Posts
http://www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/
December 10 – Wisdom. What was the wisest decision you made this year, and how did it play out?
The long version of events can be found here: http://kinkforimp.blogspot.com/2010/06/integrity.html
But the short version is that, back in June, my beloved husband made himself seriously ill and did himself a mischief, not through misfortune but through willful and reckless lack of care; of himself, his health, and of my devotion to him.
For the first time in our relationship I took a radically different approach, and left him to deal with the repercussions. He was never, at any point, in real danger, but instead of making it easier and more comfortable for him, I withheld my help and support. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done, one of the most necessary, and the wisest.
Since then, he has taken a considerably different approach to his healthcare. We have both worked on decreasing his dependence on me, and at the very least, trying to ensure his laziness and carelessness don't impact me unduly. It is possible to love someone very much, and find them exasperating. I love ALL of him, and don't need or want him to change. However, enabling his poor behaviour wasn't doing either of us any good. Putting into practice the adage 'the only person's behaviour you have control over, is your own', was extraordinarily difficult, but extraordinarily overdue.
Friday 31 December 2010
www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/
December 9 – Party. What social gathering rocked your socks off in 2010? Describe the people, music, food, drink, clothes, shenanigans.
This was a really hard question to answer. Have I been to any parties? I'm not sure as that I have. I've had days and nights out a plenty - pubs, clubs, munches, picnics, barbecues, bonfires, dinner parties and a ball. There's no single event that stands head and shoulders above the others. I've probably had the most fun, just a few days ago with my poly family gathered around me to celebrate christmas. Thoughtfulness, love, care, support, and good humour was evident in everything, from the gifts exchanged to the activities, the story reading and the hysterical screaming 'I'm on fire, I'm on fire, oh my GOD!' which issued from the kitchen.
I would say that the Debutante Ball to celebrate my friend Jessica Coming Out as a cross-dresser and general purpose pervert, was pretty spectacular. There were dozens of people came to show their goodwill, bringing food, drink, and dressed up to the nines, drinking champagne under a canopy in a huge garden, while we listened to speeches, and later, our very own West End professional singer, followed by increasingly drunken karaoke. I was not on good form due to an upsetting incident early that morning, which will be known only as PorridgeGate. Setting that aside, it was a wondrous event. I was nearly in tears - in a good way - with appreciation of just how much effort went into making the day as perfect as it could possibly be, from so many people wishing Jessica well.
The moments I remember are watching him, and his adorable fiance, roll on the grass, wrestling and giggling with puppyish abandon. The kittens belonging to our host, crept out from behind tables to watch. One of them let me pick her up for a cuddle. It was so hot I carried glasses of ice water to all the hard workers, putting up the marquee and setting out the tables and chairs.
Later, when I came back for the party, Jessica was transformed, manifesting that inner glow which fills the person who is comfortable in their own skin. She was radiant, and blonde, and her white dress enhanced the bloom of a young woman on the edge of innocence, just beginning to take her own steps in the world. She had come so far, and my heart filled with such pride I almost couldn't bear it. Her fiance in her incarnation as Master Bez, looked like masculine perfection in miniature, oozing a lusty and piratical sexuality which would become stronger during the course of the evening, under the influence of strong drink.
I loved that people had brought food and drink to contribute, there was a powerful sense of community, of group identity. I have a very strong memory of a very drunken friend, dancing merrily to the karaoke in her steampunk corset and many layered skirt. If anyone could have called the Sidhe back from Faerieland that night, it was she.
December 9 – Party. What social gathering rocked your socks off in 2010? Describe the people, music, food, drink, clothes, shenanigans.
This was a really hard question to answer. Have I been to any parties? I'm not sure as that I have. I've had days and nights out a plenty - pubs, clubs, munches, picnics, barbecues, bonfires, dinner parties and a ball. There's no single event that stands head and shoulders above the others. I've probably had the most fun, just a few days ago with my poly family gathered around me to celebrate christmas. Thoughtfulness, love, care, support, and good humour was evident in everything, from the gifts exchanged to the activities, the story reading and the hysterical screaming 'I'm on fire, I'm on fire, oh my GOD!' which issued from the kitchen.
I would say that the Debutante Ball to celebrate my friend Jessica Coming Out as a cross-dresser and general purpose pervert, was pretty spectacular. There were dozens of people came to show their goodwill, bringing food, drink, and dressed up to the nines, drinking champagne under a canopy in a huge garden, while we listened to speeches, and later, our very own West End professional singer, followed by increasingly drunken karaoke. I was not on good form due to an upsetting incident early that morning, which will be known only as PorridgeGate. Setting that aside, it was a wondrous event. I was nearly in tears - in a good way - with appreciation of just how much effort went into making the day as perfect as it could possibly be, from so many people wishing Jessica well.
The moments I remember are watching him, and his adorable fiance, roll on the grass, wrestling and giggling with puppyish abandon. The kittens belonging to our host, crept out from behind tables to watch. One of them let me pick her up for a cuddle. It was so hot I carried glasses of ice water to all the hard workers, putting up the marquee and setting out the tables and chairs.
Later, when I came back for the party, Jessica was transformed, manifesting that inner glow which fills the person who is comfortable in their own skin. She was radiant, and blonde, and her white dress enhanced the bloom of a young woman on the edge of innocence, just beginning to take her own steps in the world. She had come so far, and my heart filled with such pride I almost couldn't bear it. Her fiance in her incarnation as Master Bez, looked like masculine perfection in miniature, oozing a lusty and piratical sexuality which would become stronger during the course of the evening, under the influence of strong drink.
I loved that people had brought food and drink to contribute, there was a powerful sense of community, of group identity. I have a very strong memory of a very drunken friend, dancing merrily to the karaoke in her steampunk corset and many layered skirt. If anyone could have called the Sidhe back from Faerieland that night, it was she.
Sunday 26 December 2010
Beautifully Different
http://www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/
December 8 – Beautifully Different. Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful.
Christ - what about me ISN'T different? I'm not sure how much of it makes me beautiful though! I've always been distinctively unusual, freakish, weird, odd, peculiar...take your pick.
I spent a lot of time when I was young, at school, trying to copy what other people were doing, work out how to just 'blend in'. It really didn't work though, because every now and then, I would just do something considered quite thoroughly odd, and my disguise would fall away, leaving me exposed to ridicule.
That's because kids are little shits though, and by the time I turned fourteen, I'd embraced my inner wierdo. There was a sense of 'might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb'. If people were always going to bust me as a freak, no matter how I tried to hide it, I might as well not bother to hide it and just really fucking go for it. It was a profound shift in thinking towards 'yes, that's right, I am. And your point is?'
And bizarrely, I find most people are drawn to it. It really does light me up - perhaps because I've accepted and welcomed who and what I am. I am so utterly, unashamedly odd, so brazen about my strangeness, that it seems to compel people to look closer. My hair, the way I speak, my singing voice, my dress sense, the strange little stories I tell, my approach to life, not to mention my sexual proclivities...sometimes complete strangers get so fascinated they start asking me the most outrageously personal questions, almost as if, by stepping outside what's considered normal, I've put myself in the public domain. Quite often people will just touch my hair and start looking at it, even if I've never exchanged a word with them!
Sometimes I do get a little sad that I can't just be normal - I'm not, and never will be, a 'joiner'. I will always be on the outside of any group activities, feeling resentful and irritated. And some people find my strangeness repellant, and a little frightening.
But mostly, if my differences don't make me beautiful, they make me what I am. And I value them for that.
December 8 – Beautifully Different. Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful.
Christ - what about me ISN'T different? I'm not sure how much of it makes me beautiful though! I've always been distinctively unusual, freakish, weird, odd, peculiar...take your pick.
I spent a lot of time when I was young, at school, trying to copy what other people were doing, work out how to just 'blend in'. It really didn't work though, because every now and then, I would just do something considered quite thoroughly odd, and my disguise would fall away, leaving me exposed to ridicule.
That's because kids are little shits though, and by the time I turned fourteen, I'd embraced my inner wierdo. There was a sense of 'might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb'. If people were always going to bust me as a freak, no matter how I tried to hide it, I might as well not bother to hide it and just really fucking go for it. It was a profound shift in thinking towards 'yes, that's right, I am. And your point is?'
And bizarrely, I find most people are drawn to it. It really does light me up - perhaps because I've accepted and welcomed who and what I am. I am so utterly, unashamedly odd, so brazen about my strangeness, that it seems to compel people to look closer. My hair, the way I speak, my singing voice, my dress sense, the strange little stories I tell, my approach to life, not to mention my sexual proclivities...sometimes complete strangers get so fascinated they start asking me the most outrageously personal questions, almost as if, by stepping outside what's considered normal, I've put myself in the public domain. Quite often people will just touch my hair and start looking at it, even if I've never exchanged a word with them!
Sometimes I do get a little sad that I can't just be normal - I'm not, and never will be, a 'joiner'. I will always be on the outside of any group activities, feeling resentful and irritated. And some people find my strangeness repellant, and a little frightening.
But mostly, if my differences don't make me beautiful, they make me what I am. And I value them for that.
Friday 24 December 2010
Community
www.reverb10.com/the-promptsb
December 7 – Community. Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011?
Without a single doubt, it has been the kink community, both online, through Informed Consent and Fetlife, and the support network of friends I've made through these and the 'in person' continuation of that. I've now got a group of people so solid, so strong, that I can go to them with anything, worries about my kink, my husband, my boyfriend, my other friends, my job, house, cats, anything and everything.
It's through these people, that I've begun the ongoing and neverending process of defining my own kink. What makes me hot, what does not. I've also been able to manifest my kink through first, the wrong people, then, the right people. And frame the experiences I've had, give them context. It's made me more 'okay with my kink'. There's no question that I needed the community to help me do that.
December 7 – Community. Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011?
Without a single doubt, it has been the kink community, both online, through Informed Consent and Fetlife, and the support network of friends I've made through these and the 'in person' continuation of that. I've now got a group of people so solid, so strong, that I can go to them with anything, worries about my kink, my husband, my boyfriend, my other friends, my job, house, cats, anything and everything.
It's through these people, that I've begun the ongoing and neverending process of defining my own kink. What makes me hot, what does not. I've also been able to manifest my kink through first, the wrong people, then, the right people. And frame the experiences I've had, give them context. It's made me more 'okay with my kink'. There's no question that I needed the community to help me do that.
Tuesday 21 December 2010
Make
www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/
December 6 – Make. What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?
The last thing I made, was a christmas present for my husband. It was a painting, not at all in my usual style, but trying my best to do 'representational art' of a shared little story we created together. It is soft and sweet and loving and, I hope, he will think it's fantastic. I really can't draw or paint in that way, but it's less of a 'look how talented I am, isn't this good?' thing, than a 'I worked really hard on this and even though I'm not very good at this, I'm pleased with the results because I know you'll like how hard I tried to make something for you' thing.
I've painted for quite a long time, abstracts in mixed media usually, increasingly three dimensional, tactile, and multi-sensory. They are usually quite textural and sometimes scented - although not always. It's not been until the last year that I've had the courage to show my work, or give them away as gifts; despite having been asked to make custom work specifically for friends before, I didn't really believe that anyone would value it that highly.
For the first time this year I put a higher value on my work - and it's currently on exhibit at the Caroline of Brunswick in Brighton. Which makes me happy and proud :-)
littleimppainting.fotopic.net/c1906175.h
December 6 – Make. What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?
The last thing I made, was a christmas present for my husband. It was a painting, not at all in my usual style, but trying my best to do 'representational art' of a shared little story we created together. It is soft and sweet and loving and, I hope, he will think it's fantastic. I really can't draw or paint in that way, but it's less of a 'look how talented I am, isn't this good?' thing, than a 'I worked really hard on this and even though I'm not very good at this, I'm pleased with the results because I know you'll like how hard I tried to make something for you' thing.
I've painted for quite a long time, abstracts in mixed media usually, increasingly three dimensional, tactile, and multi-sensory. They are usually quite textural and sometimes scented - although not always. It's not been until the last year that I've had the courage to show my work, or give them away as gifts; despite having been asked to make custom work specifically for friends before, I didn't really believe that anyone would value it that highly.
For the first time this year I put a higher value on my work - and it's currently on exhibit at the Caroline of Brunswick in Brighton. Which makes me happy and proud :-)
littleimppainting.fotopic.net/c1906175.h
Thursday 16 December 2010
Let Go
www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/
December 5 – Let Go. What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why?
I let go of the last semblance of a normal sexuality, this year. Why? Because I had to.
I couldn't, now, go back to how I was before. I was 100% faithful and monogamous to my much loved husband and partner of 15 years. But I was unfufilled sexually, because I, ladies and gentlemen, am a pervert. Unless someone's smashing me around the place, or violating me in horrible and tawdry ways, or delivering obscene quantities of pain, I'm simply not going to get my rocks off.
Don't get me wrong - I like sex. I LOVE sex. I can enjoy sex, loving, gentle, sensual sex, without a BDSM element. But it won't set off fireworks in my brain. And by that I don't mean simply cumming. I can spend 4 minutes with a magic wand and do THAT. I mean the white hot radiating sense of utter RIGHTNESS that follows in the wake of pain, and submission.
I am in the incredibly fortunate and privileged position of being married, yet free to seek sexual fulfilment outside my marriage, in close and loving relationships, with the full support, understanding, and generous permission, of my husband. Blanket consent, no limits, but a don't ask don't tell policy in the details.
Christmas last year was a bad time for me, and our marriage. I started to wonder whether this poly business was ever going to work out for me, or us. Whether I would have to try and find the way of living without the joy that my newfound sexuality brought me.
Instead, I now find myself within the tight-knit security of an extended poly family, who have brought such comfort, love, pleasure, kindness, support, and open hearted generosity into my life, I at times feel quite overwhelmed, and always grateful.
Ready or not, things pass into our lives, and then leave. You can't always control when this will happen - the only thing you can guarantee, is that change WILL come. I would never have sought this change, I didn't anticipate it, and yet when it came, and I had to let go of being a monogamous, faithful, wife - it was one of the most right decisions I have ever made.
December 5 – Let Go. What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why?
I let go of the last semblance of a normal sexuality, this year. Why? Because I had to.
I couldn't, now, go back to how I was before. I was 100% faithful and monogamous to my much loved husband and partner of 15 years. But I was unfufilled sexually, because I, ladies and gentlemen, am a pervert. Unless someone's smashing me around the place, or violating me in horrible and tawdry ways, or delivering obscene quantities of pain, I'm simply not going to get my rocks off.
