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by Adriana Karagozian 11 days ago in erotic
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A Dabble in Erotica that Killed Shame

Photo by Dainis Graveris on Unsplash

He told me to breathe through my sacram, the part of the body that connects the tail bone to the lower spine, hips and pelvis. As I obeyed his command, I was instantly turned on. I could feel the eroticism writhing in my body from my pelvis all the way up my spine and into my skull.

My hips have always been a source of power for me. For someone so small, they are very pronounced. Their perfect curvature almost encapsulates my entire lower region, protecting it like a stone wall around a castle. I enjoy when a man grabs ahold of them like handlebars as he fucks me deeper and deeper. It somehow makes me feel so small but so sexy all at the same time. So when he told me to breathe there, my body immediately set fire. I began to caress my body trying to ignore the desire I felt at that very moment.

“You may begin to feel vulnerable, like you hit a wall. That’s okay. There may be trauma there, shame… Explore that,” he said.

He was inside my head now. It was as if he was speaking to me directly, and everyone else was just along for the ride.


I remembered the wallpaper from my childhood bedroom, this beautiful, pink, fabric wallpaper that my mom had chosen for my room. When I think of it now, I remember what it felt like to be in that moment. I was in it now, this sexuality side-by-side with shame.

“Don’t worry.

Everything is going to be okay.

No one will know,” he would say…

…each time he raped me. I was a bad girl. I was going to get in trouble. It was this thought that would forever bring shame to sex for me. I was tainted. My precious and perfect little pussy was no longer perfect. It became ugly and it would be years before I recognized her true power.


I began to cry. I no longer wanted to feel shame in something I enjoyed so much. My desire to fuck and be fucked did not make me a bad person, a dirty girl. I wanted to embrace this side of me here. I let it go.

He said, “Do you want to be dominated? Is this voyeuristic?”

He was using my words now and I just wanted to scream, “Yes! Dominate the fuck out of me! I want you to be my god. Do your will unto my body and I shall obey!”

I want to preface this next piece by saying that in no way is any of this about him. It’s about me. However, that being said, part of the pleasure I derive from this form of dominance comes from knowing that he enjoys what he sees. It thrills me, comforts me. In fact, as I think about it now, I become wet. I choose what I wear for him very carefully, searching my closet for things that are comfortable mixed with things that make me feel sexy. I love when a certain fabric hugs the curves of my body, pretty fabrics like lace, contrasted with harder accessories, like leather. I also love my old fat clothes. I swim in them, drape myself in them. They make me feel small, cozy.

I wore my grey romper with a forest green, lace bodice underneath, one that hugged my hips and cradled my tits. There’s something to be said in the power of this dominance. As I’m writing this now, my mind is tearing my body apart because I am swollen from my period and too much Easter food. But no matter how hard my body dysmorphia is attacking myself, every time I dress for him, I feel beautiful.

I wear things that show off all the curves and accents of my perfect little body. When I’m good to myself, I love my body…

When I’m good to myself…

I love the Middle Eastern freckles on my cheeks to the flecks of gold in my eyes that you only can see when close enough. I have a Cindy Crawford beauty mark above my upper right lip and a large nose that make me unique from other girls. My bouncy curls frame my tiny face and lead down my slender neck. My arms, I am most proud of. They’re fit and chiseled, rock hard. They are an accent to my strength and remind me of the change I’ve made over the past year.

My tits… OH! My tits! They are beautiful and perfect and even in my 40s, they are so perky and sit above my ribs just high enough to create an awareness about them. People always notice them and that attention excites me. When I was 21 years old, I had a breast reduction and I got to design my breasts to be exactly the way I wanted and they still hold their artistic perfection to this day. Their larger size accentuates my tiny 23 inch waist and I find pleasure when a man can wrap his hands around it and his fingertips almost touch. The deep canals of my lower tummy lead into my hips and hipbones, or pleasure handles as I referred to them earlier.

