Filthy is a community on Vocal, a platform for discovering and supporting creators. You support this creator by reading, sharing and tipping stories. more
What is Vocal?
Vocal is a tool for artists and creators to fund and build community around their creative practice.
How does Vocal work?
With Vocal, people subscribe to support creators on an ongoing basis. In return, creators open the door to their creative practice — by sharing their process, notes from the field, in-progress previews, and other rewards. It’s a way for creators to build a community of dedicated and meaningful support around the work they make.
How do I join Vocal?
Right now, we have some early guidelines for the scope of Vocal. Vocal is for the continuous funding of creators, whether people or collectives, who have a creative practice in one or more of our supported categories: visual and performing arts, film and video, publishing, design and technology, music, comics, food and craft, and games.
To learn more about Vocal, please visit our FAQs.show less
Thomasina adored her master. He was a man of obscure tastes and barely controlled passions. She knew that he loved her and she enjoyed the affection and attention that he showed. Unlike so many previous boyfriends, he was not afraid to express his feelings and unlike previous Doms, he did not see kindness as some form of weakness. Cooking breakfast for them both did not undermine his control in the bedroom. If you saw them out for an evening you would judge them as an attractive couple who were concerned with each other's happiness. Normal. Exchanging the banter and teasing that all couples do, from time to time.
Play was different. Chalk and cheese. It was not that he treated her with cruelty, just that it was all about him. His fantasies. Her body became his clay. She could stop what was happening with a single word (being a film buff—she liked "rosebud" as a safeword) but that had never happened. She let him explore his obsessions. She wanted them. Each session in their playroom told her more about her master. He was not doing what he did to please her—he was showing Thomasina his true face. That darkness was hers alone, and it was most precious thing in the world.
There were always clues to what the evening would hold. Her master was not obsessed with shibari but he was good at it and he frequently began their games by tying her.
If the rope was plain hemp, the evening would be painful. Canes and paddles.
If it was green silk, then it was about control. She would be tied, probably masked, and he would use each of her holes in turn to satisfy himself. Such erotic indifference drove her wild. She would struggle against her ties and plead with him to let her cum, knowing that her own need to submit to his will was pushing her closer and closer to something mind blowing. When he was done, he would use his fingers and briskly frig her to climax. Just the once. And over the next week, she would remain on the edge of ecstasy. She only needed to close her eyes to be back in that bed, her wrists bound with emerald cord, her most basic desires held at another's whim. Basically, by Friday she would have masturbated until her nub was raw and her consciousness had been reduced to a dream-like haze.
Other colours meant different things. Blue, red, black—they were all part of the code he used to explain himself to her. It was unusual for there to be any surprises.
She prepared herself for him, and for her ordeal. Thomasina had a thick crop of reddish-blonde hair that she kept about collar length, though it always seemed to have enough length to fall across her eyes. If you wanted to describe her face you would say she was pretty, with strong cheek bones and a very straight little nose. Actually, you would say she showed "classical breeding" and it's true that her family was quite wealthy. They would be horrified to know she spent her weekends in a Berkshire house with a man that had somehow centered his life on sex. Not land, or politics, or collecting art—just fucking.
She looked at herself in the mirror, lipstick pausing as she shuddered pleasurable thinking about that.
And my, was he good at it, she thought.
She finished her preparation and clicked the tube shut. Perfume, check. Lips, deep red but not overdrawn. Perfect. Eyes—oh excited.
She put on some patent high heels and a black silk dressing gown, the items he had left out for her. Then she went into the playroom.
On the bed—black silk covers, a single lamp shining down—there was a single piece of rope. It was bubblegum pink and rather electric in contrast to the oily jet sheen of where it lay.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Well, that was new... I have no idea what this means. No idea what I'm in for or what he wants. And that's...
She felt him behind her. His hands reached for the collar of the gown and began to remove it from her shoulders. Slowly. She could feel the restraint in his body. Her master had discovered a new obsession and it was her duty to explore it with him. Wherever that took her.
Her heart was racing, her mouth was dry.
I have no idea what this means. No idea what I'm in for or what he wants. And that's the most exciting thing in the world, because I'm about to find out what pink means, for now and ever. We are going to add a new color to our palette of depravity.