The Creation of Celena Woods

By: Charlene Frett

WARNING: For mature audiences only. This is a work of fiction

I feel his rough fingers wrap around my throat, his eyes fixated on mine; mesmerized, compelled—hungry for my chokes and screams under his very own command. He squeezes to assert power in my bones, and I gasp at the immediate pleasure through my blood.

I’ve always been curious about dominance and the romance of it.

Authors and writers have most recently push such conventions, portraying serial killers and stalkers as love interests, protagonists, in gothic horror romances. Women are written as strong and independent, and yet fragile, weak, and still, a mere damsel in distress. This is a woman that acquires to be controlled both in and out of the bedroom to achieve her most perceivable happiness, ultimate bliss. And while she consents to being dressed, groomed and occasionally abused for the killers’ contentment, the moral of these fictional stories are quite sadistic, to say the least. In fact, there are those that have taken new interest in creature erotica, orcs, and celestial beings with tails.

So while curiosity may kill the cat, I couldn’t help but dabble in reading such erotica to understand the fascination with the subject. And though creature and serial killer erotica may not be my cup of tea, my interest seemed to reside in dominant characters, dominant men, and the affect/arousal dominance have on women. Currently, degradation, used in the correct way, plays a pivotal role in the matter of sex, and there is something about submission that turns both partners on, that not only intensifies the passion, but the master—and art—of sex.

“Oh, Ms. Woods,” he says. He sucks in his bottom lip as he presses his body against me, sinking me into the bedroom wall. I can almost feel his length below, and I’m reluctant to cave in, to get on my knees and let him feed me. “Such a good girl. Always doing what she is told.”

His mouth hovers over mine, teasing me with his warm breath, the slightest touch of his tongue. “Is that how you came up with Celena? Writing the way that you do?” He then grips my chin before I can respond.

When he discovered I was the muse behind my pen name, Celena, he was quite ecstatic, unable to restrain himself from biting the insides of my thighs. He’s always been a fan of my work, but he’s now become quite a fanatic, an admirer, once he placed a face to her name. He had asked and desired to know where my curiosity resides, how I’ve written several explicit schemes with such poise and utter countenance.

Surely, my curiousness, I had explained to him, developed quite early on in my studies, attempting to understand why men vastly affect women. You see, I’ve had friends who buried their heads in toilets because of one man’s, one boy’s, childish, stupendous actions. They puked anxiety and depression near the tub with acidic goo and blood, scraping their knees on the bathroom tiles and rugs. No, I couldn’t comprehend how these powerful women became ill over a man who couldn’t even tell the difference between a blonde and a brunette. So yes, as a young woman who had never kissed a man, I had asked myself why men affect women.

Beyond that, to spare the details of exploring the subject of dominance in both books and films, my curiosity became much more of an arousal. I became entranced with writing about such characters, suddenly creating different plots within my own mind and exploring the concepts of both dominance and relationships/sex. Who knew there was quite a pleasure in both subjects, that the more I thought about the correlation between the two, the more open I wrote. Suddenly, I developed an audience, conversations between partners and friends were had, and I was surprisingly in awe in not being alone in my mini investigation and discussing such kinks.

But how did my erotic work turned deliciously murderous?

Well, despite reading various dark romance books, both weary and bold, when you hear several stories from women at a dinner table being in toxic/abusive relationships with men, well, a sort of anger develops, a fiery hatred at most. These women—my friends, colleagues, coworkers, acquaintances—were strong, intelligent, independent, and wholehearted women who can destroy a man’s organ with a snap of a finger if they truly wanted to. I saw them rip out a lion’s eye once when they were single, tear out another with pointed, acrylic nails and sharp teeth. So when they crumble under a monkey’s fist with a small dick between his legs, it’s disheartening, distressing, so much so I could not comprehend how women, particularly, had forgotten the power they still have, the power I also still have.

