Miguel Cotto

Miguel Cotto

Really into object insertion today. Imagining someone finding progressively bigger and bigger objects to stick inside their partner. Imagining them doing so with clinical efficiency, entirely fixated on how much can you take and how big can you go. Saying Just a little more, don’t move now. Shushing their partner when they whimper or try to move or squirm away from the huge wine bottle entering them. Or the sanded-smooth chair leg. Or the baseball bat. The sick fascination on their face as they watch it sink in, in, in into that once-tight hole. Leaving it stuck inside, groaning and starting to get themselves off right then and there at the sight of it, at the little noises and gasps their partner is making at being so utterly, utterly filled. So deep they can see the bulge in their stomach, can press one hand against it from the outside and revel in the aborted jerk it earns them. And then doing it again the next night, except with something even bigger. You know what I mean?

by Zdzisław Beksiński / Study for the Sadist's Corset 3, 1957

fight yr bro