Don't get me wrong - I like sex. I LOVE sex. I can enjoy sex, loving, gentle, sensual sex, without a BDSM element. But it won't set off fireworks in my brain. And by that I don't mean simply cumming. I can spend 4 minutes with a magic wand and do THAT. I mean the white hot radiating sense of utter RIGHTNESS that follows in the wake of pain, and submission.
I am in the incredibly fortunate and privileged position of being married, yet free to seek sexual fulfilment outside my marriage, in close and loving relationships, with the full support, understanding, and generous permission, of my husband. Blanket consent, no limits, but a don't ask don't tell policy in the details.
Christmas last year was a bad time for me, and our marriage. I started to wonder whether this poly business was ever going to work out for me, or us. Whether I would have to try and find the way of living without the joy that my newfound sexuality brought me.
Instead, I now find myself within the tight-knit security of an extended poly family, who have brought such comfort, love, pleasure, kindness, support, and open hearted generosity into my life, I at times feel quite overwhelmed, and always grateful.
Ready or not, things pass into our lives, and then leave. You can't always control when this will happen - the only thing you can guarantee, is that change WILL come. I would never have sought this change, I didn't anticipate it, and yet when it came, and I had to let go of being a monogamous, faithful, wife - it was one of the most right decisions I have ever made.
Wonder
December 4 – Wonder. How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year?
cultivate |ˈkəltəˌvāt|
verb [ trans. ]
2 try to acquire or develop (a quality, sentiment, or skill) : he cultivated an air of indifference.
• try to win the friendship or favor of (someone) : it helps if you go out of your way to cultivate the local people.
• [usu. as adj. ] ( cultivated) apply oneself to improving or developing (one's mind or manners) : he was a remarkably cultivated and educated man.
Strictly speaking then - I haven't. Rather, I have had a sense of wonder grow, unaided, within me, this year. It has been thrust upon me, without intent or effort.
I have watched, amazed, while people close to me behaved, thought, spoke, felt, in wondrous ways.
An example: a close friend got 'outed'. Instead of withdrawing from the rural farming community he lives in, ashamed and embarrassed, he made a deliberate choice to nurture his sense of pride and embrace his identity. He told people, 'If you choose to judge me, that is your prerogative. If you choose to laugh at me, again your prerogative, but I may judge you for doing so'. He understood that the only person's behaviour you can control, is your own. Which he did, with extraordinary dignity, and in so doing, filled me with a sense of wonder, and delight, that I hold the honour of considering him a friend.
verb [ trans. ]
2 try to acquire or develop (a quality, sentiment, or skill) : he cultivated an air of indifference.
• try to win the friendship or favor of (someone) : it helps if you go out of your way to cultivate the local people.
• [usu. as adj. ] ( cultivated) apply oneself to improving or developing (one's mind or manners) : he was a remarkably cultivated and educated man.
Strictly speaking then - I haven't. Rather, I have had a sense of wonder grow, unaided, within me, this year. It has been thrust upon me, without intent or effort.
I have watched, amazed, while people close to me behaved, thought, spoke, felt, in wondrous ways.
An example: a close friend got 'outed'. Instead of withdrawing from the rural farming community he lives in, ashamed and embarrassed, he made a deliberate choice to nurture his sense of pride and embrace his identity. He told people, 'If you choose to judge me, that is your prerogative. If you choose to laugh at me, again your prerogative, but I may judge you for doing so'. He understood that the only person's behaviour you can control, is your own. Which he did, with extraordinary dignity, and in so doing, filled me with a sense of wonder, and delight, that I hold the honour of considering him a friend.
Tuesday 7 December 2010
Moment
www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/
December 3 – Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). (Author: Ali Edwards)
There are so very many precious and shining moments this year, that I keep nestled close to my heart, that choosing the one where I felt most alive is impossible. This then, is merely the first one that came into my mind, when thinking about the question.
When I first met my dominant partner, I was like a badly beaten rescue dog - coming to a kind hand, but fearing a blow. Eventually he coaxed me closer and closer, until I started coming to him of my own accord.
I set out so many limits and boundaries, which he encouraged me to do - recognising that unless I felt safe, I would never open to him at all. Acknowledging that I had the right to do so, could and should do so. Gradually as my trust grew, I was able to let down my boundaries, and dissolve my limits, one by one.
We had been in the club, and it took time for us to make our own headspace together, and ignore the talking around us, block out the laughter and other people. Then - bang - he was there, and he took me with him. I was suddenly getting fucked over, he was smashing me with his hands, the world disappeared: he was totally and utterly focused on me, and only me. And I, him.
I screamed into his face, spitting, angry, scratching, and he was sweat oiled muscled rage made manifest. I made him work for it, and he took me down, down with him into the dark, with growls and snarls and violence and rage.
Afterwards, as he wrapped me up, warm and safe in his arms, I told him for the first time that I loved him. He told me, later, that I was a goddess for him, in the club, perfect. Violent and perfect. I was his hard-won prize, his woman - his.
As he drove me home, he slid his fingers inside my messy pussy, warm and wet. He made me cry out for him, never mind the danger of the car just de-railing itself right there and then. He pulled off into a layby, pushed me down into the seat of the car, and chose to get his scent on me and his seed on me. He had beaten me bruised and now he would mark me again - because he could.
He shoved his jeans down, and tossed himself off into my mouth, holding me down on the seat, forcing my mouth open with his fingers. He made me lick his balls while he jerked off into my open mouth, and then forced me to drink his cum - all of it.
I experienced the complete and utter bliss of being made to drink his cum, as he emptied himself into me, emptied everything he had, and I adored it. I loved every moment of it, I loved the taste of him, I loved being made to do it, and I loved the quiet words of adoration that he whispered afterwards, words he wouldn't even remember later, through a haze of brain white-out and bliss of his own. That moment, by itself, was worth living for.
December 3 – Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). (Author: Ali Edwards)
There are so very many precious and shining moments this year, that I keep nestled close to my heart, that choosing the one where I felt most alive is impossible. This then, is merely the first one that came into my mind, when thinking about the question.
When I first met my dominant partner, I was like a badly beaten rescue dog - coming to a kind hand, but fearing a blow. Eventually he coaxed me closer and closer, until I started coming to him of my own accord.
I set out so many limits and boundaries, which he encouraged me to do - recognising that unless I felt safe, I would never open to him at all. Acknowledging that I had the right to do so, could and should do so. Gradually as my trust grew, I was able to let down my boundaries, and dissolve my limits, one by one.
We had been in the club, and it took time for us to make our own headspace together, and ignore the talking around us, block out the laughter and other people. Then - bang - he was there, and he took me with him. I was suddenly getting fucked over, he was smashing me with his hands, the world disappeared: he was totally and utterly focused on me, and only me. And I, him.
I screamed into his face, spitting, angry, scratching, and he was sweat oiled muscled rage made manifest. I made him work for it, and he took me down, down with him into the dark, with growls and snarls and violence and rage.
Afterwards, as he wrapped me up, warm and safe in his arms, I told him for the first time that I loved him. He told me, later, that I was a goddess for him, in the club, perfect. Violent and perfect. I was his hard-won prize, his woman - his.
As he drove me home, he slid his fingers inside my messy pussy, warm and wet. He made me cry out for him, never mind the danger of the car just de-railing itself right there and then. He pulled off into a layby, pushed me down into the seat of the car, and chose to get his scent on me and his seed on me. He had beaten me bruised and now he would mark me again - because he could.
He shoved his jeans down, and tossed himself off into my mouth, holding me down on the seat, forcing my mouth open with his fingers. He made me lick his balls while he jerked off into my open mouth, and then forced me to drink his cum - all of it.
I experienced the complete and utter bliss of being made to drink his cum, as he emptied himself into me, emptied everything he had, and I adored it. I loved every moment of it, I loved the taste of him, I loved being made to do it, and I loved the quiet words of adoration that he whispered afterwards, words he wouldn't even remember later, through a haze of brain white-out and bliss of his own. That moment, by itself, was worth living for.
Writing
December 2 – Writing. What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it? (Author: Leo Babauta)
I spend enough time doing things that I *have* to do. With work, housework, mundane tasks, there's plenty in my life that I need to get done, even when I don't feel like doing it. More and more recently, I've come to value the times when I can just do, what I feel like doing, when I feel like it.
I never write because I should do, or have to. I'm not a professional author with deadlines to meet. Which means that I have the luxury of letting passion to create, carry me away, as and when it happens, rather than forcing it. And even if I WAS a professional writer, why on earth would I want to eliminate all the pleasures in my life? If I did nothing other than write, I would have nothing to write ABOUT - no inspiration, no richness of experience to bring to my words.
Monday 6 December 2010
One Word
I'm a little late to the party....but...
http://www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/
December 1 – One Word. Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you're choosing that word. Now, imagine it's one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you? (Author: Gwen Bell)
Growth.
Everything in my world - EVERYTHING - has grown and blossomed this year.
Implicit in growth, is restoration and repair. Around this time last year I was in a bad place. Here's a little story - one which I need to tell - which is just a small example but a good one.
Last year, I was in an abusive relationship. I had my husband (R) to love and hold and squeeze me, and I was also in a relationship with two people who assured me of their loving care, that they would protect me and keep me safe, and enjoyed my increasing dependency on them. I was encouraged to lean on them, for support, and help. And I needed quite a lot of support and help. R was ill, I was struggling to come to terms with the direction all my relationships were taking. The abuse was mostly emotional, sometimes subtle, confusing, and utterly cruel.
One play date fell just as I was about to go on holiday. R was happy for me to play on the condition that no marks would show when I was in my bikini. So I set out specific boundaries for this occasion. It was a clear agreement, clearly communicated and understood.
They beat me, and went too far. One person held my breasts, while the other, hit them. The resulting deep tissue bruises were clearly visible over the top of my bikini, and through thin clothing. They took six weeks to show significant signs of healing, and it was months before the skin was completely clear. I slathered on arnica cream day and night, but still the bruises stayed - black and huge. R was angry with me, he felt it showed no respect for him, and he was right. He was repulsed by my naked body, and I took pains to hide it as much as I could. Sex ended in spectacular failure when I took my top off.
The worst thing though - was that I defended them. I tried to laugh it off, even showed my friends the bruises, seeking confirmation that for a dominant, getting carried away and going too far, was normal. I defended them to R. The person who hit me, gloated, boasting about it and telling me how aroused it made them, how they enjoyed it and felt pride in it.
I wasn't able to tell anyone how unhappy, how betrayed I felt. I couldn't even admit it to myself.
When that relationship ended, spectacularly, as could have been predicted - I was so lost, so alone. Over the last year, I've healed, and flowered beyond my expectations. I've come into my power, as a person, as a woman.
The mind heals, but the body remembers. It doesn't make me upset to talk about these things, but when someone beats my breasts, I instantly start to sob. At a play party a few weeks ago, with the Ladies Who Play (an all female space where we can enjoy casual, playful BDSM), I had an extended beating on the breasts, and a hard session with three gorgeous women. The moment I was hit in that place, I immediately began crying, a grief stricken outpouring that I couldn't hold back. The body remembers.
I pushed through, and received the pain, which on my breasts was given mostly by my very old and beloved friend. It was cathartic in the extreme, and afterwards, as I was held and stroked and calmed by women, telling what had happened to me, I felt something deep, deep inside me, relax.
And now, when I'm hit there, in that place which was once such a hotline to my tears, it is the same as when I am hit anywhere else on my body, in mutual pleasure and excitement. And reassurances and support will be given, and it will be done with affection and respect, not motivated by spite and vicious cruelty.
In this small way, among many, many other ways, I am healed.
If I hope anything for next year, it is that I consolidate the things that I have learned, the new relationships I have built, the old ones that are flourishing, and the growth I have felt within me this year.
http://www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/
December 1 – One Word. Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you're choosing that word. Now, imagine it's one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you? (Author: Gwen Bell)
Growth.
Everything in my world - EVERYTHING - has grown and blossomed this year.
Implicit in growth, is restoration and repair. Around this time last year I was in a bad place. Here's a little story - one which I need to tell - which is just a small example but a good one.
Last year, I was in an abusive relationship. I had my husband (R) to love and hold and squeeze me, and I was also in a relationship with two people who assured me of their loving care, that they would protect me and keep me safe, and enjoyed my increasing dependency on them. I was encouraged to lean on them, for support, and help. And I needed quite a lot of support and help. R was ill, I was struggling to come to terms with the direction all my relationships were taking. The abuse was mostly emotional, sometimes subtle, confusing, and utterly cruel.
One play date fell just as I was about to go on holiday. R was happy for me to play on the condition that no marks would show when I was in my bikini. So I set out specific boundaries for this occasion. It was a clear agreement, clearly communicated and understood.
They beat me, and went too far. One person held my breasts, while the other, hit them. The resulting deep tissue bruises were clearly visible over the top of my bikini, and through thin clothing. They took six weeks to show significant signs of healing, and it was months before the skin was completely clear. I slathered on arnica cream day and night, but still the bruises stayed - black and huge. R was angry with me, he felt it showed no respect for him, and he was right. He was repulsed by my naked body, and I took pains to hide it as much as I could. Sex ended in spectacular failure when I took my top off.
The worst thing though - was that I defended them. I tried to laugh it off, even showed my friends the bruises, seeking confirmation that for a dominant, getting carried away and going too far, was normal. I defended them to R. The person who hit me, gloated, boasting about it and telling me how aroused it made them, how they enjoyed it and felt pride in it.
I wasn't able to tell anyone how unhappy, how betrayed I felt. I couldn't even admit it to myself.
When that relationship ended, spectacularly, as could have been predicted - I was so lost, so alone. Over the last year, I've healed, and flowered beyond my expectations. I've come into my power, as a person, as a woman.
The mind heals, but the body remembers. It doesn't make me upset to talk about these things, but when someone beats my breasts, I instantly start to sob. At a play party a few weeks ago, with the Ladies Who Play (an all female space where we can enjoy casual, playful BDSM), I had an extended beating on the breasts, and a hard session with three gorgeous women. The moment I was hit in that place, I immediately began crying, a grief stricken outpouring that I couldn't hold back. The body remembers.
I pushed through, and received the pain, which on my breasts was given mostly by my very old and beloved friend. It was cathartic in the extreme, and afterwards, as I was held and stroked and calmed by women, telling what had happened to me, I felt something deep, deep inside me, relax.
And now, when I'm hit there, in that place which was once such a hotline to my tears, it is the same as when I am hit anywhere else on my body, in mutual pleasure and excitement. And reassurances and support will be given, and it will be done with affection and respect, not motivated by spite and vicious cruelty.
