BDSM Makes Me Beautiful

 
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I have never felt so beautiful as when my makeup, mixed with my thick, throaty gag-induced saliva was smeared across my face by your hand.

Your hand that paints my face with callous cool disregard for the hours I already spent painting this face for you.

But you are not careless. This canvas is capable of objection but it does not—because it would rather be objectified

and it knows,

like you,

that it will be made into your masterpiece yet.

I begin to feel the euphoria creep into the pit of my stomach as you wield your impromptu paintbrush freshly coated, dripping with the varnish it choked out of me and for a moment I am proud of being capable of producing my own brand of cosmetics.

But then you remind me I do not get to feel proud yet.

SLAP.

My world spins and my face grows hot as it is slapped for the first time ever

and my pussy grows wetter

realizing I have still not known what it is to be owned

but with every touch I get closer to finding out

and learning that I will be the one who suffers for your art.

You bite, twist, slap, spit, spank, choke, fuck your designs into my body.

You glaze, gloss and stain my skin into illustration,

I am an abstraction,

I belong in a museum.

Some of your strokes are invisible ink, they won’t show up for an hour,

then change like a mood ring from light pink to purple,

me, from sated to stranded, yearning for your touch once more.

Other designs decorate me right away, coloring my sensitive skin like a water color painting,

I am a gradient.

I begin in the softest shades of rose until you draw me in a frenzy,

Screaming

And the words on my lips finally match the color on my ass

RED.

You stop mid brush stroke.

You gaze at your mural

and I discover another, softer style in your repertoire as you brush the hair from my face,

and kiss my cheek,

and title your piece:

“Good Girl."


Emily Pohlenz is a student, poet, performer, and loudmouthed feminist from Colorado. She lives to dance, sing, and disassemble the patriarchy.