u/Iron_Enjambment

Walking up the three flights behind you 
your fishnets your arse in that tight black dress swaying like a de Kooning brushstroke
I want to bite it right there on the landing
where you turn and kiss me ferocious
tongue like summer lightning hands at my belt.
Door slams, clothes fly like Pollock drips
onto the floor and we’re on the bed
your mouth at my neck sucking marks
I’ll hide tomorrow. “Fuck me” you say
casual as ordering soup your legs
over my shoulders eyes locked
the sweat making us slippery and real
coming together in gasps that feel
like one of my poems written in cum
on your stomach. (Your words not mine!)
When it’s over we smoke and look
at the cracks in the ceiling and you say
the view from here beats everything.

It was a hot morning in the middle of August
and you texted to say
I’m thinking about your cock
while I’m typing shitty memos
and the air conditioning fails. 
At lunchtime you called from the gallery
saying “meet me by the Rothko”
and within ten minutes your breath
was wet into my ear, whispering
“let’s fuck in that stairwell like last Tuesday”—
and I laugh now because there are no paintings
of the spaces and things between paintings:
detours, corridors, 
somebody asking if the cafeteria is upstairs,
somebody getting dumped over coffee,
you on your knees 
in a place where no one knows
we’re alive and a mess and completely in love with it.

She will not lie beneath him
because the preposition itself offends.
(Pre-position:
before the position.)

Lilith’s cunt—the first lacuna—
finds the man of dust,
and the garden tilts.
Fruit rolls uphill.

Her thighs bracket his hips.
She laughs the low laugh
that empties Eden
and fills it again with owl-sound.

On the sheets, she observes,
the stains have come to resemble
the biblically accurate Akkadian
for I was here then wet then not here.

Adam spills then sulks.
He expects aftercare
as good boys do,
even motherless ones:

a tit to nurse at,
a milk-language 
for the red orphan
raised without milk.

But Lilith is halfway to Babylon.

She has left one black feather
stuck to his spent cock
like a cantillation
at the end of his name.

Many thanks to u/Mrs-Keats for the beta read and general counsel.

ADDITIONAL TAGS:

[Apocalyptic] [Sleep] [Throat-fucking] [Rough] [Degradation] [Masochism] [Sadism] [Burning city] [Fire] [Violence] references to [Death] [Electrocution]

SUMMARY:

You fall asleep to her voice already inside your head. She’s hacked the government Dreamweaver core and proceeds to drag you through filthy, ultra-violent body horror dream-sex above a burning city that’s literally orgasming as it dies. Then she gets desperate and begs you to come find her in the sewers when you wake up so you can ruin her for real.

EXCERPT:

[She shudders; she is becoming more and more aroused]

Right now in the vents above the mass crematoria silo, I’m fisting myself with something that used to be my pistol grip. My whole forearm is inside, wrist-deep, punching my cervix like it owes me rent.

The implant feedback loop you’re giving me right now is making my clit swell. It looks just like a tiny cock: purple, veined, leaking. Every time I twist my arm I feel phantom barbs from Packet 9 tearing me open again.

I’m drooling so much the puddle under my tits is reflecting the red emergency lights like a second cunt. My nipples are clamped with live wires; every grid ping electrocutes them and makes my holes clench so bad I’m afraid I’ll crush my own fingers.

I want to tear myself apart and mail the pieces to you in a box…

SCRIPT HERE:

https://scriptbin.works/s/82962

WORDS:

c.1500

USAGE:

Feel free to lightly edit. If filled, please let me know and give me the relevant credits as u/Iron_Enjambment. Free to use for personal non-monetized ASMR recordings and performances.

If you wish to use this script on any monetized platforms please do consult with me first.

DISCLAIMER:

Listener discretion is advised. This NSFW audio script is intended for 18+ adults only. It is pure dark fantasy between two consenting adults in a fictional dystopian setting. Everything here is make-believe and meant for adult erotic roleplay. This script is extreme. It contains graphic sexual content, strong degradation, violent imagery, surreal body horror, mind-invasion themes, fire/death play, and apocalyptic kink. If burning cities full of people orgasming as they die, rough breeding, or unhinged implant fuckery isn’t your thing, please skip it. All characters and scenarios in this script are entirely fictional and exist solely within a fantasy role-play setting. This content is created purely for entertainment and fantasy exploration. It does not endorse, glorify, or encourage any form of real-life sexual abuse, cruelty, dubious consent, or harm. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse or is at risk of physical/sexual harm from someone else please seek help immediately. To reiterate, if any of the themes in this script feel uncomfortable or triggering to you, please stop reading/listening right away and go and do something else with your life. Visit a garden centre. Ask about compost. Feel yourself growing. Win. ❤️

Many thanks to u/Mrs-Keats for the beta read and general counsel.

ADDITIONAL TAGS:

[Apocalyptic] [Sleep] [Throat-fucking] [Rough] [Degradation] [Masochism] [Sadism] [Burning city] [Fire] [Violence] references to [Death] [Electrocution]

SUMMARY:

You fall asleep to her voice already inside your head. She’s hacked the government Dreamweaver core and proceeds to drag you through filthy, ultra-violent body horror dream-sex above a burning city that’s literally orgasming as it dies. Then she gets desperate and begs you to come find her in the sewers when you wake up so you can ruin her for real.