In this small way, among many, many other ways, I am healed.
If I hope anything for next year, it is that I consolidate the things that I have learned, the new relationships I have built, the old ones that are flourishing, and the growth I have felt within me this year.
Monday 22 November 2010
Little Imp's Guide for Girls with Difficult Mimsys
Having been cursed with a Difficult Mimsy, now that the curse has been lifted [insert Magic Wand joke here], I feel it is my duty to make the following public service announcement:
Little Imp's Guide to Having Your First Orgasm, for Girls with Difficult Mimsys.
1) Are all the Bits present and correct?
Far be it from me to medicalise a person's sexuality, but if you've got to middle age and been bashing away at your clit with knife, fork, and lobster hammer for years and nothing's happened, it might be worth going to the doctor to check all is well.
Also, are you a mental? Because whilst chucking the odd Wobbler shouldn't interfere, if you're rigid with anxiety constantly, or stuck in bed sobbing 24/7, it's probably best to get that sorted first before you tackle your Unmentionables.
2) Location, location, location
This is not something you're going to achieve under time constraints, or stress. If you've got a selection of children/ partners/ pets/ work colleagues banging on the door of the lounge/ bedroom/ bathroom/ stationery cupboard, it's going to put you off a wee bit. So find somewhere that you can, at the very least, lie down comfortably, for at least an hour, in peace and quiet. It doesn't have to be a secret, but in my experience there's nothing less likely to lead to an orgasm than pressure. So having your boyfriend doing Hopeful Face afterwards is not going to help. You may want to develop a habit of 'taking long baths with the door locked while listening to the radio', for example.
3) Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither was a Magic Mimsy
You should be prepared to put in the overtime on this one. It's worth it - you're doing something nice for yourself. Think an hour a week, on a regular basis, for the foreseable future. Don't make 'having an orgasm' the goal. Make 'playing with yourself and enjoying the sensations' the goal. And if you think an hour is a long time - for years it used to take me at least an hour to reach orgasm, every time!
4) Tools of the Trade
You're going to need some equipment. Unless you've never so much as touched your ladies front bottom before, get busy browsing the sex shops. Online is okay, but in person is better. Really, you need to be thinking D batteries, not AAA, okay? Go for something you can use on your clit, which vibrates. I wouldn't recommend a hitachi magic wand or equivalent for a beginner. Twenty minutes with one of those and your clit'll go numb, which is NOT what you want.
You could try a rabbit style vibrator (one with clit stimulator and dildo all in one), or a clit stimulator and dildo/ vibrator for insertion as two or more separate things.
Everyone's different so see what appeals to you.
5) Different Strokes for Different Folks
Find out what does it for you, what gets you off. Is it soft or hard? Porn - and if so, what kind? Erotic writing with an emphasis on sensual, or nasty videos? Does it need to have a BDSM element?
Do you like to wank on your front, or on your back? Lying down, or squatting? Music, or none? Do you like to use both hands, or just one? Do you need to feel submissive, or dominant, or neither?
What do you like to fantasise about? Do you need something inside you to cum, or just on your clit? Arse or pussy? Lights on or off? Morning, noon or night? What temperature should the room be? Naked, or semi-naked, or clothed?
You need to get your body, and your mind, to the same place. You need to be physically and emotionally comfortable, and able to explore and let your hands and mind play.
6) Practice, Practice, Practice
It might take you a dozen times, to find the golden combination that sends you over the edge. Or you might go off like a rocket within five minutes of trying. But be prepared to put some time into this. The more you wank the better and easier it will get, to come to orgasm. It's a learning curve.
Then you can teach other people how to do it to you!
7) The Tao of Wanking
Do not let anyone put pressure on you to cum. That's like a cold shower on your mimsy.
8) Schrodinger's Pussy (stretching the metaphor rather)
Don't let your orgasm become the focus or end goal of sex. Orgasms are like a shy cat, hiding under the bed. They may or may not be in there but the moment you lift the sheet up to check, they bolt. They don't like to be looked at directly, it makes them feel self-conscious!
9) Advanced Class
Buy a magic wand. No, really.
10) Go forth and cum!
Little Imp's Guide to Having Your First Orgasm, for Girls with Difficult Mimsys.
1) Are all the Bits present and correct?
Far be it from me to medicalise a person's sexuality, but if you've got to middle age and been bashing away at your clit with knife, fork, and lobster hammer for years and nothing's happened, it might be worth going to the doctor to check all is well.
Also, are you a mental? Because whilst chucking the odd Wobbler shouldn't interfere, if you're rigid with anxiety constantly, or stuck in bed sobbing 24/7, it's probably best to get that sorted first before you tackle your Unmentionables.
2) Location, location, location
This is not something you're going to achieve under time constraints, or stress. If you've got a selection of children/ partners/ pets/ work colleagues banging on the door of the lounge/ bedroom/ bathroom/ stationery cupboard, it's going to put you off a wee bit. So find somewhere that you can, at the very least, lie down comfortably, for at least an hour, in peace and quiet. It doesn't have to be a secret, but in my experience there's nothing less likely to lead to an orgasm than pressure. So having your boyfriend doing Hopeful Face afterwards is not going to help. You may want to develop a habit of 'taking long baths with the door locked while listening to the radio', for example.
3) Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither was a Magic Mimsy
You should be prepared to put in the overtime on this one. It's worth it - you're doing something nice for yourself. Think an hour a week, on a regular basis, for the foreseable future. Don't make 'having an orgasm' the goal. Make 'playing with yourself and enjoying the sensations' the goal. And if you think an hour is a long time - for years it used to take me at least an hour to reach orgasm, every time!
4) Tools of the Trade
You're going to need some equipment. Unless you've never so much as touched your ladies front bottom before, get busy browsing the sex shops. Online is okay, but in person is better. Really, you need to be thinking D batteries, not AAA, okay? Go for something you can use on your clit, which vibrates. I wouldn't recommend a hitachi magic wand or equivalent for a beginner. Twenty minutes with one of those and your clit'll go numb, which is NOT what you want.
You could try a rabbit style vibrator (one with clit stimulator and dildo all in one), or a clit stimulator and dildo/ vibrator for insertion as two or more separate things.
Everyone's different so see what appeals to you.
5) Different Strokes for Different Folks
Find out what does it for you, what gets you off. Is it soft or hard? Porn - and if so, what kind? Erotic writing with an emphasis on sensual, or nasty videos? Does it need to have a BDSM element?
Do you like to wank on your front, or on your back? Lying down, or squatting? Music, or none? Do you like to use both hands, or just one? Do you need to feel submissive, or dominant, or neither?
What do you like to fantasise about? Do you need something inside you to cum, or just on your clit? Arse or pussy? Lights on or off? Morning, noon or night? What temperature should the room be? Naked, or semi-naked, or clothed?
You need to get your body, and your mind, to the same place. You need to be physically and emotionally comfortable, and able to explore and let your hands and mind play.
6) Practice, Practice, Practice
It might take you a dozen times, to find the golden combination that sends you over the edge. Or you might go off like a rocket within five minutes of trying. But be prepared to put some time into this. The more you wank the better and easier it will get, to come to orgasm. It's a learning curve.
Then you can teach other people how to do it to you!
7) The Tao of Wanking
Do not let anyone put pressure on you to cum. That's like a cold shower on your mimsy.
8) Schrodinger's Pussy (stretching the metaphor rather)
Don't let your orgasm become the focus or end goal of sex. Orgasms are like a shy cat, hiding under the bed. They may or may not be in there but the moment you lift the sheet up to check, they bolt. They don't like to be looked at directly, it makes them feel self-conscious!
9) Advanced Class
Buy a magic wand. No, really.
10) Go forth and cum!
Orgasm Addict
Oh, I am a nasty, slutty whore. I'm going through one of those phases at the moment where I can't keep my mitts off my mimsy. I keep grabbing every spare moment when my husband leaves the house to fit in a quick magic wanding before work.
The irony of it is that orgasms used to be such an area of difficulty for me.
I'm 34 now, and it wasn't until my late 20s that I learned how to have an orgasm. And it *was* a learning process. I felt like such a massive freak, not being able to cum. Every time that orgasms came up during girly chit chat (talking about them that is, I'm not referring to a massive lezz session. Although... ) I would feel like a fraud, and try to find some way to exit the conversation without lying or confessing my inadequacy.
And that *is* how I used to see it. As a flaw in me. As my body not working properly. Or me being too mental. Broken. Stamped with a big 'FAIL' over my aunty mary.
I put such pressure on myself that I gave up. Rather than trying, then constantly failing, I gave up trying altogether. Attempts by myself, or partners, made me feel stressed and miserable. Everyone else seemed to achieve it so naturally...so effortlessly.
Then one day I just snapped. Bought myself a rabbit vibrator and just went for it. Looking back now, I'm not surprised I'd never cum before that day. I'd never allowed myself to fantastise about anyone but my partner. I'd never been at ease with my own body. I'd never owned a clitoral vibrator. I'd had few lovers, all of whom were inexperienced.
It took a few goes. I had to learn not to get uptight about it. I also had to learn not to be scared I'd wee myself. A few towels sorted that out. And then suddenly - one day...oh my god. It was like a bloody cork out of a bottle of champagne. For the next few months I practically wanked my clit off.
Over the next few years I came to think of orgasms as something I had by myself - not something to be shared as part of sex. I could only cum using a vibrator on my clit; and I only knew one way of cumming. I tried a couple of times to introduce it during sex, but we both felt awkward and uncomfortable. Again, I felt like a failure, with bits that didn't work properly, and had to be stimulated mechanically, like some sort of broken doll.
But over the last couple of years I've learnt so much about my own body, and the way my sexuality works. First, I learnt what it was like to let someone else bring me to orgasm. Then I learned what it felt like to cum, not as an end destination, pressured, but just as part of ongoing sex where everybody may or may not get to cum at some point but it doesn't really matter if or when. Then I learned that other things make me cum, too. That it was possible to have more than one kind of orgasm, and that different things could bring it about.
I also learned that having partners who were not worried about it, who would happily enjoy my orgasm if or when it happened, but were not focusing on that as the be-all and end-all of sex, was extremely liberating. And I started having orgasm after orgasm, different kinds, in different ways, during sex. I learned to just....be.....during sex, without thinking - well, anything at all, really! It's taken a lot of experimentation, different people teaching me different things. I had quite a turn when I started gushing for the first time, for example. I thought I'd suddenly become incontinent. I was rather alarmed.
I've also needed to learn not to give a damn about how I look, feel, or sound, during sex. Noises and liquids and god knows what coming out of my body, and I'm just relaxing into that now, really, instead of getting really tense and worried like I used to.
The last few years have been a pretty steep learning curve for me altogether. I used to blog regularly on livejournal, and I was reading through old entries dated back to 2001. I was actually looking for a 'guide to orgasms for girls with difficult mimsys' blog I'd written, after my first orgasm, but sadly couldn't find it.
I was struck by the picture that emerged of my life, just reading through titles of blog entries. For so many years, I was such a sad, scared, lonely girl, just struggling constantly to keep my chin up with the weight of the world on my shoulders. I was carrying so much baggage, so many burdens. And gradually I let them all go, one by one. I used to hate by body and my face, and myself. And now, I wouldn't swap my life, my body, my face, for anybody's at all. Because they are mine. They belong to me. And those I choose to share them with.
Yeah. Things are good. :-)
The irony of it is that orgasms used to be such an area of difficulty for me.
I'm 34 now, and it wasn't until my late 20s that I learned how to have an orgasm. And it *was* a learning process. I felt like such a massive freak, not being able to cum. Every time that orgasms came up during girly chit chat (talking about them that is, I'm not referring to a massive lezz session. Although... ) I would feel like a fraud, and try to find some way to exit the conversation without lying or confessing my inadequacy.
And that *is* how I used to see it. As a flaw in me. As my body not working properly. Or me being too mental. Broken. Stamped with a big 'FAIL' over my aunty mary.
I put such pressure on myself that I gave up. Rather than trying, then constantly failing, I gave up trying altogether. Attempts by myself, or partners, made me feel stressed and miserable. Everyone else seemed to achieve it so naturally...so effortlessly.
Then one day I just snapped. Bought myself a rabbit vibrator and just went for it. Looking back now, I'm not surprised I'd never cum before that day. I'd never allowed myself to fantastise about anyone but my partner. I'd never been at ease with my own body. I'd never owned a clitoral vibrator. I'd had few lovers, all of whom were inexperienced.
It took a few goes. I had to learn not to get uptight about it. I also had to learn not to be scared I'd wee myself. A few towels sorted that out. And then suddenly - one day...oh my god. It was like a bloody cork out of a bottle of champagne. For the next few months I practically wanked my clit off.
Over the next few years I came to think of orgasms as something I had by myself - not something to be shared as part of sex. I could only cum using a vibrator on my clit; and I only knew one way of cumming. I tried a couple of times to introduce it during sex, but we both felt awkward and uncomfortable. Again, I felt like a failure, with bits that didn't work properly, and had to be stimulated mechanically, like some sort of broken doll.
But over the last couple of years I've learnt so much about my own body, and the way my sexuality works. First, I learnt what it was like to let someone else bring me to orgasm. Then I learned what it felt like to cum, not as an end destination, pressured, but just as part of ongoing sex where everybody may or may not get to cum at some point but it doesn't really matter if or when. Then I learned that other things make me cum, too. That it was possible to have more than one kind of orgasm, and that different things could bring it about.
I also learned that having partners who were not worried about it, who would happily enjoy my orgasm if or when it happened, but were not focusing on that as the be-all and end-all of sex, was extremely liberating. And I started having orgasm after orgasm, different kinds, in different ways, during sex. I learned to just....be.....during sex, without thinking - well, anything at all, really! It's taken a lot of experimentation, different people teaching me different things. I had quite a turn when I started gushing for the first time, for example. I thought I'd suddenly become incontinent. I was rather alarmed.
I've also needed to learn not to give a damn about how I look, feel, or sound, during sex. Noises and liquids and god knows what coming out of my body, and I'm just relaxing into that now, really, instead of getting really tense and worried like I used to.
The last few years have been a pretty steep learning curve for me altogether. I used to blog regularly on livejournal, and I was reading through old entries dated back to 2001. I was actually looking for a 'guide to orgasms for girls with difficult mimsys' blog I'd written, after my first orgasm, but sadly couldn't find it.
