A Painful Debauchery

The deep, erotic power of scars.

Ah Lolita!

Everyone needs someone who can handle their darkest sides. For this January return, I offer you a suite of Lolita's disturbed life.

A Disturbed Lolita

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth.
Lo. Lee. Ta.
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita.

Opening lines of the novel Lolita (1955) by Vladimir Nabokov

In the psych yard they call me kinky evil. I am not alone. I never saw more masochists than in this crazy place. I crave pain, always asking for sexual torture.

I love scars, first it was self-inflicted, now I need to be used by others, lose control, be a nocturnal object, and escape at sunrise with a marked and painful ass.

In the contemplation of my injured body, the scars on my skin are a disturbing art. I am molded by force, to learn how to behave in this cruel world.

I need that humiliation for my mental balance. I know sadism and masochism, classified as illness, is the main reason I ended up this aisle. I don’t care.

Beauty of scars and my fascination for violence, I know how to inspire cruelty from a dominant when I need to be disciplined harshly. Yes! Whip me harder Doctor.

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That short story was partly written and sketched just before Christmas in my hotel room near Piazza San Marco in Venice and finished somewhere, far away, in the mountains.

I hope you enjoyed it. Happy new year my kinky friend.

Love always,

Sissi