EXCERPT:

[She shudders; she is becoming more and more aroused]

Right now in the vents above the mass crematoria silo, I’m fisting myself with something that used to be my pistol grip. My whole forearm is inside, wrist-deep, punching my cervix like it owes me rent.

The implant feedback loop you’re giving me right now is making my clit swell. It looks just like a tiny cock: purple, veined, leaking. Every time I twist my arm I feel phantom barbs from Packet 9 tearing me open again.

I’m drooling so much the puddle under my tits is reflecting the red emergency lights like a second cunt. My nipples are clamped with live wires; every grid ping electrocutes them and makes my holes clench so bad I’m afraid I’ll crush my own fingers.

I want to tear myself apart and mail the pieces to you in a box…

SCRIPT HERE:

https://scriptbin.works/s/82962

WORDS:

c.1500

USAGE:

Feel free to lightly edit. If filled, please let me know and give me the relevant credits as u/Iron_Enjambment. Free to use for personal non-monetized ASMR recordings and performances.

If you wish to use this script on any monetized platforms please do consult with me first.

DISCLAIMER:

Listener discretion is advised. This NSFW audio script is intended for 18+ adults only. It is pure dark fantasy between two consenting adults in a fictional dystopian setting. Everything here is make-believe and meant for adult erotic roleplay. This script is extreme. It contains graphic sexual content, strong degradation, violent imagery, surreal body horror, mind-invasion themes, fire/death play, and apocalyptic kink. If burning cities full of people orgasming as they die, rough breeding, or unhinged implant fuckery isn’t your thing, please skip it. All characters and scenarios in this script are entirely fictional and exist solely within a fantasy role-play setting. This content is created purely for entertainment and fantasy exploration. It does not endorse, glorify, or encourage any form of real-life sexual abuse, cruelty, dubious consent, or harm. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse or is at risk of physical/sexual harm from someone else please seek help immediately. To reiterate, if any of the themes in this script feel uncomfortable or triggering to you, please stop reading/listening right away and go and do something else with your life. Visit a garden centre. Ask about compost. Feel yourself growing. Win. ❤️

Many thanks to u/Mrs-Keats for the beta read and general counsel.

ADDITIONAL TAGS:

[Apocalyptic] [Sleep] [Throat-fucking] [Rough] [Degradation] [Masochism] [Sadism] [Burning city] [Fire] [Violence] references to [Death] [Electrocution]

SUMMARY:

You fall asleep to her voice already inside your head. She’s hacked the government Dreamweaver core and proceeds to drag you through filthy, ultra-violent body horror dream-sex above a burning city that’s literally orgasming as it dies. Then she gets desperate and begs you to come find her in the sewers when you wake up so you can ruin her for real.

EXCERPT:

[She shudders; she is becoming more and more aroused]

Right now in the vents above the mass crematoria silo, I’m fisting myself with something that used to be my pistol grip. My whole forearm is inside, wrist-deep, punching my cervix like it owes me rent.

The implant feedback loop you’re giving me right now is making my clit swell. It looks just like a tiny cock: purple, veined, leaking. Every time I twist my arm I feel phantom barbs from Packet 9 tearing me open again.

I’m drooling so much the puddle under my tits is reflecting the red emergency lights like a second cunt. My nipples are clamped with live wires; every grid ping electrocutes them and makes my holes clench so bad I’m afraid I’ll crush my own fingers.

I want to tear myself apart and mail the pieces to you in a box…

SCRIPT HERE:

https://scriptbin.works/s/82962

WORDS:

c.1500

USAGE:

Feel free to lightly edit. If filled, please let me know and give me the relevant credits as u/Iron_Enjambment. Free to use for personal non-monetized ASMR recordings and performances.

If you wish to use this script on any monetized platforms please do consult with me first.

DISCLAIMER:

Listener discretion is advised. This NSFW audio script is intended for 18+ adults only. It is pure dark fantasy between two consenting adults in a fictional dystopian setting. Everything here is make-believe and meant for adult erotic roleplay. This script is extreme. It contains graphic sexual content, strong degradation, violent imagery, surreal body horror, mind-invasion themes, fire/death play, and apocalyptic kink. If burning cities full of people orgasming as they die, rough breeding, or unhinged implant fuckery isn’t your thing, please skip it. All characters and scenarios in this script are entirely fictional and exist solely within a fantasy role-play setting. This content is created purely for entertainment and fantasy exploration. It does not endorse, glorify, or encourage any form of real-life sexual abuse, cruelty, dubious consent, or harm. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse or is at risk of physical/sexual harm from someone else please seek help immediately. To reiterate, if any of the themes in this script feel uncomfortable or triggering to you, please stop reading/listening right away and go and do something else with your life. Visit a garden centre. Ask about compost. Feel yourself growing. Win. ❤️

He keeps hunting for that angle with his hip
like tuning an old radio for the station
that makes me dissolve but it’s my clit taking the hit
and I resent how easy I am until I don’t

because the resentment flips into gratitude
when his spittle lands warm on my collarbone
and I move to catch more of it which makes him
slip out halfway so we both freeze pretending

it didn’t happen then laugh in the choked way
that restarts everything rougher his nail catching
my nipple by accident which should hurt but sends
a signal straight down and now I’m the one

grinding too hard worried I’ll bruise him
but also not worried because he likes being marked
and fuck the lube’s thinning making everything
louder sloppier like we’re fucking in a puddle

and my mind goes suddenly to whether
the sheets are ruined again or if vinegar will fix
it this time before I catch myself and refocus
on his face going slack the way it does right before

he loses it which makes me tighten on purpose
out of habit and embarrassment at how much
I perform even now but then it sneaks up not
building from inside like usual but from my toes

curling stupidly and I come so hard my back cramps
and he follows cursing into my hair and we’re left
stuck together breathing like we’ve run from something
with the pillow half off the bed and no words fit so none come.