I was struck by the picture that emerged of my life, just reading through titles of blog entries. For so many years, I was such a sad, scared, lonely girl, just struggling constantly to keep my chin up with the weight of the world on my shoulders. I was carrying so much baggage, so many burdens. And gradually I let them all go, one by one. I used to hate by body and my face, and myself. And now, I wouldn't swap my life, my body, my face, for anybody's at all. Because they are mine. They belong to me. And those I choose to share them with.
Yeah. Things are good. :-)
Wednesday 20 October 2010
The Thirteen Gifts
"Birthstone" - Definition: gift of a precious material, traditionally associated with a month and believed to attract good fortune.
Opal
Halloween parties and bonfire smoke. A year ago today my husband was in hospital, I was tearing myself apart from the inside, and my world seemed to be falling apart, piece by piece. The celtic new year begins on Samhain - 'Summer's End' - and for me, it was not just my summer, nor even just my year that had ended. Black as burnt branches in the fire; silver as the shimmer of frost, red as my heart was raw. Opals are fire and ice - too much trouble caused by heat in my cunt, too little warmth returned to my heart in love, burnt from passion and lack of grace.
Yet because of you, October and all its woe was a gift, a new year's gift. A burning out of old wood to make room for the new growth to come. And somewhere in the world, although as yet unknown to me, you were waiting. Waiting for me, as I was waiting all my life, for you. Although it would be some time still before we both knew that.
I threw my last ember of hope into the wet mist and watched for fire. Eleven months ago I huddled in my cave, grey outside and inside, damp misery clinging to every moment. But something in the fog was shining. I braved making contact with you, in desperation for the relief of pain, and the desire to be fucked like I needed to be fucked. From the first we talked of everything and nothing - rape play, hosing me down with your piss, the contradiction of a whore who'd never been fucked, and the delicate joy of words. I feared a false dawn, that your fire would be nothing more than illusion, lights in a gas fire rather than true flame. But Topaz is constancy, loyalty, friendship, the balance of emotions, and the strength of the shoulder to lean on. And you showed me all of this.
I wasn't ready to believe that you could be a friend and lover true, but you lent your strength to me despite my fear. This was your gift to me in the first month I knew you.
A splash of bright colour in the ice. Ten months ago I met you in person. I saw the way you moved, the sensual, coiled violence living inside you, and realised I needed you to fuck me, rough and hard. You were funny and kind and clever, and I laughed for the first time since October on the night I met you.
You made it easy to be me, I didn't have to hide anything as I slutted around, flirted, kissed pretty women tasting of mulled wine bent over the table in front of you. I taunted you, begged you to fuck me in an alleyway, but you were gentle with me, seeing the fear underneath my brashness. From that first night, you protected me - even against myself. I begged you to beat me and fuck me - you stroked my hand. I opened myself to your kiss - instead you bit my lip as you looked into my eyes. Every bit as sensual, leaving me wanting you, leaving me wanting so much more.
Turquoise is for honesty, healing, regeneration and protection. You waited for me to come to you, knowing that if you moved too fast I would disappear. Again and again I pushed you away, tearful even as I did so, icy streets and frost inside the car. I wouldn't let you inside my heart or my body.
You wanted to beat me until I bled, fuck me until I was raw, bugger me until I was stretched open on your cock. You wanted to fucking ruin me - and yet all this month you held yourself back. We kissed, stroked, held; you pinched and bit me - but nothing more. You let me heal and lick my wounds while your arms held me safe, gently steered me away from self-destruction, and waited, waited, waited until I was ready to let you enter. This was your gift to me in the month we first kissed.
Blood spatters in the snow. Ten months ago we played for the first time. Unsure, hesitant, scared still, I invited you into my house. "Are you afraid?", you asked me.
My eyes pupil-blackened and wide with fear, I nodded yes, my mouth slipping open in terror.
"Well crawl over there to the phone and call someone who gives a fuck."
Spit flew into my face from the violence of your words. You opened your fist and slapped me, first one cheek then the other. My breasts, shoulder and wrists were left bruise-dappled, ripe from your taking. I was swollen for you, bare and open, waiting, breathless, waiting...and and...
You pushed me - pushed my mind, opened me to embracing possibilities and unfamiliar play, but you did not push the fat head of your cock into my unwilling pussy, you did not open my cunt on the thick shaft of your dick - because I had told you no, and you listened. Garnet enhances sexuality, sensuality - red gems shimmering in the jewel chest of my memory.
You gave me back a little of the power which had been taken from me. You gave me pain and you gave me fear. These were your gifts to me in the first month we played together.
Corridors and alleyways, all mixed up. At last, an outlet for my passion. You made me cum everywhere, anywhere, however you chose, wherever, whenever you chose. Your cock was only ever out of my mouth so that you could get your fingers in my slutty pussy. You ripped my orgasms from me, tearing, mauling, dragging them out of me - until I was shuddering, unable to walk, staggering, ruined with lust. Down alleyways against a lamppost, on sofas in pubs, in public toilets, in my hallway before I'd barely closed the front door, you took me. On my bed, on the floor, on the sofa, in your car, in nightclubs - your fingers always on, or in, me.
You learned how much I love to please, how much I adore giving for the sake of giving. Amethyst is for stability, peace, contentment and calm, and these things became mine, as I learned to trust you, and to trust myself again. We spoke words of love, whispered and exchanged; heart's balm, heart's peace.
You gave me sexual contentment for the first time in all of my life. You fell in love with me, and I with you. These were your gifts to me, in the second month of our life together.
Dark dens and musky animals scents, rumpled furs making a nest, stinking of sweat and cum. Safety, warmth, happiness. "Fuck me anywhere, any time, in any way, that pleases you", I said. And you did.
So many years since I'd welcomed a new lover into my body. I was remade, like a young girl losing her maidenhead. You spilled my blood on the sheets, made your mark on my body. Knives, leather, fluid bonds that do not constrain yet are unbreakable. Bloodstone opens all doors for its owner, breaks down the walls of prisons and brings the possessor that which he desires. And we do desire each other so much that we cannot stave off our skin hunger for long.
You beat me until I bled, fucked me until I was raw, buggered me until I was stretched open on your cock. You fucking ruined me. You pushed the fat head of your cock into my willing pussy, and you opened my cunt on the thick shaft of your dick. These were your gifts to me, in the third month of our life together.
Spring sunshine, new growth and the earth heating up. As I started to lean into you, my life became suffused with your presence. I started to trust you were not going anywhere. Little things meant so much. A walk by the riverside, dragging me through the undergrowth, a quick rape. Borrowing our friend's flat and dungeon, exploring the limits of what my body can stand.
Beginning to understand what it means for you to be my dominant partner, and what it means when I submit to you. A blurring of the lines between play and everyday life. You are always dominant to me, always. Sometimes I will submit easily, fluidly, contentedly - and sometimes you'll force me. But I always submit. You give me no other option. You rip away my defenses, leave me nowhere to hide. The diamond stands for abundance, enhancing relationships and increasing inner strength. You give me an abundance of love, of pain, of fucking, of care, of support. You shower me with it so that I no longer feel starved, scratching around in the poor dry earth. Instead you soak me in warm summer rain.
I no longer fear constantly that what has been given, will be taken away. This is your gift to me, in the fourth month of our life together.
Burning kindling, firewood, sparks and embers in the air, drifting down like tiny comets. You asked me to jump over the fire with you, and I did, becoming your wife in all ways that matter. You asked me for forever - and I smeared your sweat on my body as I told you, 'yes'.
You left a bruise on my cheekbone which lasted for weeks, turning emerald green then royal purple. I wore it with more pride than a ring. You abused me with your fists, punched me, spat on me, pissed on me, raped me, choked me with your hands around my throat, with your cock closing my airways, and then wrapped me in your love, your tenderness - slept beside me content, knowing your baby was safe in your arms, and in love with you. Emeralds mean eternity, fertility, the stone of wisdom, and of love from the pure of heart. You purify me, you scald my soul clean with pain.
You give me the peace that lies in the heart of violence. That is your gift to me, in the fifth month of our life together.
Moonlight tears, dry by dawn. A month which tested my strength. Tired from long hours of work, I struggle to cope when my husband is ill again, brought on by his own foolishness. It hurts me so, and I question my integrity, when my patience begins to run out. Soothed by you and your generous heart, I begin to place boundaries, carve out a space of my own, create a refuge for myself which I will not give away. I learn to turn the responsibility, the duty of care, back to where it should be. I am not a nursemaid or a drudge for my husband, you help me to see that. Pearls are for purity, integrity. I can be a slut and be pure of heart. I can be a whore and have integrity.
You teach me how to be both the girl who can't say no, and the woman who can. That is your gift to me, in the sixth month of our life together.
Sundrenched fields of hay, a puppy pile of dogs to sleep under, all of life glimmering with a brilliant allure, ripe for the taking. We revel in the joy of each other's bodies. Touching is still precious, and necessary, no less so as time passes. Parties, clubs, meals, food, drink, sleep, all are expendable in the search for more time in each other's arms. I call you Sir, or Master, when sunk deeply into submission. You call me your baby, your fucktoy, your slut, your whore.
I begin to lay down, one by one, the heavy burden of armouring my soul against attack. I allow you liberties I've never before given away. I let you see my pride, my eagerness, in pleasing you. I arm you with a thousand ways to hurt me and trust you not to use them for harm. Ruby is for devotion, courage, and happiness. I find the courage to be happy in my devotion to you.
You use my mouth until I retch bile over your cock. You use my cunt until it's swollen and sore. You tell me I'm yours, and I belong to you. And you teach me to believe it, with fist, cock, and cum. These are your gifts to me, in the seventh month of our life together.
Cum stained fishnet stockings, ripped by knife blades. You show me off in a dogging spot, glorying in the crowd of men who surround the car, kneeling on the bonnet to get a better look at me. You show me off in a club, before ruining me with fist, knife, and your piss, splashing steaming hot and strong-smelling, onto my face, into my mouth. You rape my mouth, and then later, territorially fill my knickers with your cum again.
You watch as my friend kisses me, and fantasise about her fisting my slutty little pussy before you fill me with your spunk. You take me to the edge, over and over again. You violate me with brutal dildos, with fingers, your hand. There is no degradation you will not subject me to. The peridot enhances fidelity, love, trust and openness. And I am open to you, body, heart and soul. I eagerly lap up the terrible treatment you abuse me with.
I embrace the dark, sick and twisted side of my sexuality. With each way you use me badly, my soul flowers, night-blooming petals opening under the moonlight. This is your gift to me, in our eighth month together.
Black leather and blacklight. In amidst a tangle of limbs and fucking, we exist in our own space, your dominance of me unquestioned as you force me to cum on your fingers, lying across your lap in a room full of strangers. You take me out to dinner - late at night because your priority is to feed me with cum before other food.
You abuse me with cock. You tell me how to take it, where to take it, and when to take it - and I am eager to please. Our edge play takes us a little too far, I suffer temporary damage from it. Frightened, I retreat, but you come after me. Delving deep into the trust I have for you, you find me, and bring me home. I am becoming someone new. Not impervious to damage, but able to recover from it. Sapphire brings peace, watches over long journeys, and opens the mind towards understanding. Sapphire stones are thought to maintain the hope needed in order that our deepest desires and dreams will be fulfilled one day.
You watched over me, you brought me peace, and you opened my mind to understanding. You fulfil my deepest desires, my darkest dreams, and give me grace. These are your gifts to me, in the ninth month of our life together.
One year ago, I was broken, and now I'm whole. I dance, paint, write, laugh, live and love in the sunlight, and under the liquid moon you make my best nightmares come true.
Your thirteenth gift: you help me to forget, by helping me to remember.
"We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full." -Marcel Proust.
As the world turns, and we come close to another summer's end, a new year's beginning, I hope for a year of chances to show you how grateful I am for these thirteen gifts.
Thankyou, my Wolf.
Opal
October's child is born for woe,
And life's vicissitudes must know,
But lay an opal on her breast,
And hope will lull those woes to rest.
Halloween parties and bonfire smoke. A year ago today my husband was in hospital, I was tearing myself apart from the inside, and my world seemed to be falling apart, piece by piece. The celtic new year begins on Samhain - 'Summer's End' - and for me, it was not just my summer, nor even just my year that had ended. Black as burnt branches in the fire; silver as the shimmer of frost, red as my heart was raw. Opals are fire and ice - too much trouble caused by heat in my cunt, too little warmth returned to my heart in love, burnt from passion and lack of grace.
Yet because of you, October and all its woe was a gift, a new year's gift. A burning out of old wood to make room for the new growth to come. And somewhere in the world, although as yet unknown to me, you were waiting. Waiting for me, as I was waiting all my life, for you. Although it would be some time still before we both knew that.
Topaz
Who first comes to this world below
In dreary November's fog and snow,
Should prize the topaz amber hue,
Emblem of friends and lovers true.
I threw my last ember of hope into the wet mist and watched for fire. Eleven months ago I huddled in my cave, grey outside and inside, damp misery clinging to every moment. But something in the fog was shining. I braved making contact with you, in desperation for the relief of pain, and the desire to be fucked like I needed to be fucked. From the first we talked of everything and nothing - rape play, hosing me down with your piss, the contradiction of a whore who'd never been fucked, and the delicate joy of words. I feared a false dawn, that your fire would be nothing more than illusion, lights in a gas fire rather than true flame. But Topaz is constancy, loyalty, friendship, the balance of emotions, and the strength of the shoulder to lean on. And you showed me all of this.
I wasn't ready to believe that you could be a friend and lover true, but you lent your strength to me despite my fear. This was your gift to me in the first month I knew you.
Turquoise
If cold December gave you birth
The month of snow and ice and mirth
Place on your hand a turquoise blue;
Success will bless whate'er you do.
A splash of bright colour in the ice. Ten months ago I met you in person. I saw the way you moved, the sensual, coiled violence living inside you, and realised I needed you to fuck me, rough and hard. You were funny and kind and clever, and I laughed for the first time since October on the night I met you.
You made it easy to be me, I didn't have to hide anything as I slutted around, flirted, kissed pretty women tasting of mulled wine bent over the table in front of you. I taunted you, begged you to fuck me in an alleyway, but you were gentle with me, seeing the fear underneath my brashness. From that first night, you protected me - even against myself. I begged you to beat me and fuck me - you stroked my hand. I opened myself to your kiss - instead you bit my lip as you looked into my eyes. Every bit as sensual, leaving me wanting you, leaving me wanting so much more.
Turquoise is for honesty, healing, regeneration and protection. You waited for me to come to you, knowing that if you moved too fast I would disappear. Again and again I pushed you away, tearful even as I did so, icy streets and frost inside the car. I wouldn't let you inside my heart or my body.