So, being a feminist, I took my power and emotions of living in a patriarchal society, now having experience some of its work, and began to feed my writing and storytelling capabilities. With dominance at the forefront of my messages, I remind women that yes, you too can play his game and be as dominant as he can with just a subtle touch of a finger, a quick swipe of a knife. I get my personal revenge this way in fictional stories, milking blood for all the women who bruised, for all the calculated inflictions on my bones. It’s entertaining, isn’t it? To write out the pain and turn it into art?

And while I expected to have a few admirers of my craft, I didn’t expect any of my stories to–

“I asked you a question,” he demands, squeezing my jaw tighter, smearing blood.

“Y…yes. Yes, my love,” I say.

Before I can touch my mouth with his, he releases me, caressing my bottom lip with his thumb. I remained still and breathless against the wall when he puts distance, walking over to the foot of the bed. I wipe the blood off my chin and look at it then, rubbing the substance between my fingertips in fascination, watching it coat the fibers of my skin. It’s quite strange, the feel of it; so thick and potent, almost paint-like, syrupy. I would always describe blood as if it was a bleeding rose, a sort of canvas spilling out of a body. It’s a feast for the demons at bay, the spiders crawling at dusk, and the woman, she most always enjoys the kill, starving for more on her breasts and gore on her tongue. She becomes animalistic, brutal—commanding the Devil to suck her sins and lick her wounds.

“…and what’s so beautiful about your stories,” he continues. I must have been zoning out. I hadn’t realized he’s been talking the whole time, “is your ability to be so descriptive in your art. It’s so passionate, beautiful! I mean, how can these men not see that?”

Yes, how can they not see? They seem to believe my writing is for their mere entertainment. They have no sense of what it means to be a woman, what my stories truly reveal behind a man’s façade. They only nod in pleasure, in reluctant agreement, showering me with compliments about the words I’ve written as if I’m unaware of my talents.

 He’s suddenly in front of me again, and I realized I haven’t looked up from the blood on my fingers, now dry on my skin.

“Hey,” he whispers. He presses his hands against my cheeks, smoothing back my hair from my face and forehead, “Look at me. It’s done, baby. You’re mine, forever mine. I got you.” I nod, feeling more blood stain my skin from his hands, He slightly turns his head so he can look at the bed, and for the first time in a while, I do too. “What did you say in ‘A Little Love Letter to My Exes‘? Remember, baby?”

“They…they’re ‘just naked bodies at my disposal, nothing more,’” I numbly say.

My ex’s body lays mutilated on white bed sheets drenched with thick inundations of his own blood. His head dangles at the footboard by the crook of his neck, and his eyes are open and vacant before us, mouth white and gaped. His arm extends out at the edge of the bed, fingers curled at the knuckles, as if he was reaching towards me during the act, his last attempt to treat me like I deserved. I let my eyes adjust to the sight of the scene, watch his organs bleed from the root of the corpse, become bewitched by his guts, meaty and fresh, kissing stubble limbs. Blood drips onto the wooden floor, and I can almost hear it now, the droplets, echoing like a faucet in the kitchen sink, setting Time on edge.

“That’s right,” he nods.

He then walks over to the nightstand. The knife casually lies on the Holy Bible, and my ex’s wallet is next to it. He picks it up, flipping open the vintage brown leather. He reads out loud the full name on his state I.D., which suddenly sets off a ringing in my ears, a slow shiver down my spine. He then tells me he likes to do this, check their wallets, as I never reveal names or identities of the men for the sake of anonymity. But he likes to know who they are. He likes to give his act a purpose. I’m assuming all of the other men I had previously dated that had gone missing, according to news reports, have been his doing.

He smirks, “He’s almost 35 years old. Ha, and that fucker still couldn’t communicate.” Most likely. Most men don’t know how. “He’s another Mr. Moore, isn’t he?”

He’s talking about “The Waiting Game.” I smile a little, though I shouldn’t have. I can’t help that I love when he remembers all my stories down to the very last detail; every word I’ve written, every line I created, every plot I commenced. It devised heat in my cheeks, fire between my thighs.