And then, there is my pussy… my perfect, precious, powerful, Holy Grail of a pussy. It is always tight, always wet, and gives eternal life to all those who enter her, taste her. She is extremely sensitive to touch and feels every sensation amplified. It is unfortunate that she was a source of so much shame for me growing up. I would abuse her, let those who were unworthy fuck her and treat her poorly. I would pleasure her out of necessity, not out of desire. She deserved better; she deserves better. She is a goddess, a queen, my lotus flower that found its way through the muck and the mire to blossom in the sun. She is the source of my everlasting light.

It seems almost trivial to continue from here, but I will mention my perfect, little ass. This plump, tight, round place where I sit. My desire to have hands grab it and spank it is real. Then my thick, muscular legs that are carved like tree trunks, strong and stable. Each of my leg muscles bulge when flexed and make me feel sturdy. My feet, my delicate feet, are designed to dance, run, and adventure. I can’t wait to show them, teach them ballet as they learn to stand on point. And finally, my skin, my supple and soft skin covers my entire body, browned to perfection.

He asked me, “What is your fantasy?” He told me, “Ask for what you desire.”

I thought about him, his hands on my perfect tits. As I touched myself, I imagined his fingers penetrating me, then his cock. His, what I imagine, beautiful, pink, hard cock fucking me, deeply. He was verbally walking me through my own fucking fantasy, something I had never experienced but always yearned for. In that moment, I wanted him. I needed him. His voice was like an orgasm in my head. Each word touched a part of my body that had never been touched. I felt free. I felt alive.

I started to allow this erotic pleasure to open. I peeled the romper from my body to expose the teddy underneath. I pinched my nipples imagining his mouth against them, sucking them. The lace of my bodice slipped further against my breast. I heaved. I moaned.

I imagined his tongue. No, his sexy lips. No! His whole fucking beautiful mouth entrenched around the folds of my labia, suckling and devouring, like that first bite of a perfectly ripe peach in summer. The juices were running down my thigh. I was in it. I bit my bicep in sheer pleasure. I imagined his teeth against my skin, carnivorous for meat.

He told me that it was okay to touch myself, to let myself get fucked.

I gave in. I let my fingers caress my sweet, wet, perfect, precious, powerful pussy. It wasn’t masturbation. It was more than that. It was real. It was happening to me. I lost control of every fiber of my being. As we increased our breath, I played with her. I tickled her. I pleasured her while he watched. It wasn’t about instant gratification. It was about enjoying all of it, the sensuality of it all, the dominance, my body, my freedom. I never felt so free, so open, so erotically vulnerable.

He told me to cum, in not such certain terms, but it was implied.

I was fucking myself now. There were so many moments when I could have cum, but I chose not to; I held back, holding onto the inevitable orgasm as if the light of my own Self was truly fucking me and telling me, “not yet…hold on…just a bit longer…wait until he says it’s okay…” And then I gave in. I screamed in utter ecstasy.

“Good!” He said. “Yes. Keep Going.”

For what seemed like 5 minutes, I kept climaxing. I think I had at least 7 orgasms in one multiple orgasm. I say “I think” because after a while I lost count and am convinced that I may have blacked out. For the men out there reading this, let me enlighten you. A woman, who is in tune enough with her own body, can have a single orgasm with multiple climaxes. Hence, a multiple orgasm. It is literally several intense, pulsating climaxes, one right after the other. For this reason, one of many, I thank the Universe for making me an anomaly of a woman. I can’t imagine going through life never knowing this experience, and I only started discovering this part of myself recently. It has become another source of my power, almost like a super power. I imagined him instructing me to clean myself, so I sucked the juices from my fingers. I tasted sweet, like sticky rose water drizzled on baklava.

“It’s not over yet,” he said. “There’s more to be had.”