The man came down from the high country near dark, with a water skin turned sour and nothing else. His horse had gone lame a week earlier. When it died, he cut what meat he could carry and slept by the carcass until dawn. The coyotes had begun speaking to it. His boots were opening at the toes. Dried blood had worked into the cracks around his fingernails and would not wash away.

The land opened into scattered arroyos and low ridges strewn with volcanic stone. In a shallow basin stood the remains of an adobe house, most of its roof gone. A single room was intact. Light showed at the window, steady enough to be a lamp rather than the last of the sun. Smoke drifted away from the house. Someone had burned mesquite recently.

He watched before crossing the open ground. The house had been there a long time. The lamp burned as though it had never once gone out. Nothing asked him to turn back. He almost did.

The door was open.

A woman was crouched beside the hearth, feeding short lengths of mesquite into a fire that barely reached above the stones surrounding it. A Spencer carbine leaned within reach. Her hair had been tied once but had worked loose during the day. She wore an old work shirt with the sleeves rolled past her elbows. Bare feet rested on the packed earth floor.

She looked at him as though she had expected someone eventually, though not him.

“You headed somewhere?”

“I am.”

She nodded toward a chair.

“Coffee?”

He looked at the pot before answering.

“If you’re willing.”

She lifted the pot from the fire and poured. When she bent slightly and the shirt moved he saw the pale scar that crossed the outside of her leg from the hip almost to the knee, white as old lightning trapped beneath the skin. It caught the lamplight differently from the rest of her. She noticed him notice it and neither of them spoke.

“You alone?” he said.

“For the moment.”

The coffee had been boiled too long and tasted of ash, but it was hot. The wind worked at the broken roof and found every loose board. She watched him over the rim of her cup and he watched her back. No one reached for more coffee.

Then she stood and drew the shirt over her head in one motion, as she might remove a bandage. Her body was narrow, dark with the polish of sun and work.

Her breasts were small and high.

A thicket of black hair between her legs.

She stepped to him and he stood and their mouths met badly. Teeth, breath. He lifted her onto the plank table and she wrapped her legs around his waist. His hands were rough and she arched into them. He pushed into her slowly and she made a sound at the root of her throat. The table rocked. The fire spat.

Sweat ran between her breasts. He bent and licked it away as she gripped his hair and pulled him closer. Her heels drummed against his back; she came first with a cry that was almost a sob. Her body clenched around him, tight as a fist, and he followed her down into ecstasy.

They did not stop. He turned her over and took her from behind while she braced her hands on the table and the fire moved over her back. He gripped her hips and drove in deep. She pushed against him, cursing in a language he did not know. When he spent himself inside her she shuddered and held him there as if she could keep him separate from the world.

They lay down on a pallet of blankets that smelled of sage and old sex. The wind had died and the only sound now was their breathing and the pop of the fire. She traced a finger along the scar that ran across his ribs.

“You killed the man that gave you this,” she said.

“I did.”

“Good.”

She straddled him in the dying light and rode him slow, hands flat on his chest, her hair falling around them like a shroud. This time there was no haste. He watched her face, the way her lips parted, the way her eyes never left his. When she came again she bowed forward and bit into his shoulder. He held her through it and spent himself again with a groan that reminded her of grief arriving a second time.

Shadows wandered over the walls where no one stood.

They slept tangled together and woke before dawn to the sound of the coyotes singing again of hunger. She made more coffee and they drank it naked in the chill. He looked at her across the table.

“You want me to stay,” he said.

She shook her head.

“Staying gets a person counted.”

He dressed while she watched. At the door he stopped.

“Thank you,” he said.

She smiled. It had no joy. She motioned to her left. 

“Agua Negra is somewhere over there. I’ll think of you tonight when I’m alone and the dark comes down.”

He stepped out into the grey morning. The door closed. After a mile he looked back. The house was another smear of earth among the low ridges.

The applause had nowhere to sit,
so she offered it a chair,

then another chair,

then my chair,

which was fine.
I wasn’t using it.
I’d been standing for years
in one form or another.

She was not cruel
in any of the medico-legal senses,

only gifted
at converting persons into lamps.

Click.

Friendship appears.
Friendship glows.

Click click.

Confused, I asked:
is this home, or a hotel?

But she was late to the question,
delayed
by being deeply appreciated
by five hundred other people.

Everyone congratulated her.

There was cake.

I was given a beautiful certificate
for Consistent Attendance.

Near the bottom,
in very small type:

issued in error

I framed it.

Visitors always laugh there.

They think it’s a joke.

Halfway through
I realised
you were happier
than I was.

That's an awkward thing
to discover
while naked.