I look at my ex’s dangling head then and while I begin to stare at his pale face and frozen eyes, something arises inside of me. The memories start to flood my mind; the laughter, the touches, the slightest stroke of his jaw, the quiet whispers on my lips, the smallest of promises he kissed. But I suddenly remember it all; the pain, the anger, the brawls and deception, leaving me blinded, a fool.

“Or does he also ‘eat different pussies on a full belly every night’?” He asks, quoting “Don’t You Dare Underestimate Me.”

My lover told me that he was doing this for me—for us— that his drive for doing what he does best was and continues to be his love for me. He kept reassuring this when I had caught him in the act, when I had followed him here and heard men struggle, grunt, and slashes of flesh in the upstairs bedroom. When I witnessed the blood on walls and saw a fresh male corpse on the bed, a bloody knife raised above his head, I couldn’t scream, I didn’t gasp or cry at the sight. I just pushed open the door wider and remained in shock. His eyes were murderous before he saw me standing in the doorway, disturbingly barbaric, and then he quickly composed himself, cleared his throat, and put the knife down. He asserted his dominance in the room, woke me by calmly commanding me to come towards him. I did what I was told, suddenly unfazed by my surroundings, bewitched by his demeanor. I only saw him.

But now, when I look at the body, I feel it then, inside of me; the rage, the utter most hatred in my being, the visions of what I’d imagined, what I wished I’d done. Suddenly, I feel the darkness slither holistically through the cracks of my bones, seducing the power in my flesh. Voices begin whispering curses in my blood, boiling it with need, killing the bile in my throat. I snap Fear by its neck then, adrenaline pumping through my very veins.

“Almost,” I sigh. “More like he ‘climbs walls to boost his morale.’”

I hear him close the wallet and slowly turn around, “‘Sweet Dreams, My King.’” He names the story I quoted, knowing quite well that is one of his favorites. I can feel him look at me as I continue to examine the body, his penetrating stare burning holes in my skin. He’s taking notice of my change in behavior. “My God, you are just exquisite,” he praises. “Does this, my work, satisfy you?” I finally look at him, unable to hide the devilry in my eyes. He’s sees it now, he’s sees me. His eyes light up, “Oh my, look at you.”

He’s there again, here, dominance electrifying his body, hunger replacing his countenance. I raise my eyebrows, “Excuse me?”  I just realized his shirt is soaked in dry blood.

He slowly walks over to me, tossing the wallet on the bed. He sucks in his lips as if they were mine, “Oh, don’t play coy with me now. You know why I did this. You know I want to show you just how much I love you. And it fucking turns you on, doesn’t it? Knowing every detail of your stories? Knowing I had committed what you couldn’t?”

I raise my chin up as he towers over me. “I don’t know what you mean,” I lie, challenging him with only a look. He flexes his hand and backs me up against the wall with just his chest. He trails his hand from my torso, to my chest, all the way up to my throat. He admires the length of it as I lean my neck to the side for him to commend, and I gasp when he squeezes.

I attempt to fight against submission, and he hisses when I run my tongue over my mouth, “Should I have let you watch? Hm?” He then uses his other hand to undo the buttons of my jeans. I don’t answer immediately, anticipation rising in my bones. “Well? Should I have?” He tempts.

“N…no,” I moan out, feeling his movements below. His lips drag along mine and I can almost taste them, I need to taste them.

He curses and slowly moves his hand lower, making me ache, “That’s a lie, isn’t it? Or maybe, should I have let you do it yourself? Letting him remember the power you always had.”

His lustful eyes scan my facade and before I can deny his words, reject his obscene accusations, he crushes his mouth to mine. He savors me, devours me, eats me alive with the thickness of his tongue and the stench of the blood around us.

He made me cave and submit to his every lick, suck, and bite. And he wasted no time fucking me against the wall without remorse, gripping my black curls, begging him to mark me as his.

But when we released together, when he whispers how much he loves me over and over again, I become the woman I had always longed to be, who I strived to always be when men like my exes threatened a woman with sadistic ambitions and immoral capabilities:

“Call me Celena, “I breathed, eyeing the body behind him. “My name is Celena.”

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