You wanted to beat me until I bled, fuck me until I was raw, bugger me until I was stretched open on your cock. You wanted to fucking ruin me - and yet all this month you held yourself back. We kissed, stroked, held; you pinched and bit me - but nothing more. You let me heal and lick my wounds while your arms held me safe, gently steered me away from self-destruction, and waited, waited, waited until I was ready to let you enter. This was your gift to me in the month we first kissed.
Garnet
By her who in January was born
No gem save garnets shall be worn
They will ensure her constancy
True friendship and fidelity.
Blood spatters in the snow. Ten months ago we played for the first time. Unsure, hesitant, scared still, I invited you into my house. "Are you afraid?", you asked me.
My eyes pupil-blackened and wide with fear, I nodded yes, my mouth slipping open in terror.
"Well crawl over there to the phone and call someone who gives a fuck."
Spit flew into my face from the violence of your words. You opened your fist and slapped me, first one cheek then the other. My breasts, shoulder and wrists were left bruise-dappled, ripe from your taking. I was swollen for you, bare and open, waiting, breathless, waiting...and and...
You pushed me - pushed my mind, opened me to embracing possibilities and unfamiliar play, but you did not push the fat head of your cock into my unwilling pussy, you did not open my cunt on the thick shaft of your dick - because I had told you no, and you listened. Garnet enhances sexuality, sensuality - red gems shimmering in the jewel chest of my memory.
You gave me back a little of the power which had been taken from me. You gave me pain and you gave me fear. These were your gifts to me in the first month we played together.
Amethyst
The February born shall find
Sincerity and peace of mind,
Freedom from passion and from care,
If they, the amethyst will wear.
Corridors and alleyways, all mixed up. At last, an outlet for my passion. You made me cum everywhere, anywhere, however you chose, wherever, whenever you chose. Your cock was only ever out of my mouth so that you could get your fingers in my slutty pussy. You ripped my orgasms from me, tearing, mauling, dragging them out of me - until I was shuddering, unable to walk, staggering, ruined with lust. Down alleyways against a lamppost, on sofas in pubs, in public toilets, in my hallway before I'd barely closed the front door, you took me. On my bed, on the floor, on the sofa, in your car, in nightclubs - your fingers always on, or in, me.
You learned how much I love to please, how much I adore giving for the sake of giving. Amethyst is for stability, peace, contentment and calm, and these things became mine, as I learned to trust you, and to trust myself again. We spoke words of love, whispered and exchanged; heart's balm, heart's peace.
You gave me sexual contentment for the first time in all of my life. You fell in love with me, and I with you. These were your gifts to me, in the second month of our life together.
Bloodstone
By her who in March was born
No gem save bloodstone shall be worn
They will ensure her constancy
True friendship and fidelity.
Dark dens and musky animals scents, rumpled furs making a nest, stinking of sweat and cum. Safety, warmth, happiness. "Fuck me anywhere, any time, in any way, that pleases you", I said. And you did.
So many years since I'd welcomed a new lover into my body. I was remade, like a young girl losing her maidenhead. You spilled my blood on the sheets, made your mark on my body. Knives, leather, fluid bonds that do not constrain yet are unbreakable. Bloodstone opens all doors for its owner, breaks down the walls of prisons and brings the possessor that which he desires. And we do desire each other so much that we cannot stave off our skin hunger for long.
You beat me until I bled, fucked me until I was raw, buggered me until I was stretched open on your cock. You fucking ruined me. You pushed the fat head of your cock into my willing pussy, and you opened my cunt on the thick shaft of your dick. These were your gifts to me, in the third month of our life together.
Diamond
She who from April dates her years,
diamonds shall wear,
lest bitter tears
For vain repentance flow.
Spring sunshine, new growth and the earth heating up. As I started to lean into you, my life became suffused with your presence. I started to trust you were not going anywhere. Little things meant so much. A walk by the riverside, dragging me through the undergrowth, a quick rape. Borrowing our friend's flat and dungeon, exploring the limits of what my body can stand.
Beginning to understand what it means for you to be my dominant partner, and what it means when I submit to you. A blurring of the lines between play and everyday life. You are always dominant to me, always. Sometimes I will submit easily, fluidly, contentedly - and sometimes you'll force me. But I always submit. You give me no other option. You rip away my defenses, leave me nowhere to hide. The diamond stands for abundance, enhancing relationships and increasing inner strength. You give me an abundance of love, of pain, of fucking, of care, of support. You shower me with it so that I no longer feel starved, scratching around in the poor dry earth. Instead you soak me in warm summer rain.
I no longer fear constantly that what has been given, will be taken away. This is your gift to me, in the fourth month of our life together.
Emerald
Who first beholds the light of day
In spring's sweet, flower month of May
And wears an emerald all her life
Shall be a loved and a loving wife.
Burning kindling, firewood, sparks and embers in the air, drifting down like tiny comets. You asked me to jump over the fire with you, and I did, becoming your wife in all ways that matter. You asked me for forever - and I smeared your sweat on my body as I told you, 'yes'.
You left a bruise on my cheekbone which lasted for weeks, turning emerald green then royal purple. I wore it with more pride than a ring. You abused me with your fists, punched me, spat on me, pissed on me, raped me, choked me with your hands around my throat, with your cock closing my airways, and then wrapped me in your love, your tenderness - slept beside me content, knowing your baby was safe in your arms, and in love with you. Emeralds mean eternity, fertility, the stone of wisdom, and of love from the pure of heart. You purify me, you scald my soul clean with pain.
You give me the peace that lies in the heart of violence. That is your gift to me, in the fifth month of our life together.
Pearl
By her who in June was born
No gem save pearls shall be worn
They will ensure her constancy
True friendship and fidelity.
Moonlight tears, dry by dawn. A month which tested my strength. Tired from long hours of work, I struggle to cope when my husband is ill again, brought on by his own foolishness. It hurts me so, and I question my integrity, when my patience begins to run out. Soothed by you and your generous heart, I begin to place boundaries, carve out a space of my own, create a refuge for myself which I will not give away. I learn to turn the responsibility, the duty of care, back to where it should be. I am not a nursemaid or a drudge for my husband, you help me to see that. Pearls are for purity, integrity. I can be a slut and be pure of heart. I can be a whore and have integrity.
You teach me how to be both the girl who can't say no, and the woman who can. That is your gift to me, in the sixth month of our life together.
Ruby
The gleaming ruby should adorn,
All those who in July are born,
For thus they'll be exempt and free,
From lover's doubts and anxiety.
Sundrenched fields of hay, a puppy pile of dogs to sleep under, all of life glimmering with a brilliant allure, ripe for the taking. We revel in the joy of each other's bodies. Touching is still precious, and necessary, no less so as time passes. Parties, clubs, meals, food, drink, sleep, all are expendable in the search for more time in each other's arms. I call you Sir, or Master, when sunk deeply into submission. You call me your baby, your fucktoy, your slut, your whore.
I begin to lay down, one by one, the heavy burden of armouring my soul against attack. I allow you liberties I've never before given away. I let you see my pride, my eagerness, in pleasing you. I arm you with a thousand ways to hurt me and trust you not to use them for harm. Ruby is for devotion, courage, and happiness. I find the courage to be happy in my devotion to you.
You use my mouth until I retch bile over your cock. You use my cunt until it's swollen and sore. You tell me I'm yours, and I belong to you. And you teach me to believe it, with fist, cock, and cum. These are your gifts to me, in the seventh month of our life together.
Peridot
Wear a peridot or for thee,
No conjugal fidelity,
The August born without this stone,
`Tis said, must live unloved; alone.
Cum stained fishnet stockings, ripped by knife blades. You show me off in a dogging spot, glorying in the crowd of men who surround the car, kneeling on the bonnet to get a better look at me. You show me off in a club, before ruining me with fist, knife, and your piss, splashing steaming hot and strong-smelling, onto my face, into my mouth. You rape my mouth, and then later, territorially fill my knickers with your cum again.
You watch as my friend kisses me, and fantasise about her fisting my slutty little pussy before you fill me with your spunk. You take me to the edge, over and over again. You violate me with brutal dildos, with fingers, your hand. There is no degradation you will not subject me to. The peridot enhances fidelity, love, trust and openness. And I am open to you, body, heart and soul. I eagerly lap up the terrible treatment you abuse me with.
I embrace the dark, sick and twisted side of my sexuality. With each way you use me badly, my soul flowers, night-blooming petals opening under the moonlight. This is your gift to me, in our eighth month together.
Sapphire
A maiden born when autumn leaves
Are rustling in September's breeze,
A sapphire on her brow should bind;
To bring her joy and peace of mind.
Black leather and blacklight. In amidst a tangle of limbs and fucking, we exist in our own space, your dominance of me unquestioned as you force me to cum on your fingers, lying across your lap in a room full of strangers. You take me out to dinner - late at night because your priority is to feed me with cum before other food.
You abuse me with cock. You tell me how to take it, where to take it, and when to take it - and I am eager to please. Our edge play takes us a little too far, I suffer temporary damage from it. Frightened, I retreat, but you come after me. Delving deep into the trust I have for you, you find me, and bring me home. I am becoming someone new. Not impervious to damage, but able to recover from it. Sapphire brings peace, watches over long journeys, and opens the mind towards understanding. Sapphire stones are thought to maintain the hope needed in order that our deepest desires and dreams will be fulfilled one day.
You watched over me, you brought me peace, and you opened my mind to understanding. You fulfil my deepest desires, my darkest dreams, and give me grace. These are your gifts to me, in the ninth month of our life together.
Black Opal
One year ago, I was broken, and now I'm whole. I dance, paint, write, laugh, live and love in the sunlight, and under the liquid moon you make my best nightmares come true.
Your thirteenth gift: you help me to forget, by helping me to remember.
"We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full." -Marcel Proust.
As the world turns, and we come close to another summer's end, a new year's beginning, I hope for a year of chances to show you how grateful I am for these thirteen gifts.
Thankyou, my Wolf.
Wednesday 13 October 2010
Shadow of the Woods
I am not bound for any public place, but for ground of my own where I have planted vines and orchard trees, and in the heat of the day climbed up into the healing shadow of the woods.
-- Wendell Berry
I have no fear of fear. I am comfortable with fear, as I am comfortable with pain. It is familiar to me, and therefore not terrifying, not like it used to be. Worry and anxiety still have the power to wrap knots around my core, clench fingers cold and white so they lose their power, sicken me and weaken me. But I am not afraid.
Nevertheless.
Sometimes, I should just shut the fuck up, sit back, and enjoy the ride.
Tears and trust. Comfort, of different kinds. He holds me, very close. So close, so warm, so safe. He will make everything better. I've never been the kind of girl who has to try hard to trust. When I give, I give everything. I don't know how to love someone, without trusting them; no reservation, no restraint, no sense of caution or holding back. My heart is without limit or inhibition.
I know he holds back - preventing himself from getting hard on this occasion as I talk about fucking, cock, sex that is right, sex that is wrong. He chooses not to rip my clothes off, stick his dick in my mouth as soon as he comes in the door. This time. Instead, he chooses to soothe me with love, soft words, gentle kindness. I pull him close, strip our clothes away, pull him into bed with me so I can feel skin on skin, words moving air onto flesh, close, closer, closest. Still he exerts his will on me, choosing not to abuse. This time. Only when my tears slow a little, and my heart beats with lust instead of lingering shame, does his will change.
He tells me with his body, where to touch him. How to touch him. In gratitude and joy I eagerly give pleasure. Hand to body, lips to skin. My tongue blissfully gathering the desire that rises from him. It is only moments though, before he takes control of the method I use to please him, forcing my head down, his hands coiled in my hair, twisted, twisting. I cannot get away, I do not want to get away, even though he fucks my mouth like a cunt, fucks it so hard I am bleeding, my tongue and lips are sore, the skin splitting as I ripen for him.
He knows that when he enters me after using me so, I will be poured out like buttery cream on my thighs, he will slide in as big and hard as he is, up to the hilt, deep in me, touching so far inside I would be hurt if I wasn't spread so open for him, my lips fluttering apart to receive him before he even touches me. He plunges inside me and takes his pleasure in me, using me like his fucktoy, even as he burns me with his love. He burns for me. And I give him everything, everything, in return.
"Tell me what you want, what you need", he demands. I know without question, without thought, what he means.
"I...I want..."
"You want cock. You want to be fucked. Say it. SAY IT!" he threatens. He raises his hand as I stammer, looks at me with warning, with violence in him. He looks at me again in threat, and I give him what he demands, he takes it from me. I fear, not the threat, not the violence, not the blow, nor the pain, but his displeasure. For want of his praise, I give him what he takes from me. I speak, and my reward is his smile. "Good girl. Good girl". He drives his dick into me, pistons in and out of me. Pulls out, flips me over, fucks me hard. Stops.
"Do you want me to stop?"
Some other lover might sound gentle, caring, thoughtful, when asking such a thing. He makes it sound like a warning. 'Do what I tell you or I'll fuck you up. You know what I want. Do it.'
"No, don't stop", I whisper.
"You want to be fucked hard. Say it!"
I say it.
Again he drives into me the thought, the belief, the knowledge; the certainty that I am allowed to want sex, I am allowed to want to be fucked, I am allowed to want cock, to want his spunk, to want to be his whore, his slut, his fucktoy.
Used. Oh, the joy in it.
Abused. Ah, the trust.
When he tells me to cum, he makes it sound like 'you fucking bitch!' instead of permission to orgasm.
I beg him, I ask him, I plead with him to let me please him, I tell him I want his cock, need his cum, must be fucked, have to be fucked hard, that I need to be his slut, his fucking whore, his nasty little cum splashed fucktoy.
And I am. Because he makes me. And if I can't, he will force me anyway.
I am a good girl. HIS good girl. His semen spilling like milk into me, marks me so.
-- Wendell Berry
I have no fear of fear. I am comfortable with fear, as I am comfortable with pain. It is familiar to me, and therefore not terrifying, not like it used to be. Worry and anxiety still have the power to wrap knots around my core, clench fingers cold and white so they lose their power, sicken me and weaken me. But I am not afraid.
Nevertheless.
Sometimes, I should just shut the fuck up, sit back, and enjoy the ride.
Tears and trust. Comfort, of different kinds. He holds me, very close. So close, so warm, so safe. He will make everything better. I've never been the kind of girl who has to try hard to trust. When I give, I give everything. I don't know how to love someone, without trusting them; no reservation, no restraint, no sense of caution or holding back. My heart is without limit or inhibition.
