back, we both simply gazed at each other for a while. It's quiet now in the apartment except for the sound of the keyboard, but it's a welcome silence.

I spent the day at work, 10 to 6, all the useful hours. I work in a library, where I'm surrounded by decay and entropy; everything, from the patrons to the books, is old and musty and covered in a fine layer of dust. Not to say there isn't a handful of young Catholic schoolgirls that will wander through our doors or the occasional juvenile delinquent looking for a rest.

It's cold out and hot inside. I'm on the verge of sweating, and every pore feels like a mouth puckering for a kiss.

Killian Skarr left with Beloved for an all-day trip three states away. He forgot his cell phone so I can't text him except in an indirect way through Beloved, which makes writing obscene mash notes a little difficult. I don't know what I'll do with myself while he's gone; most of my free time is spent reading and waiting to hear from him. For my phone to cheep like a sweet bird to let me know I may venture down to his apartment or that he is on his way up to mine. Luckily, last night we had sex even though he was exhausted; he laid there while I buried my head in his lap and rode his cock, and he had me call him Daddy again, which he knows I love. It's strange tasting myself on him; but I suppose it's stranger still when I taste Beloved on him.

Kid, the new second floor arrival here to replace our dearly departed Mormon, is fascinated with both Beloved and I. He's young, very young, and I believe Beloved represents the powerful, sophisticated older woman to him; they speak regularly--he has the audacity to come and go as he will through their apartment--and during their conversations she shames him with her knowledge and patronizes him when he tries to reciprocate. Killian Skarr eggs him on, whispering as he hovers behind him that Beloved is interested, keep going, keep trying. Kid thinks he's smooth, which is entertaining to watch as he tries to keep the glee out of his eyes when he talks to one of us. He's absolutely fascinated by the sex I have with Killian Skarr; he grills me regularly about what sort of bondage we do and what acts we engage in. He can hear us when I moan and cry from his apartment, and he's nearly begged to watch us. But recently he's brought up the thought of having me dominate him, which is an unusual turn; most men want me to be their little baby doll when they see me. He wants me to tie him up and whip him and possibly even anally fuck him. Maybe he wants to be dominated by a little sweet-faced girl. To be honest, I'm not particularly fond of Kid, he's just another fuck-up drug addict, but the thought of beating him with all the might and rage in my frame is enticing; I've daydreamed about wearing my heavy boots and kicking him in the stomach and face, about taking my belt the way Killian Skarr uses his and putting deep bloody lashes on his skin.

Killian Skarr is actually enthusiastic about my potential dominatrix activities, but he is of the mind that I should charge for my services, and quite a high price at that.

Oh, I miss him, I miss him. I'm glad he has time to spend with Beloved alone, away from the apartment, but still... Even the dogs are confused and distraught; they bark and howl at the blowing of the wind and the people that wander the sidewalks. Any minute now I'll start up myself, barking as I work, howling at the patrons.

We were playing with a camera and the sculpture...

My mind is still extremely fragmented, so please bear with me. Last night I ate a brownie Killian Skarr had made with an incredible amount of weed in it; it was a very unpleasant experience. Well, at first I was giggling a lot, but once I was on my own I started to be afraid. It was so intense and it had come so quietly, sneaking up behind me like a monster, that I thought it would never end and I wouldn't be able to see straight or think properly ever again; I kept thinking that surely I was going to be locked up. I can remember Killian Skarr helping me into bed, because I was convinced that if I could just sleep then it would all be over so much faster; he also drifted in and out of my apartment and spoke to me, but it's not very cohesive. He talked about someone famous who only did weed once and hated it. He told me that it would pass and that I would learn something from it, something about myself. He hugged and kissed me and told me I was fragile; at the same time, it seemed like he was waiting for something, he watched me with wide eyes that tore into me, a barbed bullet.

I did actually have enough reasoning power left to be able to tape myself talking with my cellphone, but it's just a black screen with disjointed phrases coming out of nowhere; I told myself to shut up a lot. I was very angry at myself, and it seemed extremely important to not act high.

I've only been stoned once before and that was purely accidental; I was in the room when Killian Skarr and the second floor roommates (Beloved's brother and his new roommate, a very young and immature boy I'll refer to as the Kid) used a vaporizer while I was in the room. I didn't think anything was wrong until Killian Skarr led me up to my apartment and fucked me in the living room. I remember I didn't like how bright the lights were and that there was a spider on the ceiling, and I ended up crying as he rammed his dick into me. In response, he made me tell him I loved him, he commanded me to say it over and over, which I did, sobbing.