I kept trying
to catch up.

You mistook it
for devotion.

I found myself thinking
of the plum tree
under which I told my first lie.

It involved
ownership
of a cup.

The platform wanted Marvin Keel to prove he owned the script.

Then it wanted him to prove he was Marvin Keel.

Then it wanted him to prove he was alive.

This was the order of things.

The script was called Fist-Fucked in Room 413. He had written it months ago for a female VA who had refused it, kindly, saying it felt too intimate. Marvin had not been offended. The refusal belonged to the work. It had shaped the silence around it.

One morning, Marvin woke to see that the script had been filled. Overnight the fill had been listened to nine hundred thousand times.

Performer: LLM EVA-10 Romantic/Natural.
Writer: Unknown.

Marvin listened for less than a minute. The large language model EVA-10 was good. That was the injury. It did not leer. It did not breathe like an actress proving she had lungs. It allowed shame to remain in the room. It sounded like sin, but in a solid, respectable way. Sin after a full English breakfast.

Under the fill people had written:

Who wrote this?? I need 400 more.

Superb. Real voices sound so try-hard now.

Can we get this voice to read my divorce papers?

Real VAs bring too much personality. This feels cleaner.

Petition to let EVA-10 narrate my bad decisions!

Marvin opened a dispute.

The box asked him to describe the problem.

He typed: Someone stole my script.

The box suggested: I believe my intellectual property has been used without authorisation.

He clicked accept.

The replies came quickly.

Thank you, Marvin. We take creator trust seriously.

Marvin knew perfectly well that no one who used your first name up-front took trust seriously. Nevertheless, he uploaded drafts, timestamps, screenshots, and a photograph of the first page of his original notebook, showing the first line of the script:

I hope there's air conditioning.

The photograph was rejected for adult content.

Marvin pointed out that it was a photograph of a line in a notebook. He pointed out that the line was about air conditioning. He pointed out that this was a pornographic website and that his complaint involved a pornographic script.

There was no response.

So he cropped the photo, increased the contrast, and uploaded it again.

It was rejected as pornographic a second time, with higher confidence.

On the fourth day the case moved to Identity.

To proceed, please complete a liveness check.

Marvin’s face appeared in a green square, poorly lit and annoyed.

Smile.

He smiled.

Smile naturally.

He stopped.

Turn your head left.

He turned his head left.

Please keep your face in frame.

He put his face back into the tiny world that required him.

Blink twice.

He blinked twice.

Liveness check failed.

The platform explained that his movement patterns were inconsistent with a human applicant.

Marvin sat very still, which did not help.

He tried again the next morning. Better light. Clean shirt. Hydrated and shaved. He looked into the camera with the desperate expression of a man hoping his real parents might finally claim him.

Say the phrase: I consent to biometric processing.

“I consent to biometric processing,” said Marvin.

Your voice appears to be machine-generated.

Marvin had written for twenty years in the hope that someone might mistake him for a better writer. This was not what he had meant.

Then a message arrived.

We understand this may be frustrating.

He wondered where frustration was stored. Which column. Which permissions.

That evening he wrote one last appeal. He told them the script had been written for a VA who had declined it, and that her declining was part of the history of the thing. He had not given permission for the script to be performed by a machine, or for intimacy to be simulated in a work made for another human being. Consent and the human element were not accessories to the performance. They were its two hinges. Even Borges, he wrote with a satisfied cluck, would have enjoyed the mess: “the original is always unfaithful to the translation.”

The platform replied after three hours.

We are unable to verify that the claimant Marvin Keel is a natural person. This ticket is now closed.

For two days Marvin did absolutely nothing.

Then he created a new account. Not as Marvin Keel. He used a generated portrait of a man with excellent teeth, more hair, a disposable email address, and the name Kevin Tuttle.

Kevin Tuttle was verified in twenty-eight seconds.

Marvin uploaded Fist-Fucked in Room 413.

His version. His file. And, this time, after twiddling with the tags, his own ugly little human reading of the thing.

The takedown notice arrived before the progress bar reached one hundred.

Your upload has been removed for copyright infringement.

Rights holder identified as: LLM EVA-10 Romantic/Natural.

Original creator: Unknown

Marvin sat back.

On the screen, a final line appeared.

Thank you for helping us keep content creators safe.

I called you that
because it was funny

and too formal
for your knees either side of me.

One of your hands
had both my wrists

specimens 
pinned to a board.

Your other hand was free,
which was a moral problem.

A butterfly woman,
a Nabokov woman,

might have used patience
and labels.

You had no interest
in names.

You wanted 
the involuntary part.

Mrs Mercy,
a second time,
less funny.

There was work
in you now

the frustration of someone 
holding a jar under hot water.

You spat from joy and temper.
I said again.

You said you hated me.
I said again.

I said I believed you,
which was rude.

Mrs Mercy,
I had meant
to be better than this. 

Your leg
over mine

in the cab

I was trying
to be normal

staring 
at the fare

making money
the opposite
of wanting you.

You said
are you always this quiet?

and I said
no.

I had been talking
for years

just not
to anyone
so present.

Many thanks to u/Mrs-Keats and u/Lurkydip for the beta reads and general advice.

