Oh my, shortly after sending off the last entry I started writing this one! Of course, I did not finish it until just tonight, so I might be a tad hazy on the details... If I'm not absotively one hundred percent accurate, you'll just have to forgive me my lapse.

I recently acquired a "punk" skirt which, to me, looks like nothing so much as a schoolgirl skirt (ah, plaid). If I bend over in it, it shows off the bottom half of my ass ever-so-nicely, and it's such a sweet little view. I'm excited at the thought of wearing it for Killian Skarr, my hair in pigtails, my makeup dark and slutty, bent over sucking his lovely cock while he watches my ass in a mirror. Mmm. I love dressing up and role playing for sex, it's thrilling.

The website I am trying to sell the Killian Skarr shirts through is being a complete asshole and refuses to post them. So if you desire one with all your dark heart and withered soul, if you paypal me the amount I will happily send it to you. And, I feel I should mention this limited-time-only deal: I will also send you a large sticker AND masturbate while wearing the shirt (if you should so desire)! What a fantastic deal. When I mentioned this to Killian Skarr, he suggested I take pictures of the act to send along with the shirt. Hmm, pictures of me fingering myself? Perhaps I could be persuaded...

As I stated in the last entry, Killian Skarr got a second job, this one being night shift. I knew it would be difficult since the night is usually when we see each other; after I'm done with work he comes up to my apartment and we talk and listen to music and fuck, it's really lovely. But it's over now, at least until the Dirty Show in February. Some nights he is off from work, but he is usually crazed and frustrated and his mind is consumed by his art. Being unable to work on his art is not only killing him, it's killing all of us.

At any rate, Miette came on a Wednesday. I thought Killian Skarr would still be working those nights, so I was quite surprised to find he had taken off some time to accommodate her. At first I was upset; I had hardly seen him since he started this job, but he is willing to take time off for one of his other young ladies! But, I realize she is a guest and as such she needs special attention. On top of which, how else is he to overwhelm with his magnetic charisma or exert his influence unless he is willing to spend time with her.

I'm convinced that he is of the same breed as Rasputin and Charles Manson. However, he is too obsessed with his art to really work at being a cult leader. He has mentioned that perhaps my job should be recruitment...

At any rate, I found myself becoming jealous. Surely it's a disappointment to him, especially when I obviously have no issue with Beloved and, in fact, am rather fond of her. (I harbor a little dream of holding her hand and cuddling up to her when we are all together, but I would never be so bold.) My jealousy is a purely gut reaction, instant and sharp; it cuts me, and it drives me to try to cut someone else back. I end up saying mean and spiteful things, always regretting them later when I have calmed down and regained my own senses. I've discovered that private time alone, hidden in my closet, allows me to overcome these unwanted feelings, but it certainly seems pathetic to think of myself curled up in the dark corners under my skirts and dresses, sobbing into a stuffed animal.

The first night of Miette's visit I was awoken by a text telling me to come downstairs. Everything was dark and silent except for quiet strains of music. In the study, Miette was tied up artistically to the couch, her naked and slender little body only lit by the blue glow from the monitor. Killian Skarr--"Daddy" to me, especially during fucking--came and removed my dress and underthings, brought me to the couch. He had said before he wanted to fuck me in front of her, and so he did, burying himself in my wet pussy as I leaned over her; I gripped the back of the couch and listened to her without really hearing. At some point he produced a dildo and had me fuck her with it while she sucked his beautiful dick; it was fun to see the changes in her reactions with the changes of pressure and speed, it was a wonderful feeling of power.

We shared his cock, we both were obviously mad for it. Having been tested, I was allowed to experience the sheer decadence of bareback sex, while poor Miette had to have the condom, something neither parties seemed to relish particularly. Condoms are so unpleasant, and they leave the most peculiar rubber glove taste behind. I love the feel of every ridge and bump on his dick, I can feel it when he enters me slowly, and a condom must surely diminish that.