Recently there was some talk about possibly having a new girl to play with. She's a friend of Beloved's brother, Kay, only nineteen and involved in an empty, worthless relationship with a crackhead that would find himself waking up in strange beds with strange girls after a binge. Killian Skarr has done a number of tattoos on her and the entire time he would whisper insidiously in her ear that she needed to be done with the crackhead and maybe she could come try out the -Primitive Torture Device-. The device sits in his study where he does his tattoos, lurking in the corner, and everyone that enters the room is drawn to it, invariably wants to sit on it. It was a gravity-like pull. Kay was very up for some fun with my master and me until he told her what would be involved: bondage and pain and agony. She texted me to ask if he ever has just plain I-like-you sex, which made me giggle. So Kay, a potential disciple under the banner of Killian Skarr's madness, ran away, hid her head in the sand. Interestingly, this makes me feel much stronger. My adoration is so deep that I would do anything he desired, and my will over my body is strong enough to command it to do as he demands.

On the bright side, we're bartering tattoos for website design, so a real website for Killian Skarr should be up soon! We've even contacted semi-professional models to come and take official photos in the sculpture. Oddly enough, I already knew one of the girls from before I had even met Killian Skarr, which is very exciting because I already had thought she was incredibly cute and I had wanted to fool around with her. Maybe, is she likes him, we can all play.

I've decided to write in my will that, when I die, Killian Skarr will get one of my legs to do with as he pleases. He's mildly obsessed with cannibalism, but it's more than that. He confided to me that when we was little, he would take girl dolls and hide in the corner with them and bite their legs, all the while apologizing.

I meant to put this at the beginning of this entry, but my thoughts are kind of flowing along strangely harmonious connections, so here it is at the end. Sorry... But I have to say thank you to Robin Bougie (http://bougieman.livejournal.com/) for posting about my blog! I had messaged him because I read "Cinema Sewer vol. 1" and was absolutely wild about it. Really, the message I sent it almost embarrassing, it was definitely a fangirl rant. He said such nice things!!! When I read his review I screamed out loud, hehe. It's funny because everyone reading this probably came to my blog via his website, so they already know the whole story, but still, I was so ridiculously excited! Plus, so many friend requests! And comments! I can't even handle it. Impetus to write more!

And, as promised, pictures of me with my new (well, new last month...) cuffs! I find it interesting that whenever I wear them, girls are drawn to me and feel compelled to tell me how good I smell. I wore one yesterday, and every time I would get a quick tease of Killian Skarr's special smell on them, I would find myself getting excited, I would be wet and my heart would start pounding. It's not quite patchouli, there's more to it; he told me Beloved bought it for him at a carnival. Appropriately bizarre.



Yes, he put it in Hanukkah paper...

From Killian Skarr: "My salvation is contingent upon enslaving others."

A few nights ago Killian Skarr fucked me, and he had me call him Daddy. He called me his sweet little girl, his good little girl, and I told him how much I love Daddy's cock inside me.

First, he started to fuck me and his face changed, his expression twisted and I could see his eyes in the light that spilled into the bedroom through the open door, and he held me down and choked me, viciously. I gasped and panted, air trickling down into my lungs, and I decided I wanted to play, so I pretended to struggle and kick, getting my feet on his thighs and trying to push him away. Unfortunately for me he pulled out, but then he told me to suck him, and while I was down there, he asked me if I liked sucking Daddy's cock.

It was such an incredible thrill, my muscles clenched and I was even wetter, my heart pounding. He wanted me on top, then, and we talked dirty while I rode him. He wanted me to bend down and kiss him after I came once, which was lovely.

He is, in a way, my Daddy. Killian Skarr my protector and my caregiver, he's the one who gives me exactly what I need whether it be sex or anything else. He's my Lord and my God and my Father, and I do worship him so much I want to carve his name into my flesh over and over again.

I'm wearing a pair of cuffs he made for me for my birthday, and they're a symbol of his complete ownership over my body and soul and heart. I would die if he asked me to.

Killian Skarr often communes with the sculpture...

Further evidence of severe mental illness...

It is indeed perverse for a human being to spend so much of himself upon such an obsession...