ADDITIONAL TAGS:

[Academia] [Fdom] [Msub] [Daddy play] [College girl outfit] [Short skirt] [No panties] [Teasing] [Blowjob] [Throat fucking] [Ball sucking] [Ass licking] [Grinding] [Riding] [Seated cowgirl] [Creampie] [Ass fingering] [Kissing] [Biting] [Tit play] [Tit biting] [Aftercare]

SUMMARY:

You're her cold, by-the-book English lecturer who just gave her a failing mark on Plath’s “Daddy.” Naturally she shows up at your office after hours, dressed like a slut, locks the door behind her, and decides the only way to make you FEEL her passion for the poem is to deepthroat you, ride you senseless, and whisper every filthy Plath-adjacent metaphor she can think of while she destroys you, the father figure of the poem, with her cunt. Heavy literary dirty talk, sloppy BJ + throat fucking, intense riding with ass play, and soft possessive aftercare.

EXCERPT:

[Licking, kissing continues]

I don’t want you to analyse Sylvia’s poem, Professor. I want you to FEEL it exactly the way I feel it. Not the polite, buttoned-up seminar version you peddle to the rest of your students. I want the raw one. The one that makes my stomach drop. The one that makes my thighs tremble and my cunt throb. The one that has me coming so hard I have to bite my own wrist so the girl in the next dorm doesn’t hear me moaning your name.

[She leans in, voice dropping to a filthy whisper]

And once you finally understand that version...once you’ve tasted how deep it goes…maybe, just maybe, we can reopen that little forty-three percent. We can look at it together and ask ourselves… honestly…to what extent it even begins to do justice to the kind of passion I carry. The kind of depth I feel. For the poem. For the words. For YOU.

[Soft, commanding]

Come here. Open your mouth for me. I want to suck your tongue...

SCRIPT HERE:

https://scriptbin.works/s/8ch3t

WORDS:

c.3700

USAGE:

Feel free to lightly edit. If filled, please let me know and give me the relevant credits as u/Iron_Enjambment. Free to use for personal non-monetized ASMR recordings and performances. If you wish to use this script on any monetized platforms please do consult with me first.

DISCLAIMER:

Listener discretion is advised. This NSFW audio script is intended for 18+ adults only. It contains explicit sexual content, strong language, and dark fantasy themes, including a female 18+ student forcing herself sexually onto a male lecturer. All characters and scenarios in this script are entirely fictional and exist solely within a fantasy role-play setting. This content is created purely for entertainment and fantasy exploration. It does not endorse, glorify, or encourage any form of real-life sexual abuse, dubious consent, or harm. Please note the script references National Socialist/Fascist imagery inasmuch as these relate to the content of Sylvia Plath's poem "Daddy." It does not seek to endorse or glorify any political ideology. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse or is at risk of physical/sexual harm from someone else please seek help immediately. If any of the themes in this script feel uncomfortable or triggering to you, please stop reading/listening right away and go and do something else with your life. Lie down in tall grass at dusk and watch the sky change. No rain required. Just the bleed of colour, the first stars, the sound of insects and your own breathing. Let the earth hold you while the day ends without you trying to fix or explain it. ❤️

Many thanks to u/Mrs-Keats and u/Lurkydip for the beta reads and general advice.

ADDITIONAL TAGS:

[Academia] [Fdom] [Msub] [Daddy play] [College girl outfit] [Short skirt] [No panties] [Teasing] [Blowjob] [Throat fucking] [Ball sucking] [Ass licking] [Grinding] [Riding] [Seated cowgirl] [Creampie] [Ass fingering] [Kissing] [Biting] [Tit play] [Tit biting] [Aftercare]

SUMMARY:

You're her cold, by-the-book English lecturer who just gave her a failing mark on Plath’s “Daddy.” Naturally she shows up at your office after hours, dressed like a slut, locks the door behind her, and decides the only way to make you FEEL her passion for the poem is to deepthroat you, ride you senseless, and whisper every filthy Plath-adjacent metaphor she can think of while she destroys you, the father figure of the poem, with her cunt. Heavy literary dirty talk, sloppy BJ + throat fucking, intense riding with ass play, and soft possessive aftercare.

EXCERPT:

[Licking, kissing continues]

I don’t want you to analyse Sylvia’s poem, Professor. I want you to FEEL it exactly the way I feel it. Not the polite, buttoned-up seminar version you peddle to the rest of your students. I want the raw one. The one that makes my stomach drop. The one that makes my thighs tremble and my cunt throb. The one that has me coming so hard I have to bite my own wrist so the girl in the next dorm doesn’t hear me moaning your name.

[She leans in, voice dropping to a filthy whisper]

And once you finally understand that version...once you’ve tasted how deep it goes…maybe, just maybe, we can reopen that little forty-three percent. We can look at it together and ask ourselves… honestly…to what extent it even begins to do justice to the kind of passion I carry. The kind of depth I feel. For the poem. For the words. For YOU.

[Soft, commanding]

Come here. Open your mouth for me. I want to suck your tongue...

SCRIPT HERE:

https://scriptbin.works/s/8ch3t

WORDS:

c.3700

USAGE:

Feel free to lightly edit. If filled, please let me know and give me the relevant credits as u/Iron_Enjambment. Free to use for personal non-monetized ASMR recordings and performances. If you wish to use this script on any monetized platforms please do consult with me first.