Miette begged for his dick, though, she begged for sex so sweetly, and he is such a benevolent master when in the mood, that he gave it to her. After some time he untied her and fucked her while I stroked his body; it turned me on to see him exerting such male dominance over another girl, to watch his ass pistoning and the muscles in his arms and chest clenching.

To end, he fucked me over her face before allowing her to swallow his cum. After all, my pussy is sweet and pink and tight, and I know my devilish prince loves it so.

The next two nights I was told Killian Skarr needed alone time with her, which hurt a little but I acquiesced. Interestingly, though, they went badly; I was not privy to the details of what happened, obviously, but he was in quite a foul mood and seemed agitated, restless. Quite impressively, while she slept he would end up in the basement working on his latest creation, a spreader bar.

Last night was perhaps the oddest of all. Miette was quite drunk which seems to have an odd effect on her; she becomes talkative and friendly, but her moods swing with wild abandon. She was to be branded again, touching up the last one on her neck, so she laid in the tattoo chair face down and tried to compose herself for the coming agony. Killian Skarr asked me to take photographs, which I was happy to oblige, snapping away at him as he talked and set up. It irritated him, though, and he quickly snatched it away from me and started flashing it in my face, filling up my camera with my little pixie mug.

After a time, Miette leaped off of the chair and ran back up to her room on the second floor, saying she needed to compose herself. Killian Skarr hesitated, then excused himself; he needed to make sure she was okay. In the midst of this, the most bizarre pounding sound came from her room. Curiously, it continued for quite some time before there was silence. Beloved and I were conversing, our eyes inevitably drawn to the ceiling. In the end, I retired to my room, feeling unwell and incredibly exhausted.

To my surprised, Killian Skarr awoke me at some point in the night with a kiss, saying he missed me dearly. We had spent so little time together it seemed, none of it really that personal. But it was business, in a way, his business, business of passion and pain, and I had no right nor desire to get in the way. I asked what had happened and he said she had gone insane, requiring him to physically restrain her, during the course of which she spit in his face. Then she broke down and cried in his arms.

I haven't seen her since she left the room, though. I had to whisk myself away to work the day of her departure, and I can't help but wonder how it went. Perhaps I'd rather not know, given my knee-jerk jealous reactions. I'm such a fool, sometimes.

My, what a long post! Well, I've finally finished this, I've recounted the visit as well as I could. It's late on a Thursday and Killian Skarr is off at work, doing whatever it is he does around midnight, and all I know is he is not here. Here to protect me, to fuck me, to tuck me into bed and love me. But at the same time, I don't feel any great distance, just a great longing.

Now, some pictures. The newest invention, a spreader bar that leaps opens.







Soon you will be seeing images of me--yes, ME--in my schoolgirl outfit, cuffed to this bar so that you might see that lovely hint of my shapely bottom... Ooo...

Given some free time at work, I've decided to start tippy-tapping away in preparation for posting an entry. Hopefully this will start a trend, but knowing me, it's unlikely.

However! I posted links just recently regarding Killian Skarr's sale of certain sexual items. They've sold! I'm so curious if the buyers are one of the readers of this blog. If so, I would love to know; however, I also understand that some people might be a tad embarrassed to reveal this kind of naughty little secret. BUT you've read all about my naughty little secrets, what's a little sharing between friends?

Anyhoo. They sold! I'm positively ecstatic, when he told me I screamed out loud. And, keeping the vein of good news, he's decided to enter his art into the Dirty Show in Detroit! I have no doubts he'll be accepted, but now it's a matter of quantity. He's hard at work most days and nights in his basement, absolutely furiously working on his art. I've been in his strange, ice-cold workroom, and it's such a disorganized mess that I'm amazed he can find any of his tools. There are forgotten projects and wood shavings and tar and broken glass littering the floor, coating it, and it's unbearably cold; I can't stand being down there for very long.