I know he holds back - preventing himself from getting hard on this occasion as I talk about fucking, cock, sex that is right, sex that is wrong. He chooses not to rip my clothes off, stick his dick in my mouth as soon as he comes in the door. This time. Instead, he chooses to soothe me with love, soft words, gentle kindness. I pull him close, strip our clothes away, pull him into bed with me so I can feel skin on skin, words moving air onto flesh, close, closer, closest. Still he exerts his will on me, choosing not to abuse. This time. Only when my tears slow a little, and my heart beats with lust instead of lingering shame, does his will change.
He tells me with his body, where to touch him. How to touch him. In gratitude and joy I eagerly give pleasure. Hand to body, lips to skin. My tongue blissfully gathering the desire that rises from him. It is only moments though, before he takes control of the method I use to please him, forcing my head down, his hands coiled in my hair, twisted, twisting. I cannot get away, I do not want to get away, even though he fucks my mouth like a cunt, fucks it so hard I am bleeding, my tongue and lips are sore, the skin splitting as I ripen for him.
He knows that when he enters me after using me so, I will be poured out like buttery cream on my thighs, he will slide in as big and hard as he is, up to the hilt, deep in me, touching so far inside I would be hurt if I wasn't spread so open for him, my lips fluttering apart to receive him before he even touches me. He plunges inside me and takes his pleasure in me, using me like his fucktoy, even as he burns me with his love. He burns for me. And I give him everything, everything, in return.
"Tell me what you want, what you need", he demands. I know without question, without thought, what he means.
"I...I want..."
"You want cock. You want to be fucked. Say it. SAY IT!" he threatens. He raises his hand as I stammer, looks at me with warning, with violence in him. He looks at me again in threat, and I give him what he demands, he takes it from me. I fear, not the threat, not the violence, not the blow, nor the pain, but his displeasure. For want of his praise, I give him what he takes from me. I speak, and my reward is his smile. "Good girl. Good girl". He drives his dick into me, pistons in and out of me. Pulls out, flips me over, fucks me hard. Stops.
"Do you want me to stop?"
Some other lover might sound gentle, caring, thoughtful, when asking such a thing. He makes it sound like a warning. 'Do what I tell you or I'll fuck you up. You know what I want. Do it.'
"No, don't stop", I whisper.
"You want to be fucked hard. Say it!"
I say it.
Again he drives into me the thought, the belief, the knowledge; the certainty that I am allowed to want sex, I am allowed to want to be fucked, I am allowed to want cock, to want his spunk, to want to be his whore, his slut, his fucktoy.
Used. Oh, the joy in it.
Abused. Ah, the trust.
When he tells me to cum, he makes it sound like 'you fucking bitch!' instead of permission to orgasm.
I beg him, I ask him, I plead with him to let me please him, I tell him I want his cock, need his cum, must be fucked, have to be fucked hard, that I need to be his slut, his fucking whore, his nasty little cum splashed fucktoy.
And I am. Because he makes me. And if I can't, he will force me anyway.
I am a good girl. HIS good girl. His semen spilling like milk into me, marks me so.
Tuesday 5 October 2010
Three
"What she had begun to learn was the weight of liberty. Freedom is a heavy load, a great and strange burden for the spirit to undertake. It is not easy. It is not a gift given, but a choice made, and the choice may be a hard one. The road goes upward towards the light; but the laden traveller may never reach the end of it."
The Tombs of Atuan, Ursula Le Guin
The Sunday
The body as metaphor for soul.
This is not what happened.
Some secrets I. Keep. Still.
I listen, drenched in submission. I choose the wrong route, but I don't regret.
I fall down on the path and hurt myself I am covered in dirt from the muddy earth, I dig my fingers into it, claw frantically, scoop up palmfuls of it, smear it over me, drink it down, splash my lips and face, with fractured bones I crawl at snail's pace. Running is a distant dream and I'm good at forgetting, erase the knowledge I have ever played in the mud and danced in the dirt. The path seems too hard, my limbs too sore, I hurt, I hurt. I hurt, I hurt.
I call for you please come and help me, I can't stand by myself. You can't see the fracture, the bones aren't sticking out. I hush myself, rock quietly back and forth, my voice is steady. You call out to me the best path, point the way, tell me I'm ready. I am in pain and I cannot follow you.
I retreat, but you follow me. See, aghast, my hurts. You pick me up, take me home, bathe and splint my broken bones. You take my pain away and replace it with yours. You clean the dirt from me and replace it with your own, then make me brand new again with your softness, your love, your possession. You carry my burdens for a little while so I can begin to walk again. Months of healing condensed into hours of fucking. You force new joie de vivre inside me with your hands, with your cock.
A Saturday
A victorian, cast-iron bed. Suede lining, dark purple, in patent black leather cuffs. They hold my wrists against the metal, black-painted. Matching ankle cuffs and a spreader bar, lashed with his old and fraying belt, to the foot of the bedstead.
The rain pours down outside. He would toss me into a pit of muddy, rain washed broken glass and fuck me, uncaring of my pain or discomfort. The knowledge of this is my heart's balm, bringing me peace.
He beats me and I scream. I scream the way animals scream - unselfconscious, desperate, terrified. A gurgling sound travelling the spectrum of pitch and tone.
He climbs between my stretched wrists, and fucks my mouth. I hear the rain, and a roaring sound that is inside my own head. I'll be sick, I know I will be sick. My head is tilted back, at this angle I don't know what will happen. Will I breathe it in, will I choke? Could I die from this? My fear is stronger than my submission, I close my mouth, pull away. He forces my mouth open with his fingers, fucks me anyway.
I am grateful.
He beats me again. Defeated, broken, I sob and swear at him. I know how pitiful I am. He makes me feel ashamed, dirty. Again, I am grateful.
The rain has become a thunderstorm, I can hear thunder, see bright flashes of light, but I don't know if they're outside the window, or inside. He makes me sorry for the screaming and the insults. I am warned not to make a sound, or move. I'm terrified. He works me over until I'm screaming more and more and again in my head, but I'm too afraid, far too afraid. Tiny, hushed sobs escape my lips, I feel saliva pour from my mouth, but I can't speak. He parts my legs, I don't resist. He fucks me until he releases a flood of cum deep inside my cunt.
He uncuffs my wrists, removes the bar, rubs my skin, draws me close, tenderly. He whispers words of love to me, cherishes me. I look at him with glassy eyes, touch my lips tentatively. He understands. "Yes baby, you can speak now, and move".
I am grateful.
A Friday
It isn't until late at night, that we eat. Food, drink, sleep, basic needs, all ignored while he slakes his thirst in me. And I, equally thirsty, drink down his lust.
Each and every day I have had him in my life, I have become...more. More confident, more at peace, more creative, more balanced. I have the confidence now to make a special effort with my dress and appearance to please him - and to tell him so. Months in the making, I am now someone who can do this without fear - fear of trying but failing, to please.
Tiny pieces of my soul, healed, flowering. Withered, forgotten, parched - parts of me I thought had died, parts of me I never knew existed; thriving now in the abundance of care and love, lavished on me. Learning to trust in this plentitude, learning not to fear that it is a finite amount to be used up, or that it will soon be taken away.
Waking, finding him not in the bed with me - hating it. As he walks in the door again my heart binds to his. He is part of me, without him, there is something missing from my own soul.
Finding the confidence to truly understand - he never does anything he doesn't want to do. I can ask - I have permission to ask, to request, to state a desire - and I can believe, trust in him to always take exactly what he wants from me, regardless.
Asking gives him more power, not less. Gives him the power to grant my desire, or not. I ask on this day - ask for the cane - and he grants it.
Different, but equal. Our pain play before has taken a different shape. This time I moaned, thrust my hips against the ground, begged for more. Sometimes, overcome, he had to stop to fuck me. Sometimes he built up the pain and took me further than I would have chosen. He fucked me until I was exhausted and dry, and then as I whimpered little tiny hopeless pain noises for him, he blew his load inside me. I am always, always, so very grateful, so very astonished, to find myself His.
Three times he fucked my cunt, came inside me.
Three times he made me his.
Body, heart and soul, I belong to him.
And I am grateful.
The Tombs of Atuan, Ursula Le Guin
The Sunday
The body as metaphor for soul.
This is not what happened.
Some secrets I. Keep. Still.
I listen, drenched in submission. I choose the wrong route, but I don't regret.
I fall down on the path and hurt myself I am covered in dirt from the muddy earth, I dig my fingers into it, claw frantically, scoop up palmfuls of it, smear it over me, drink it down, splash my lips and face, with fractured bones I crawl at snail's pace. Running is a distant dream and I'm good at forgetting, erase the knowledge I have ever played in the mud and danced in the dirt. The path seems too hard, my limbs too sore, I hurt, I hurt. I hurt, I hurt.
I call for you please come and help me, I can't stand by myself. You can't see the fracture, the bones aren't sticking out. I hush myself, rock quietly back and forth, my voice is steady. You call out to me the best path, point the way, tell me I'm ready. I am in pain and I cannot follow you.
I retreat, but you follow me. See, aghast, my hurts. You pick me up, take me home, bathe and splint my broken bones. You take my pain away and replace it with yours. You clean the dirt from me and replace it with your own, then make me brand new again with your softness, your love, your possession. You carry my burdens for a little while so I can begin to walk again. Months of healing condensed into hours of fucking. You force new joie de vivre inside me with your hands, with your cock.
A Saturday
A victorian, cast-iron bed. Suede lining, dark purple, in patent black leather cuffs. They hold my wrists against the metal, black-painted. Matching ankle cuffs and a spreader bar, lashed with his old and fraying belt, to the foot of the bedstead.
The rain pours down outside. He would toss me into a pit of muddy, rain washed broken glass and fuck me, uncaring of my pain or discomfort. The knowledge of this is my heart's balm, bringing me peace.
He beats me and I scream. I scream the way animals scream - unselfconscious, desperate, terrified. A gurgling sound travelling the spectrum of pitch and tone.
He climbs between my stretched wrists, and fucks my mouth. I hear the rain, and a roaring sound that is inside my own head. I'll be sick, I know I will be sick. My head is tilted back, at this angle I don't know what will happen. Will I breathe it in, will I choke? Could I die from this? My fear is stronger than my submission, I close my mouth, pull away. He forces my mouth open with his fingers, fucks me anyway.
I am grateful.
He beats me again. Defeated, broken, I sob and swear at him. I know how pitiful I am. He makes me feel ashamed, dirty. Again, I am grateful.
The rain has become a thunderstorm, I can hear thunder, see bright flashes of light, but I don't know if they're outside the window, or inside. He makes me sorry for the screaming and the insults. I am warned not to make a sound, or move. I'm terrified. He works me over until I'm screaming more and more and again in my head, but I'm too afraid, far too afraid. Tiny, hushed sobs escape my lips, I feel saliva pour from my mouth, but I can't speak. He parts my legs, I don't resist. He fucks me until he releases a flood of cum deep inside my cunt.
He uncuffs my wrists, removes the bar, rubs my skin, draws me close, tenderly. He whispers words of love to me, cherishes me. I look at him with glassy eyes, touch my lips tentatively. He understands. "Yes baby, you can speak now, and move".
I am grateful.
A Friday
It isn't until late at night, that we eat. Food, drink, sleep, basic needs, all ignored while he slakes his thirst in me. And I, equally thirsty, drink down his lust.
Each and every day I have had him in my life, I have become...more. More confident, more at peace, more creative, more balanced. I have the confidence now to make a special effort with my dress and appearance to please him - and to tell him so. Months in the making, I am now someone who can do this without fear - fear of trying but failing, to please.
Tiny pieces of my soul, healed, flowering. Withered, forgotten, parched - parts of me I thought had died, parts of me I never knew existed; thriving now in the abundance of care and love, lavished on me. Learning to trust in this plentitude, learning not to fear that it is a finite amount to be used up, or that it will soon be taken away.
Waking, finding him not in the bed with me - hating it. As he walks in the door again my heart binds to his. He is part of me, without him, there is something missing from my own soul.
Finding the confidence to truly understand - he never does anything he doesn't want to do. I can ask - I have permission to ask, to request, to state a desire - and I can believe, trust in him to always take exactly what he wants from me, regardless.
Asking gives him more power, not less. Gives him the power to grant my desire, or not. I ask on this day - ask for the cane - and he grants it.
Different, but equal. Our pain play before has taken a different shape. This time I moaned, thrust my hips against the ground, begged for more. Sometimes, overcome, he had to stop to fuck me. Sometimes he built up the pain and took me further than I would have chosen. He fucked me until I was exhausted and dry, and then as I whimpered little tiny hopeless pain noises for him, he blew his load inside me. I am always, always, so very grateful, so very astonished, to find myself His.
Three times he fucked my cunt, came inside me.
Three times he made me his.
Body, heart and soul, I belong to him.
And I am grateful.
Learning to say "No"
This week, I have learned to say, "No".
I have learned to say, "No, it was not my fault".
For the first decade together, my husband and I struggled to cope with the fits he had, caused by diabetic hypoglycaemia. There was then a gap of 5 glorious fit-free years before he began having semi-regular seizures again.
I wrote about it at the time, here
and here
The very first time he had a convulsion, I blamed myself. I hadn't spotted the signs of hypoglycaemia in time, even though I knew he was diabetic, and I didn't take the correct action. I even got angry with him because he was acting so strangely.
I was told by a doctor at one stage that a first fit often paves the way for others. I felt that if only I could have stopped this first fit from happening, then he never would have had any. If only I had noticed in time, been more intuitive, been less suspicious, been more alert, been a better person...
But that's bullshit. Even if it hadn't happened sooner or later, I didn't cause his fits, because I didn't cause his diabetes. I did the best I could at the time.
Neither was it my fault that he continued to have them, and continued to not manage his diabetes as well as he could have. I wasn't a failure as a wife, it wasn't because I was a bad person, and not loving enough, supportive enough, caring enough. It was, and is, his own responsibility to manage his condition. I've always poured out my love, my support, my care, onto him. That's got nothing to do with why he has seizures. It is HIS job to take care of himself, first and foremost.
When he began having fits again, I was away over in Hastings with my partners of the time. I felt guilty for not being present when it happened, and I believed I might have prevented it if I had been. One of the partners in question was angry with me, unreasonably, on a matter unrelated to my husband's illness. She cut off communication with me for a while, and this compounded the feeling that I'd done something terrible and wrong, which I was being punished for. Somewhere along the line I connected the two things and deep in my heart, I felt I had caused my husband's fits to re-occur.