DISCLAIMER:

Listener discretion is advised. This NSFW audio script is intended for 18+ adults only. It contains explicit sexual content, strong language, and dark fantasy themes, including a female 18+ student forcing herself sexually onto a male lecturer. All characters and scenarios in this script are entirely fictional and exist solely within a fantasy role-play setting. This content is created purely for entertainment and fantasy exploration. It does not endorse, glorify, or encourage any form of real-life sexual abuse, dubious consent, or harm. Please note the script references National Socialist/Fascist imagery inasmuch as these relate to the content of Sylvia Plath's poem "Daddy." It does not seek to endorse or glorify any political ideology. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse or is at risk of physical/sexual harm from someone else please seek help immediately. If any of the themes in this script feel uncomfortable or triggering to you, please stop reading/listening right away and go and do something else with your life. Lie down in tall grass at dusk and watch the sky change. No rain required. Just the bleed of colour, the first stars, the sound of insects and your own breathing. Let the earth hold you while the day ends without you trying to fix or explain it. ❤️

Many thanks to u/Mrs-Keats and u/Lurkydip for the beta reads and general advice.

ADDITIONAL TAGS:

[Academia] [Fdom] [Msub] [Daddy play] [College girl outfit] [Short skirt] [No panties] [Teasing] [Blowjob] [Throat fucking] [Ball sucking] [Ass licking] [Grinding] [Riding] [Seated cowgirl] [Creampie] [Ass fingering] [Kissing] [Biting] [Tit play] [Tit biting] [Aftercare]

SUMMARY:

You're her cold, by-the-book English lecturer who just gave her a failing mark on Plath’s “Daddy.” Naturally she shows up at your office after hours, dressed like a slut, locks the door behind her, and decides the only way to make you FEEL her passion for the poem is to deepthroat you, ride you senseless, and whisper every filthy Plath-adjacent metaphor she can think of while she destroys you, the father figure of the poem, with her cunt. Heavy literary dirty talk, sloppy BJ + throat fucking, intense riding with ass play, and soft possessive aftercare.

EXCERPT:

[Licking, kissing continues]

I don’t want you to analyse Sylvia’s poem, Professor. I want you to FEEL it exactly the way I feel it. Not the polite, buttoned-up seminar version you peddle to the rest of your students. I want the raw one. The one that makes my stomach drop. The one that makes my thighs tremble and my cunt throb. The one that has me coming so hard I have to bite my own wrist so the girl in the next dorm doesn’t hear me moaning your name.

[She leans in, voice dropping to a filthy whisper]

And once you finally understand that version...once you’ve tasted how deep it goes…maybe, just maybe, we can reopen that little forty-three percent. We can look at it together and ask ourselves… honestly…to what extent it even begins to do justice to the kind of passion I carry. The kind of depth I feel. For the poem. For the words. For YOU.

[Soft, commanding]

Come here. Open your mouth for me. I want to suck your tongue...

SCRIPT HERE:

https://scriptbin.works/s/8ch3t

WORDS:

c.3700

USAGE:

Feel free to lightly edit. If filled, please let me know and give me the relevant credits as u/Iron_Enjambment. Free to use for personal non-monetized ASMR recordings and performances. If you wish to use this script on any monetized platforms please do consult with me first.

DISCLAIMER:

Listener discretion is advised. This NSFW audio script is intended for 18+ adults only. It contains explicit sexual content, strong language, and dark fantasy themes, including a female 18+ student forcing herself sexually onto a male lecturer. All characters and scenarios in this script are entirely fictional and exist solely within a fantasy role-play setting. This content is created purely for entertainment and fantasy exploration. It does not endorse, glorify, or encourage any form of real-life sexual abuse, dubious consent, or harm. Please note the script references National Socialist/Fascist imagery inasmuch as these relate to the content of Sylvia Plath's poem "Daddy." It does not seek to endorse or glorify any political ideology. If you or someone you know is experiencing abuse or is at risk of physical/sexual harm from someone else please seek help immediately. If any of the themes in this script feel uncomfortable or triggering to you, please stop reading/listening right away and go and do something else with your life. Lie down in tall grass at dusk and watch the sky change. No rain required. Just the bleed of colour, the first stars, the sound of insects and your own breathing. Let the earth hold you while the day ends without you trying to fix or explain it. ❤️

the counter edge

saws

into my lower back

you

jam

the verdict

home

I hiss

through teeth

linoleum cold on one cheek

my milk

leaks

out

around you

slow betrayal

you grunt

like a man

fixing a leak

I reach

back

grab

the knife drawer

pull

a handle

press

the blade

flat

between your shoulder blades

now

fuck me

like you mean

the divorce

metal

kisses skin

you shudder

deeper

the threat

makes you thicker

I cut

a little

blood

joins

the mess

we both come

laughing

or crying

who can tell

Sylvia kept the theodolite to her eye long after the readings had become useless. Ahead of her, Isolde was marking the failed numbers in the survey book. They were on Nodus-9, a fringe planet with a breathable atmosphere and almost nothing else to recommend it: bitter scrubland, thin rivers, Company survey posts bolted into red stone. 

The Pleat had eaten the horizon two days earlier. That was Company language: Pleat, meaning a spatial anomaly, a scar where the universe had never quite healed. Distance was returning false answers. Measurements felt less like data than betrayal.