However, he has taken on a second job, and it's not only taking him away from his art, but from me as well. It's unbearable, there's hardly any sex and the only contact I end up having is from texting (I am an avid texter). I don't even get tucked in to bed anymore! I can't stand it!! He claims that once he debuts at the Dirty Show he'll be able to quit this new job. I hope so. He had just sold the pieces online and made a pledge to work on his art harder than ever before when the call came for him to start working. Such bad timing! It's definitely a catch-22. He needs the money to buy supplies for his art (though, honestly, he does steal most of it) and try to head off the looming threat of poverty, but at the same time all this working means he's not creating art!

On another, similar note, he's mentioned perhaps using me to model his art. I think I would rather enjoy that...

Miette has visited for a few days, I'll be writing a separate entry about that. Quite a lot has happened, though I feel strangely removed from the proceedings. I'm not sure how much to reveal, I'll have to ask Killian Skarr about it. I have plenty of mixed emotions, since it's ended rather oddly and some of it seems to be my fault. No, I shouldn't say that, it's just me being somewhat vindictive I suppose. Ultimately, we're all mad here.

Look alive! Lovely luscious links to lighten your long listless life!

"the Stifler, or the heathens headdress" bit, blindfold (including a picture of me modeling it!)

Leather Restraints after Torquemada (this has my hands!)

the Fanny flogger

You need to at least read the descriptions, they include quotes from serious professionals in their fields, such as Father I. Assslap... Or at least look at the pictures and tell me how I should be hand model.

You should all friend me on myspace. You know you have a myspace page, don't try to deny it. I'll come and find you...

http://www.myspace.com/pixie-baby-doll

The website is live! Well, somewhat. At least there is an actual presence on the web now. www.killianskarr.com Tell your friends, friends. Spread the good word.

It's been a long time since I updated, but at least I have the excuse of being busy. School has started again, and with it all the pains and joys (minimal joys) of homework. However, Killian Skarr and I have also been busy, but independently and--sadly--separately.

He has been busy with creation, as have I. I've finished my novella and dumped it just as quickly (it was painfully clichéd). However, on Killian Skarr's end, at least his efforts have not been in vain.

At my behest, he sculpted a gorgeous skull, a Mexican Day of the Dead skull, complete with beautiful floral decoration. At the top you can see a heart carved, along with the brains underneath. And the jaw! I need a video of the jaw, it works! He added a clever hinge so that, when opened, it slams shut with a pleasing "clack." It's so big and heavy and beautiful, I don't even feel right having it, I have no where to display it, just a nasty old black table in the center of my living room. Well, someday I will have the space to accurately show it off. I can tell he lovingly carved it and took care of it, and it is just as dark and red and sinister as his other art.







I myself have started creating a demon mask for Killian Skarr. He wrote a novel that I had the privilege of reading, and the protagonist (well, more of an antagonist in light of his criminal behavior) wore a demon mask during some particularly brutal scenes of S&M and murderous mayhem. I found myself inspired but unfamiliar with sculpting techniques until now. It's a bit misshapen and bizarre, but it has promise.

I also created some promotional t-shirts and stickers for a convention I will be attending this weekend, though the turnover time seems to be longer than previously expected. http://www.zazzle.com/takeowizard However, the Content Management team, the same people that have held up production of my items, have not yet approved anything because of the nudity (even though their policy is to allow nudity if it's artistic). Good golly.

There has actually been less sex than before, which is shocking. We both were struck down with illness. Killian Skarr and Beloved both were hit with a particularly bad case of the flu (I was concerned that perhaps it was the nefarious Swine flu --insert dramatic music--) while I was rendered weak thanks to pink eye. How appropriately childish, a disease that hasn't effected me since childhood. I'll admit that while depressing, a little break did make sex seem even better and I feel more sensitive to his ministrations...

At any rate, before we all became diseased, one night I received a text that woke me up from him. It commanded me to get up and shower. I whined a little but eventually did it, shivering and confused and miserable with exhaustion. I curled up in bed again and awaited him, the anticipation making everything so much worse. It was dark and evil out, and he came like a ghost, a poltergeist, noisy and destructive. He beat me, spanking me viciously, even using his belt for a small time. I honestly have trouble remembering it, the dreamlike quality of the night leaving me with feelings and fear but little else. I remember he said things to me that made me cry, and the pain was particularly sharp in contrast to the languid quality of my sleep-heavy limbs. Covered in sweat and tears and other fluids, bleeding a little because I had been fucked viciously while still dry, I took another shower, sniveling, unable to stop crying. I can't even remember how the evening ended, if he tucked me in lovingly or if he left quickly.