I giggled in delight and let the whole scenario play again, still imagining him as I fucked myself again. This time, I tickled my clit ever so softly, but this action created an intense friction, as if my pussy was singing the incredibly difficult high C in an aria. I could hear her song. He kept encouraging me to feel safe in this place and I did. I felt safe and I felt love. The second multiple orgasm wasn’t as long as the first but the climax was definitely greater. I screamed so loud that my throat was sore for two days after. My toes curled and I felt as if I had died and come back to life. Like the phoenix, I was reborn anew.

He told me to take a deep breath and hold it. “Focus your vision on your third eye,” he said.

I was washed in a blue glow that was radiating there. I wanted to look deeper, discover the power behind that blue, but I ran out of breath. Or rather, I had forgotten to breathe, or how to breathe. It’s weird. I can’t really explain it.

“Slow your breathing now. Relax,” he said. “Imagine you are being held, like someone is holding you.”

I felt him. I felt his arms wrapped tightly around me as I fell into a very deep, almost hypnotic state. I was so big. I was swimming in a sea of gold inside myself. I could see my cellular structure and the fog. I floated through it and fell into a trance.

When we came to, I was wild. I was an animal. I didn’t know what to think and I was filled with joy. In my breathwork sessions to date, my big moments of clarity, of understanding, my epiphanies always come the next day when I least expect it. True to form, this was no different.

In the meantime, my ego almost instantly felt vulnerable. It began attacking me like never before. Tearing me down, limb from limb. I felt ugly, fat, worthless, useless, all the things. How could I allow myself such pleasure?

“You fucking bitch!

You stupid cunt!

Who do you think you are???

I can’t believe you let someone watch you like that!

You’re a goddam JOKE!

You think he wanted to watch you? You think he wanted to see your disgusting body spew your warped perversion on screen?

The man tolerates you for your money.”

I was spinning and I couldn’t shut it down. I didn’t know what to do.

Since discovering my body dysmorphia and fucking asshole of an Ego, I have adopted a bit of a reprogramming practice. Whenever I’m attacking myself negatively about my body, I have to put on something super sexy, maybe even a bit revealing and go out in public. But it doesn’t just end there. The key is, I have to own it. I try not to let the judgment take over and I try to manifest as much confidence as possible. So… that’s what I did. I wore something tight enough to accentuate my curves and I wore a cropped shirt to show off my tiny waist and went out. I stopped at a local brewery that I love and had just one beer. It was enough, enough to help me forget the nasty negativity and self-deprecating voices in my head. I was ogled; I was admired; I was validated…at least for now.

The next day, it was Easter Sunday and I was having a dinner party. I was cleaning my dogs slobber off the walls so as not to gross out my guests while they eat the bounty of love I had prepared for them. I remember thinking, “what do my Trauma and my marriage have in common?” And then it hit me! I will let you choose your metaphor here: like a mack truck, like a ton of bricks, like a pink elephant dancing all over my chest in the middle of the room. When I disassociated all those years ago, I locked my Self, my true Self, away deep down in a closet to protect her and she has been hiding there ever since, behind my Trauma, behind my marriage, behind all the things that I never actually belonged to. I thought I was protecting her, but in all actuality, I was caging her, shackling her. I was controlling her. I was locking her away so that no one would have to see her and tell her what a bad girl she really is.

You know, it’s funny. All this time, since I’ve been exploring dominance in my sexuality, I was nervous that it was related to my rape, that I needed to be dominated because I was dominated then. This thought made me fearful and a little sad. I’ve enjoyed being dominated so much, being told sexually, I didn’t want it to go away. I now realize that, in fact, I enjoy dominance because it is part of the true me, the real me letting go of control, deep inside, clawing to get out, to see the sun, to be light.


About the author

Adriana Karagozian

I am an ever-changing ameba of creative thought that transcends any specific genre. My writing is spiritual in nature, but I tend to traverse my way through many realms: like fantasy, fiction, non-ficiton, experiential and erotica.

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