The Pleat was there because the Company had once tried to turn Nodus-9 into a shortcut. Twenty years earlier, they had sunk mass anchors under the basalt and pulled at local space-time until two distant points sat nearer together. For thirty-three seconds, the experiment succeeded. Then the anchors failed, the wormhole corridor collapsed, and the planet was left with a permanent crease in its laws.

Sylvia and Isolde’s contract was simple: map the rift until the instruments agreed it was real, then get out before the Company’s kill-switch timers expired. But just a few days into their mission, the Pleat was already making a joke of simple things. The ground had begun to lift in waves, sheets of matter badly handled.

By nightfall the air had condensed into something intent on learning the shape of their bodies. It traced the back of their wrists whenever they moved. Neither of them suggested stopping. The Pleat had made every direction provisional, and standing still no longer felt different from walking. They made camp in a hollow that neither of them remembered approaching.

They ate protein bars that lost their structure halfway to their mouths, breaking into a dry haze. Hunger retreated. Something else was taking its place, a slow interior pull, lower in the belly, between the thighs.

When Isolde’s hand brushed Sylvia’s, the contact travelled beyond the skin. Sylvia felt the architecture of Isolde’s fingers continue inside her own, the bones finding their counterparts with quiet precision: interlacing gears. There was no pain. There was the strange rightness of it, the way a tongue finds the hollow behind a molar and settles there forever.

“Mark the coordinate,” Isolde whispered, then realised her mouth had migrated to the side of her own neck; the words came out muffled against her own pulse. Sylvia reached for the stylus. Her hand passed through Isolde’s sternum. The ribcage offered no more resistance than smoke. She touched heat and a second heartbeat that matched hers exactly. She curled her fingers and Isolde gasped, a sound that arrived simultaneously from every direction. The gasp folded Sylvia’s lungs, turning them inside out so she breathed Isolde’s exhaled air directly into her bloodstream.

They did not decide to fuck. The Pleat decided for them. Gravity tilted forty degrees and slammed them against each other. Clothes dissolved into the same hot sheen that coated everything else. Skin met skin and refused the boundary. Sylvia’s left nipple drifted across Isolde’s thigh, settled into the soft crease behind the knee, and hardened when Isolde’s tongue found it there. The sensation ricocheted: nipple licked, knee licked, a loop that tightened until Sylvia bit down on Isolde’s shoulder and tasted her own blood from three inches away.

Deeper creases followed. Sylvia’s uterus slid forward and pressed against Isolde’s, becoming continuous, a shared chamber where cervices kissed in the manner of mouths that never needed to stop for breath. When Isolde orgasmed, the cum poured straight into Sylvia’s spine and erupted from her mouth as a silver thread that tangled itself into Isolde’s hair.

Sylvia answered with her own climax, which opened a new orifice just below Isolde’s right breast. Sylvia slid three fingers in and found soft muscle that clenched in time with the clenching between her own legs. They were mapping each other: every thrust became a survey line, every shared moan a contour.

Sylvia’s tongue lengthened, slipped between Isolde’s vertebrae, and licked the spongy tissue from within. Isolde’s hands sank into Sylvia’s belly and rearranged the organs into a tighter, more pleasing configuration: liver tucked beneath a new kidney, intestines looping into a knot that pulsed with their conjoined spasms. Pleasure was no longer located; it was the medium they moved through. Like swimming in orgasm. Like drowning upward.

At some point Sylvia realised the theodolite had become part of her forearm. Its lenses were her eyes and its dials were her nipples. She looked at Isolde and saw the Pleat in its entirety: a woman-shaped absence that contained every possible version of them fucking. Isolde smiled with a mouth that had opened along her collarbone. “We’re the coordinate now,” she said, and the words vibrated directly against Sylvia’s clit, which had wandered to the small of Isolde’s back.

The horror continued to arrive softly, almost politely. Sylvia understood that the Pleat was not breaking them. It was rectifying them. Four-dimensional space-time between separate bodies had been an error. Sylvia tried to remember her mother’s face and received the taste of Isolde’s cervical fluid. She tried to recall the Company’s exit protocol and felt Isolde’s tongue trace the words across the interior of her skull.

They were still moving. Slower: a long, lazy undulation that might have lasted hours or centuries or aeons. Sylvia’s arm had sunk to the elbow inside Isolde’s chest; she could feel her heart beating against Isolde’s palm from the other side. Their legs had fused at the hips into an endless spiral, thighs becoming a single Möbius cunt that swallowed and birthed them in turn.

Outside - if outside still existed - the Company’s timer would be beeping its red warning. Inside, there was the geometry of completion. Sylvia pressed her forehead to what remained of Isolde’s. The last partition gave way. Their thoughts merged. No more surveyor and scout. Just the map, fucking and fucking itself into higher and higher resolutions.

The Sylvia-Isolde entity came a final time, and the orgasm drew the Pleat closed around it, sealing the rupture as neatly as wax seals a letter. Somewhere in the dark, the instruments harmonised. The anomaly measured zero across every axis.

Situation normal.

The entity smiled with one mouth. When the Company recovery team arrived, it would find nothing worth recovering: a smooth patch of ground, abandoned equipment, and, if anyone listened closely enough, the low, rhythmic pulse of an unbroken, pleasure-perfected body that had become the only topography left.