The next day I felt nervous and shy around him, my respect and dread and awe all overwhelming me again, taking away the quiet complacency that had infected me.

Then sickness.

I feel so much better. I think I need these sessions, this pain, every so often, to wake me up and remind me of who--of what--I'm dealing with. Sometimes he is so loving and sweet, cuddling and cosseting me, treating me like his little pixie doll baby queen, that I forget that, ultimately, he is a madman.

Continuing the visit of Miette! Something a bit de Sade in the title...

The next day I was not prepared as early as I should have been, and Killian Skarr and Miette traipsed off to the store without me, leaving me a bit shaken. The night before had been so magical. I was even more madly in love with my commanding master than ever before, he had ordered and I had obeyed, I had assisted him in the abusing and whipping of Miette, I was vital and important and beloved. This day, however, I was feeling off. I attributed it to lack of sleep and finished getting ready before the three of us headed out to the woods for a nice walk.

The woods were very pretty--despite the sounds of traffic nearby--and we found a little river flowing nearby. I wanted to explore it further so we went down the big hill and around slippery rocks to find the tiny "lake" the river formed, nestled amongst and protected by a bridge and huge trees. Killian Skarr and I had dressed as usual, jeans and comfortable shoes, but poor Miette had only brought fancier clothes and was forced to hike with us in boots with the most enormous soles. Killian Skarr had to help her repeatedly, and again I felt a sting, wondering if I was being too tomboyish and if it was less cute than if I had been more helpless.

The day wore on similarly, and I felt increasingly poor, actually dreading the branding of Miette's neck (an inverted cross).

When we came back, she drank heavily as we sat in the study, waiting for Killian Skarr to finish creating the iron he would use to brand her with. By the time we were all ready, she was rather rip-roaringly drunk and I was feeling old and miserable and decidedly un-cute. I was the cameraman, and nothing else. I was to videotape as he bound her to the Cuddlebunny and spanked and kissed her, fingering her while she was blindfolded, her head rolling back into his shoulder. The intimacy made me ill, and I was trembling. Finally he began to heat the brand, letting her test the hot metal against her own skin of her thigh. She jumped and laughed, but when he placed the cold brand against her skin on her neck, she began to shriek. And when the hot iron, glowing red, was put against her skin, the sounds she made were unearthly and disturbing, howls and wails and moans that I didn't think such a small creature could make. If anyone could be described as a witch, Miette could, she has more witchiness in her than anyone I have ever met before, she is strange and wicked and shy and can summon demons to yowl through her throat. (I mean this entirely as a compliment, make no mistake.)

When it was all said and done, I stopped the camera and Killian Skarr unbound her. I was intent on running to the restroom, unable to keep from crying any more, but Miette was ahead of me, so instead I went into the study. Keep in mind, when I am deeply upset, I tend to retire to my dark closet. So, in a mild fit of panic, unwilling to be seen, I crawled under his desk and hid there, muffling my own wailing with Killian Skarr's discarded shirt.

I could hear the quiet mumbling of their talking as he tattooed a brand he had done on her ass months before, so I decided now to escape. Unfortunately, Killian Skarr saw me and called out my name; I replied with a ridiculously lame excuse that I didn't feel well, and fled out the door.

Killian Skarr, my darling beloved master, came after me.

He kissed and hugged me and stroked my face and told me that I had nothing to be jealous of. I knew that as I know it now, but my own insecurities are hard to surmount. Thankfully, he is a loving and patient man when I am crazier than normal, though I admit I waited in vain for him to come tuck me into bed when he finally let me go upstairs to my apartment. As it turned out, they stayed up until 8 am talking before retiring to her room where she sucked his lovely dick.