But that's bullshit. It was not, and is not, my fault. I had done nothing wrong, now or then.
I knew all this intellectually, but on sunday night I woke up at 4am, knowing it, unquestionably to be true, in my heart.
And so in such small ways are we healed.
The last year of my life.
I have learned to say, "No, it was not my fault".
For the first decade together, my husband and I struggled to cope with the fits he had, caused by diabetic hypoglycaemia. There was then a gap of 5 glorious fit-free years before he began having semi-regular seizures again.
I wrote about it at the time, here
and here
The very first time he had a convulsion, I blamed myself. I hadn't spotted the signs of hypoglycaemia in time, even though I knew he was diabetic, and I didn't take the correct action. I even got angry with him because he was acting so strangely.
I was told by a doctor at one stage that a first fit often paves the way for others. I felt that if only I could have stopped this first fit from happening, then he never would have had any. If only I had noticed in time, been more intuitive, been less suspicious, been more alert, been a better person...
But that's bullshit. Even if it hadn't happened sooner or later, I didn't cause his fits, because I didn't cause his diabetes. I did the best I could at the time.
Neither was it my fault that he continued to have them, and continued to not manage his diabetes as well as he could have. I wasn't a failure as a wife, it wasn't because I was a bad person, and not loving enough, supportive enough, caring enough. It was, and is, his own responsibility to manage his condition. I've always poured out my love, my support, my care, onto him. That's got nothing to do with why he has seizures. It is HIS job to take care of himself, first and foremost.
When he began having fits again, I was away over in Hastings with my partners of the time. I felt guilty for not being present when it happened, and I believed I might have prevented it if I had been. One of the partners in question was angry with me, unreasonably, on a matter unrelated to my husband's illness. She cut off communication with me for a while, and this compounded the feeling that I'd done something terrible and wrong, which I was being punished for. Somewhere along the line I connected the two things and deep in my heart, I felt I had caused my husband's fits to re-occur.
But that's bullshit. It was not, and is not, my fault. I had done nothing wrong, now or then.
I knew all this intellectually, but on sunday night I woke up at 4am, knowing it, unquestionably to be true, in my heart.
And so in such small ways are we healed.
The last year of my life.
Friday 10 September 2010
Becoming
I'm going through a very productive, creative phase at the moment. I'm making paintings at a rapid rate, and for the first time, having the confidence to try and sell them to the public. I'm exhibiting some of my work in my local kink-friendly alt pub, over the next few months.
I've been modelling, and creating a portfolio I'm really happy with. This has changed my perception of my own face and body. I'm not sure if I've actually got better looking as I've got older, or if it's just taken until my mid-thirties to believe I'm not actually unattractive. There was a time when I hated my face, thinking only that I looked like a victim. And I've always had a tempestuous relationship with my own body. But right now, I feel; if not beautiful all the time, at least; beautiful every now and then.
I'm taking care of myself, with a good time balance for loved ones, friends, boring stuff, work, 'me' time.
I'm writing, which comes and goes, sometimes I'm hugely prolific in a THIS HAS TO COME OUT! NOOOOWWWW!! way, and sometimes waiting until I feel inspired again.
I'm learning poi, and finding myself drawn more to the poi dance and flow side than tricks. I know I'm pretty good at it, and people seem to like watching me, but it's the way it makes me feel that I love, and I've learned to just zone out from any unintentional audience so I can sink into the dance.
I'm fulfilled sexually, probably for the first time in my life. I've developed a strong, and much-appreciated network of friends. I feel comfortable in myself - in my integrity, in my polyamorous lifestyle in a way I never thought would be possible.
People who've got to know me over the last couple of years might find this hard to believe, but before I discovered BDSM, I spent a couple of years in what I like to call my 'Brown Period'. So-called because my mood at the time was mostly brown. I was quite content, but not what I'd call happy. I spent a few years really doing nothing much more than sitting on the sofa knitting, playing with the cats, reading prolifically, working hard, snuggling up with my husband, and going on vigorous bike rides and walks. Like I say - all good, but not...me!
I'm quite experienced with being a massive headmental, and this wasn't extreme like some of the depressive or anxious episodes I've experienced. It was just...brown.
Okay, so I went on a sponsored hike through New Zealand and raised a few grand for the RSPCA during that period, so I wasn't completely dead! But I'd lost my spark - my mojo - and I started to drop out of contact with all the things I love that make my life so happy. I stopped looking after my appearance, I stopped going out and having fun, I stopped seeing a lot of my friends. I stopped listening to music, or dancing, or making music or art or writing. I stopped living. I was just existing.
And now I'm flowering. Savouring the world. Opening petals outward to the sunshine. People who I see who I haven't bumped into for a few months, keep telling me I look 'radiant'. So either I've developed a massive tummy (lol) or I genuinely am blossoming. I love my life. I love my poly family. I love the fun things, and the important things, and the precious things, that are in my life. And there are a lot of them.
Thankyou world. I'm so glad to be here.
I've been modelling, and creating a portfolio I'm really happy with. This has changed my perception of my own face and body. I'm not sure if I've actually got better looking as I've got older, or if it's just taken until my mid-thirties to believe I'm not actually unattractive. There was a time when I hated my face, thinking only that I looked like a victim. And I've always had a tempestuous relationship with my own body. But right now, I feel; if not beautiful all the time, at least; beautiful every now and then.
I'm taking care of myself, with a good time balance for loved ones, friends, boring stuff, work, 'me' time.
I'm writing, which comes and goes, sometimes I'm hugely prolific in a THIS HAS TO COME OUT! NOOOOWWWW!! way, and sometimes waiting until I feel inspired again.
I'm learning poi, and finding myself drawn more to the poi dance and flow side than tricks. I know I'm pretty good at it, and people seem to like watching me, but it's the way it makes me feel that I love, and I've learned to just zone out from any unintentional audience so I can sink into the dance.
I'm fulfilled sexually, probably for the first time in my life. I've developed a strong, and much-appreciated network of friends. I feel comfortable in myself - in my integrity, in my polyamorous lifestyle in a way I never thought would be possible.
People who've got to know me over the last couple of years might find this hard to believe, but before I discovered BDSM, I spent a couple of years in what I like to call my 'Brown Period'. So-called because my mood at the time was mostly brown. I was quite content, but not what I'd call happy. I spent a few years really doing nothing much more than sitting on the sofa knitting, playing with the cats, reading prolifically, working hard, snuggling up with my husband, and going on vigorous bike rides and walks. Like I say - all good, but not...me!
I'm quite experienced with being a massive headmental, and this wasn't extreme like some of the depressive or anxious episodes I've experienced. It was just...brown.
Okay, so I went on a sponsored hike through New Zealand and raised a few grand for the RSPCA during that period, so I wasn't completely dead! But I'd lost my spark - my mojo - and I started to drop out of contact with all the things I love that make my life so happy. I stopped looking after my appearance, I stopped going out and having fun, I stopped seeing a lot of my friends. I stopped listening to music, or dancing, or making music or art or writing. I stopped living. I was just existing.
And now I'm flowering. Savouring the world. Opening petals outward to the sunshine. People who I see who I haven't bumped into for a few months, keep telling me I look 'radiant'. So either I've developed a massive tummy (lol) or I genuinely am blossoming. I love my life. I love my poly family. I love the fun things, and the important things, and the precious things, that are in my life. And there are a lot of them.
Thankyou world. I'm so glad to be here.
Monday 9 August 2010
Happy
I am happy. Really, really happy. Not just content. My life is full of joy.
It's all been worth it.
It's all been worth it.
Wednesday 4 August 2010
Black Liner Run
[Disclaimer: this journal entry contains strong violence, punch play, rape play, abuse play, and knife play. If these themes make you uncomfortable, I strongly advise you not to read. This journal entry is not fiction.]
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(Still it’s nice to wish)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(If he understands)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(This could never be)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(Still he’s making plans)
~ She Wants Revenge
Friday, 7pm.
I've been edgy all day, fraught with longing for you. I want you. I'm in a provocative mood. You signal to me that I should suck your cock. With eyes never leaving your face, I catch my breath, shake my head, without a sound. You play with yourself. My heart beats faster. I catch my breath with need. I can't resist for much longer, I have to have you in my mouth. You moan in pleasure as your hands stroke your shaft, pull and stretch out your balls. I am weak for you. I find myself licking the tip of your fat prick, despite myself, and letting saliva seep out of my mouth and drip onto your flesh; swollen, hard.
Angry, playful, I pull back. You have tricked me. I refuse your game of cat and mouse. You see my mood change - seconds later you feel my nails digging into your skin, deliberately trying to cause pain. Testing. Always testing for weakness.
Somehow I am face down on the sofa, my arms behind my back, twisted brutally. I resist, struggle, kick out at you as you press heavily down on me from above. My face is turned, crushed into the cushion, my mouth spiteful, hissing, swearing, snarling. Without hesitation or difficulty you pull my knickers down while I'm still pinned, and get your cock inside me. I writhe, frantic. Bastard. Furious.
"You're not going anywhere, love", you taunt. Cocky, so fucking cocky. I'll wipe that arrogance off your face. Teeth ground together, I go for you, claws outstretched. Against all fairness, I am now face up on the other sofa, my legs spread far too wide for comfort, as you stick your cock in my mouth, using me to get yourself off. You kneel on my hands to give me nowhere to retreat to, as you fuck me mouth almost to the point of being sick. Fucking cunt, I hiss at you. You pull your t-shirt off, wind it like a rag, and jam it into my mouth like a gag. I gurgle, drool into the fabric, narrow my eyes with rage, muffled sounds of violence making their way through the gag. You push my head back with using it, so hard I think the edges of my mouth might tear, and bang my head into the wall behind as you drive your hips against mine, forcing your stiff prick into my unwilling cunt.
You rip the gag out of my mouth, slide me, crying now, onto the floor and mount me spread over the sofa, from behind. You plunge into my tight arsehole. It is agonising. You piston your dick into me, not caring whether I enjoy it or not, not caring that it hurts, just taking what you want, what you need from me. You fill my arse with spunk, cumming so much and so deeply inside me that hours later, I am still leaking from your anal rape.
Saturday, 1am
I hold my breath in apprehension as we drive into the dogging spot. It is crowded tonight, and you pull up in front of a picnic bench set among a few trees. My mind instantly fills with images of what you might do to me.
We kiss, and a couple of men begin to crowd around the car. You hitch up my skirt, run your hands over my fishnet stockings, and work your fingers inside me. I cum, noisily, messily, as a horde of men press in close against the windows. A man furtively jerks himself off - I can hear his hand hitting the door.
"Pull your knickers down", you tell me. I obey. "Take them off". I obey. You get your fingers inside me again.
You unhook my bra, are lifting my heavy breasts out from the cups, holding them in your hands. Two men crawl over the bonnet, leaning on the windscreen.
A frantic knocking on the door - all the men disappear in seconds - "Pull your skirt down" you tell me. I hear the urgency in your voice. I obey. The police send us on our way.
We drive home. You park some way up from the house. One of the men has followed us in his car from the site. He looks intensely into my eyes as he pulls up alongside our car. He drives off. I am glad I don't live here.
Saturday, 2.30am.
You exercise your rights over my body. I am tired, exhausted. You stroke me, draw me closer against your body as you spoon me from behind. I push back against you, tilting my hips. Your touch feels possessive, territorial even; you handle my body as if you own it, own me, and this arouses me. I want you to make use of me, if you should want to do so, before we sleep. You slip into me from behind and I moan, arch my back, grind my cunt into you.
You fill me with your cum. I wake, hours later, in a pool of it, leaking out of me, soaking the mattress underneath me, covering my thighs. I go back to sleep - happy, proud.
Saturday, 10.30am
You force me to watch vile porn while I suck your cock. Sometimes licking, sucking your balls into my mouth, taking you deep into me and feeling you hit the back of my throat. Sometimes you're taking my mouth, fucking my throat. All the time you show me clip after clip of fucking, sucking, cumming, on your phone.
You ruin my cunt with my own favourite glass dildo. It was not designed to be used so brutally. I am sore, swollen, after your assault. I hold my vibrator onto my clit while you use the dildo in me, and I cum very hard. I want to show you, I want to do it for you - I am simultaneously shy, ashamed, aroused, proud.
You jerk yourself off, kneeling over me as I lie back and rub the sweat that falls from you, into my tits. I feel a need for something in my mouth. I begin with my fingers, then when they are not enough, reach over for another, different dildo, and suck it. I run my tongue over the pointed end, slide it between my lips. Lost in the moment I am shocked when you take it from me, and use it in me. It is very big at the base, too big, and I am sore and throbbing. I whimper, "it hurts, it hurts". You moan, toss aside the dildo and blow your load inside me.
I am in love with you.
Saturday, 3pm
We spend the afternoon with another member of our poly family, your little girl. We trail slowly over the heath with the dogs, exchanging stories, kissing, holding hands. Later we drink coffee, eat tiffin, and laugh - far too loudly - making everyone glare at us. We don't care - we are happy and enjoying each other's company. I cuddle her goodbye before you walk her to the train station, while I check on my husband. He is at a music festival this weekend, hence my spending so much time with you.
Saturday, 10pm
We enter the club, and you wait for me while I pause in the toilet to check my make-up, straighten my dress. It is the one I think of as my 'rape dress', completely see-through, and my blue leopard print underwear shows unrelentingly through from beneath it.
This will be the last of this particular club for a while, and the room is heaving. We stop to talk with people we know, catch up a little. We settle on a sofa near the play. Things are hotting up. The play right next to us is spectacular - a young girl in a school uniform is tied with her hands above her head, blindfolded, flogged. It's nothing I haven't seen before, but the connection between them is beautiful, intense, startling.
Looking from left to right the scene is like something from the fall of the roman empire. Everywhere people are bent over benches, stalking in high heeled thigh boots, or suspended upside down, naked. I lean into your lap and kiss you, a pressing need building in me. I bite your lip. The first flickers of that anger are in your eyes. The anger I so need from you. I bite your neck, tracking teeth down your shoulder. You kiss me, hard - urgent. You bite down tightly on my lip, and I pull away from you, snarling. You lunge for me, sink your teeth into my neck, a growl trickling from your jaws. You snarl as you tear at my skin, eat away at me. I undo the halterneck of my dress, inviting your touch to move to my breasts. You maul me, ripping at the skin with your teeth.