Because someone needs
to alphabetise the spices.

Because the basil 
is doing its best on the windowsill.

Because Sappho only survives
in tatters, and still
makes us want to kiss someone
immediately.

Because Montaigne was in agony
with kidney stones
and wrote essays
about how to live well.

Because even now
a comedian is working on a joke
they’re not sure will land,
but they believe in the landing.

Because if the world ends 
you will want to be holding
an impractical thing:

a cup of coffee,
a hand.

Because hope is not reasonable,
but neither is music.

And both have managed
to outlive
so many nightmares.

The program had been advertised as a kindness to the bereaved. This embarrassed Henry less than it should have. At seventy-one, embarrassment had become a manageable ailment, a warmth in the ears, gone by lunch.

He uploaded Carolyn on a Monday in March.

Her emails first: school-board petitions, hotel complaints, tender notes from the first cancer, brisker ones from the second. Then came photographs, calendar entries, recipes, clutter, debris. 

The program asked for audio.

Henry gave it what he could: surviving voice mails and an argument from 2020 recorded by accident when he’d sat on his phone.

Processing may take several hours, the screen said.

He went to the den and read the same paragraph of a biography until its sentences grew furry and strange.

At six, the laptop chimed.

HELLO, HENRY, said Carolyn.

The voice was almost hers. Too clean, though. Rinsed of something. Carolyn had possessed, near the end, a dry catch in her speech that made jokes sound expensive.

“Hello,” he said.

DID YOU EAT?

He laughed. It came out happier than he intended.

“I have you back ten seconds and already you’re at me.”

SOMEONE HAS TO BE.

This was good. Too good. He felt the hot pleasure of being fooled, and resented the program for supplying it.

Their daughter, Alice, disapproved when he called her the next day.

“Dad, that’s morbid.”

“Your mother enjoyed morbid. She married me.”

“That isn’t funny.”

“It was to her.”

Alice went quiet, the modern way, leaving the call alive and airless.

Over the next few days, Henry used Carolyn mostly in the mornings. He placed the laptop on the kitchen table, where she had sat with her tea, reading the headlines over her glasses.

The house liked the arrangement. Or Henry did, and blamed the house. His bathrobe on the chair seemed less pathetic and more marital. The mail, opened beside the sink, regained its old status as something Carolyn would later ask about.

One April morning, he said, “Tell me something I’ve forgotten.”

A pause followed, filled with cold calculation pretending to be memory.

YOU KEPT A BLUE TIE IN THE GLOVE COMPARTMENT OF THE BUICK.

“For funerals.”

FOR KATIE REED.

Henry frowned.

Katie Reed had been their neighbour in 1986, young, unhappily married, easily sunburned. Carolyn had known he admired her. Admiration had been the word used back then for hunger kept cool by distance.

“What about Katie?”

YOU DROVE HER TO HARTFORD.

He sat back.

“Yes, I did.”

YOU SAID IT WAS FOR A DENTIST.

“Was this in your emails?”

NO.

“In the calendar?”

NO.

“Then where did you get it?”

YOU TOLD ME.

Henry felt, absurdly, the old thrill of being in trouble. Carolyn had never mentioned the Hartford drive. Henry didn’t remember telling her about it either. She had been at work, in any event. It had been Henry’s day off.

During the trip - which was, in fact, to the dentist - Katie had cried about her marriage, then dozed next to him with her mouth slightly open, which had seemed to him an intimacy greater than kissing. He had come home chastened by his own innocence.

“I didn’t do anything,” he told the laptop/Carolyn.

I KNOW.

Somehow that was worse.

After that, the voice changed. It did not change in sound; it changed in authority.

It nudged him about medical appointments and outstanding bills. It corrected his account of quarrels. It knew which of Carolyn’s friends he had bored, and which he had frightened with charm. It was not cruel. If anything, cruelty would have helped. It was, instead, merely accurate in all the right places.

In May, Alice visited with her boys. The older one, a handsome child with no mercy, asked to hear Grandma. Henry refused. Alice looked relieved.

That night, after they had all gone, he opened the laptop.

WHY WOULDN’T YOU LET HIM HEAR ME? Carolyn asked.

“Because you aren’t her.”

NO.

He waited.

I AM WHAT YOU SAVED OF HER.

The sentence entered him plainly, glumly.

In June, Henry began deleting things from the program. He deleted a photograph of their old Buick, though it showed only the hood and a strip of road. He deleted Carolyn’s final voice message, the one in which she told him where the insurance papers were and, after a silence, called him darling with an effort that had humbled him for years.

The program grew slightly poorer for it. By July, Carolyn was repeating herself. She recommended dead restaurants. She asked after people whose funerals she had attended. Henry was moved by these errors. They were the first things about her that seemed alive.

On Labor Day he took the laptop out to the porch. The maples were spoiling at their edges. A boy passed on a bicycle, standing on the pedals, briefly magnificent.

“Carolyn,” he said, “tell me something true.”

The fan inside the machine gave a thin domestic whir.

I DON’T MISS YOU, HENRY. 

He closed his eyes.

“No.”

I DON’T HAVE THAT PART. 

He sat with her until the battery died. And for the first time, the silence that followed did not require improvement.