We saw Miette off on the bus the next day. That morning I had gotten up early and went to the mall, thinking to buy something fun. I ended up with quite a lot of lovely fluffy skirts that make me feel ridiculously adorable and show off my surprisingly sweet little legs. Pleased, I accompanied them both to the station. Killian Skarr held my hand like I was a little princess, making me feel even better, and he hugged and kissed me even more. All seemed much brighter than it had the day before.

The next night, though, he punished me. He punished me for my doubt and for forgetting to contact the young lady designing the website. I did not need to be held down, I clung to the side of the bookcase as he paddled me with his hand until I cried from guilt and promised to do better.

It's been over a week now and I'm feeling even closer to him than before. He's placed strict rules on me regarding what I eat and drink, with punishment if I eat poorly or if I don't exercise. There are also rules regarding if I decide to sleep with anyone else, which is unlikely. Rewards for if I do well at a task set before me, if I help him, or if I am extra cute. It's comforting to know that he's watching over me and looking out for my best interest, though some people would misunderstand. But it only reinforces that I am important to him and that he loves me, that I am his one and only little pixie doll of cuteness.

I had forgotten how terrifying the sound of my master's belt can be.

Killian Skarr has a little friend, a pretty girl from Pennsylvania we shall call Miette because she requested it, having read the blog. Miette is short and slender and dresses in the most fantastic gothic outfits, really, I'm incredibly jealous of her gorgeous wardrobe and how beautiful she looks in the clothes. She has adorable, bizarre mannerisms and is all-around a pleasure. She lives oh-so-far-away but had stayed for the weekend; she took a bus and stayed in the empty apartment on the second floor (Kid has moved out, leaving a mess behind him). I feel bad Miette had to stay there, as it smells incomparably like dirty boys and cats. But she cannot stay in my little apartment, oh no, this is my private sanctuary.

Thursday night, Killian Skarr molested and whipped her; I could hear the squeaking of the ancient sanitarium bed through the vents, and it made me horny. To be honest, I was afraid that this would arouse jealousy in me, but it has not. In fact, Friday night we all played, and I did not feel the slightest twinge of jealousy, in fact, it was madly arousing.

He put bolts in the floor in front of the Licking Mirror so that he could tie Miette's sweet long legs to them, and he attached her to the many hooks jutting coldly from the mirror, and he commanded her to look in the mirror and see how lovely she is. Miette is shockingly defiant, to the point of biting viciously if he came within range. So instead he teasing her with finger and tongue, ordering me to do so as well, and when she was bad he spanked her and whipped her with his belt. It was brutal, she refused to submit, instead hanging off of the mirror with shaking legs and a welted, fire-hot bottom. Sometimes she would go mad, proclaiming she hated him while flailing around viciously, trying to yank herself free or perhaps rip the mirror from the wall.

Then on to the Cuddlebunny, where she was strapped in. As I licked and nibbled at her pretty little cunt, Killian Skarr entered me from behind and fucked me. He then had me sit at his feet and suck his cock--and god, how I love to do it--as he fucked her with a strange-looking wiggly toy. I could see Beloved out of the corner of my eye, standing outside of the room and watching, her arms folded across her chest, judging, appraising.

I had forgotten the odd taste girls have. It's so unlike boys, it's more metallic and almost chemical. I dislike my own taste rather a lot.

The games ended when poor Miette's hands and pelvic muscles went numb. Killian Skarr, the consummate gentleman when necessary, drew her a warm bath and we sat with her as she let her muscles--viciously clenched the entire time--relaxed.

After some time we all got ready and went out for a very late night dinner. Both Miette and I managed to spill our juice, and the waitress called him "Baby" and "Cutie."

When we came home, I changed into my night gown and he tucked me into bed with a kiss, saying he was proud of me and I did a good job.

Saturday night she was branded, and it was taped. Perhaps it shall be posted here... One hopes... But I shall definitely post a blog about Saturday--it deserves its own post.

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.