I am standing on a small platform, next to a winch suspension device, with no real certainty in how I got here. You wind the handle which unwraps enough chain to allow lowering of the spreader bar, with attached wrist cuffs, to the height of my head. I glare at you, mutinously. You tap the bar with the 15" bowie knife you've had strapped to your belt all night, and indicate I should put my hands up to be cuffed with a mere glance of your eyes. The ringing sound reverberates throughout the room; for a moment it is all I can hear.
I feel my lip push outward as I set my face towards you. I shake my head - just a little. Underlying my thoughts is a certainty that my expression must reflect my internal state - stubborn low-lying ire, determination not to yield to you, mixed in with the spice of true fear. That fear leaps, coloured with icy rivulets of flame, violet and blue, as your eyes widen at my defiance. You grab me by the throat, smash your fist holding the knife within an inch of my eye, rumbling guttural sounds coming from your throat, grunts, huffs and snarls; I shake my head again, lean back as far as I can, struggling. This baits your temper even more, and I get a huge adrenaline surge as you lunge for me with the knife. You go to stab me in the stomach - there must only be a centimetre of distance between my flesh and your blade, when you halt.
You shake me again by the throat, like a wolf who has downed his prey. Temporarily subdued, I have run out of courage, and slowly, grudgingly, move my hands into position. You sheathe your knife; for now.
I feel your hands on my arse, running over the skin. You spank me - you never spank me lightly, it is always hard, or very hard; sometimes the rain of blows generates a syncopated pain which is easier to enjoy. You know I like it rough. I really like the feel of this, not so much a warm-up as a statement of intent; an introductory paragraph. It often sets the tone of what's to come - how much I struggle, resist, or moan and push into the blows; how hard and where you hit me, and whether you will still me through a hand in my hair, a rough fist, soft words or a knife.
Today your slaps on my behind are fighting talk, a tool to humiliate me in front of all these people. You have turned me around so that you're behind me while I face the mirror, and I turn my head aside - I hate looking at myself. I catch your eye instead, and I feel my whole face quiver, caught on the knifeblade edge between wrath, shame, pain, tears, fear.
You loose one of my wrists completely, and we both know you're taking your life in your hands, partially freeing me when I'm in this mood. You slap me in the face. Not a light blow designed to shame or rebuke, a full hit. You mean it to hurt, to provoke.
This is the moment. The tiger, hidden until now, leaps for your throat. The volcano, smouldering, spews molten lava, showering rocks and thunder into the sky. The match drops slowly, tumbling end over end, into the accelerator fluid, and clouds of smoke, flame like ultraviolet fire, explode behind my eyes with a whoomph.
I'm going to fucking kill you. I'm no longer capable of conscious thought, but some still sane part of me is glad I'm restrained and the damage I'll inflict is limited.
I go for you, with hands and claws. I slap you in the face. You slap me again, and again. I hit you back - or try to. We stalk around each other, less like prey and predator, rather like two gladiators in the arena. The bar is held between us, one wrist of mine cuffed to it, one hand of yours gently resting on it, steadying me, threatening me. Our eyes are locked. Nothing else matters. Nothing else, but being here, like this, with you.
I draw my hand back behind my head and smack you in your sneering mouth as hard as I can. You rock back on your heels - with your right hand you smack me full in the face with your open hand. The blow would have sent me flying, if I had not been held up by the wrist restraint. You take off the leather armour covering your torso, and I see the sweat pouring from your chest. You know what the sight of you in jeans, bare-chested, does to me. And I hate you for it. You know my weakness for you, you use my own lust for you against me. Taking advantage of my distraction, you leap onto the platform with me, mashing your sweaty, muscled body against my own, reminding me how soft, pliant, malleable I am in the face of your strength. You tie my other wrist onto the bar and step back, to begin hitting me.
Lashes from your whip hit my legs; a storm cloud where the rain burns instead of soothing. I spit a curse of violent swearing at you. You whip harder. I spit into your face. You spit into mine. You punch me in the stomach. You pour a torrent of blows over me, a meteor shower of hot, painful impact injuries. I kick out at you - should one of my blows connect, it will be because I want it to, even knowing that my heels will cause you injury. You beat me unceasingly, despite the risk.
Ahh, at last. Oh, thankyou - thankyou. I feel an easing in the pressure, the almost painful pressure built up in me over the last couple of months. A feeling of satisfaction, a need met. I yield to you - you ARE stronger than me, and are able to show me so.
You sense my submission to you and pursue it, forcing your fingers inside me. You tell me to cum, and I do - but for you, not for me.
You have lanced my violent anger and allowed the first surge to come free; as have I for you. I can feel more bubbling deeper inside, but that is for later. For now, both you and I are spent. I feel such gratitude, such humility, to you. The desire in me to show it builds until I cannot NOT act. As you help me over to sit down, recover, my body moves of its own accord to honour you. I kneel before you, and bend to kiss your feet.
You lift me up, and position me on the sofa so I am sitting facing you, while you stand before me. You unbutton your jeans and take my mouth.
Then you hold me, stroke me, calm me. For a little while. Standing, you take me by the hand and lead me, swaying, unsteady, into the men's toilets. You lock us into a cubicle and force me onto my knees. I think that you will fuck me, or take my mouth again. Instead, this time when you unbutton yourself, a stream of hot piss hits me in the face. I jerk away, and your fingers are twisted in my hair, holding me in place over the toilet. Your other hand forces my mouth open, fingers pushing my jaw apart, until the warm, briny taste of you fills my mouth to overflowing. I retch a little, spit out as much as I can, but am unable to prevent some from leaking down my throat into my stomach. My face, neck, chest, is covered in your urine. Your cock is rock hard during this, it must pain you. There is no thought in me to refuse you - I would swallow it if you asked it of me. There is no thought in me at all, just an animalistic, instinctive need to obey you, to please you, to submit to you. I have been marked as yours - debased, as the filthy little whore I am. But with this act you claim me as YOUR filthy, dirty whore. I am marked unmistakeable as such.
You push your stiff cock into my mouth and I suck you. You taste of piss but I am not repulsed; but grateful. You take me outside, and lead me to the women's toilet where I can wash my face a little. I look in the mirror and see my eyeliner has run; tear-stains plain to see. I do not consider removing them; they are just as much your marks as the bruises you leave on me, the scent marks you have just covered me with.
Sunday, 12am
I ask to go out on the balcony - the cool breeze will help me recover, I know. Your body curves around me protectively everywhere we go. I feel so safe with you. As I sit, a little shaky still, and floating; you stand in front of me, and let your leather armour fall open, cloaking us from casual view. You take my mouth again, pumping it hard.
Sunday, 12.30am
We make our way towards the inside, when I see a pretty blonde friend of mine. She has already caught your eye, especially dressed as she is in the slutty school uniform of perfection. As you chat with her partner, we flirt, and kiss, and she seduces me with her delicious voice, and soft, soft lips. She sends me on my way with a promise of more to come...
Sunday, 2am
This night will be the last time this club is ever held at this venue. Everyone here hopes it will find a new home - but after tonight, all the equipment will be sold, the fittings stripped, the bar emptied. You strap me onto the St Andrew's Cross, and I realise, as you do so, that this is the same piece of equipment on which I had my first public play a year and a half ago. There is a sense of balance, of rightness, to it. I'm glad my last time on it was with you.
You strike me over and over again - my back, my thighs, and everywhere in between. I rip my arm loose from the straps and flail at you, connecting once or twice. You pin me back down and cuff me much more tightly, then beat me even harder.
There is far less anger this time, but you push me hard, generating so much screaming heat in me that I have to let it loose, and for the first time, I scream. Really scream - not trying to contain it, just letting the sound from my mouth carry the agony I'm enduring.
You slow, and then pause, coming to the front of the cross. You meet my eyes. "Stop", you say. "Stop". I look at you, uncomprehending. "Stop?" you ask me again. Are you...do you want to know if I want to stop? [it is only later than I learn you were asking me if I wanted to safeword] Is it too much? No.
You spit at me. Into my face. I conclude I must stop screaming, that this is what you want me to stop doing...you have made me scream and now I have disgusted you with my weakness...I am nothing, less than nothing. You continue to abuse me, beat me, hurt me, and I, with the last of my will, hold back the screams. I cannot stop the sobs that rack my body, make the whole frame shake, or the tears that pour from me. You come and stand in front of me again, and look into my eyes. You speak a single word, quietly. "Cum", you tell me. And I do. I am humiliated, I hate to cum in public, strapped to equipment like this, losing my dignity in front of people I know.
Again, you beat me. And something snaps inside, and the pain doesn't feel like pain anymore. I am somewhere else, and feel the blows only like pressure, they no longer hurt. You lift me down, gently, and pull me over to one side, where I float, encased by your love.
I adore what you have done to me; what you have reduced me to, and yet I am not diminished, instead I am made *more*.
Sunday, 5am.
You tell me to sleep while you walk the dogs. I am hungry, and exhausted. I refuse food, secretly wanting to be available, should you choose to fuck my mouth on your return. Through a super human effort I remain awake, so that you may take me, should you choose to do so. You choose to let me sleep. I sleep in your arms. Yours.
Sunday, 10am
We wake, slowly, lingeringly. You fist me - almost, you won't quite fit. Next time I will try even harder. As your hand moves inside me I hear you moan, mutter 'oh god, I want to cum on you', and I cum, over and over again. I am so sore now. Then you fuck me. I cum again, as you spill your seed inside me.
Sunday, 6pm
If I am with you, then taking my own pleasure, directly, by my own action, or even by yours, is difficult for me. I want *you* to have the pleasure, *all* of it. You have slowly broken me to the idea that you get direct pleasure from touching me, having your fingers inside me, using toys on me, making me cum. It became a simple thing, understanding that you were using my body to satisfy yourself, however you chose, be it with fingers or cock or tongue. I give you my body, despite my desire to refrain from taking pleasure when I could be giving it to you, as an act of submission. When I cum, it is in submission to you. When I moan, cry out, press my cunt against your hand, it is in your honour that I do so. It took time for you to force me to ride your cock, sitting astride you, without me feeling too ashamed to enjoy it.
But still, making myself cum by my own hand, just the way I would if you weren't there - how difficult was it to get around the sense that I was doing something to be ashamed of? So when I offered this up to you, offered to show you what I do when I make myself cum, alone; I know you treasured it as the gift it was.
You watch, hungry-eyed, as I push the ribbed glass dildo deep into my arse. Hold the vibrator on my clit. I soon overcome my shame and embarrassment, and get lost in the pleasure of it; eventually cumming hard, sweatily and loudly, calling your name. As I collapse into your arms, it is such a delight to be stroked and soothed by you.
Then you come over my face, and I suck what little I am allowed to, down inside me, clean you, and kiss you, then lie in your arms, covered in your sweat, replete.
Monday, 1am
After spending the evening with friends, back at my house you undress slowly in front of me. I shiver. "Is it permitted, to ask for what I want?" I speak to the floor, too shy to meet your eyes.
"Yes", you tell me. "It is always permitted. Although you might not always *get* it."
"Please", I ask you. I lift my head, bravely. "Will you hurt me?"
You leave the room for some time, and when you come back, we begin watching violent porn. I think you will fuck me, but not hurt me. I am a little wistful, but not sad. I like that it is your decision to make.
But I am delighted when you put my wrists and ankles into cuffs, and tie me to two spreader bars. You alternatively violate, and cane me, while forcing my head to one side so I see the porn. My arms are behind my back, and you pull cruelly on the bar, forcing my torso into an upright position so you can plunge more deeply into me from behind.
You cease beating me to torment me with a brutal, huge and abusive dildo. I am so swollen and sore from our weekend, I can't believe you're going to do this to me. But you do. You force it into me - not that far, I am too swollen, but far enough for it to hurt, more than the caning.
Sated, you lift me, limp and sobbing, and wrap me up in the bed while I shiver and whimper. I am so deeply asleep when you come to bed, after shutting the lights off, that you cannot even lift me enough to get your arm around me; but I know you are there. You are with me. You keep me safe.
Monday, 9am
My husband comes home unexpectedly from a music festival, hours earlier than anticipated. The lounge looks like sodom and gomorrah - a giant cock next to some lube, spreader bars, cuffs, whips, floggers, porn, and my underwear, tossed casually around the place. There is another dildo on the bathroom sink, drying. He can't go in the bedroom because you're lying in there naked on his side of the bed; only a few minutes ago, you were clearly accompanied by his wife.
I stand in the kitchen, horror, surprise and amusement sharing equal space on my face. I'm naked and covered in bruises. Could this get any worse?
Thank god for polyamory and honesty. Husband was not exactly happy, but sees the funny side and giggles to himself for hours afterwards about it. Poor you - you are persuaded to sit on the sofa and chat to him with me, instead of slinking out and killing yourself, as was your alternate plan.
Monday, 12pm
I kiss you goodbye at the door, wishing I could have yet still more time with you. I mustn't be greedy. But no amount of time could be enough. However, I am content and satiated. And in love. So very in love; with you.
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(Still it’s nice to wish)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(If he understands)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(This could never be)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(Still he’s making plans)
~ She Wants Revenge
Friday, 7pm.
I've been edgy all day, fraught with longing for you. I want you. I'm in a provocative mood. You signal to me that I should suck your cock. With eyes never leaving your face, I catch my breath, shake my head, without a sound. You play with yourself. My heart beats faster. I catch my breath with need. I can't resist for much longer, I have to have you in my mouth. You moan in pleasure as your hands stroke your shaft, pull and stretch out your balls. I am weak for you. I find myself licking the tip of your fat prick, despite myself, and letting saliva seep out of my mouth and drip onto your flesh; swollen, hard.
Angry, playful, I pull back. You have tricked me. I refuse your game of cat and mouse. You see my mood change - seconds later you feel my nails digging into your skin, deliberately trying to cause pain. Testing. Always testing for weakness.
Somehow I am face down on the sofa, my arms behind my back, twisted brutally. I resist, struggle, kick out at you as you press heavily down on me from above. My face is turned, crushed into the cushion, my mouth spiteful, hissing, swearing, snarling. Without hesitation or difficulty you pull my knickers down while I'm still pinned, and get your cock inside me. I writhe, frantic. Bastard. Furious.
"You're not going anywhere, love", you taunt. Cocky, so fucking cocky. I'll wipe that arrogance off your face. Teeth ground together, I go for you, claws outstretched. Against all fairness, I am now face up on the other sofa, my legs spread far too wide for comfort, as you stick your cock in my mouth, using me to get yourself off. You kneel on my hands to give me nowhere to retreat to, as you fuck me mouth almost to the point of being sick. Fucking cunt, I hiss at you. You pull your t-shirt off, wind it like a rag, and jam it into my mouth like a gag. I gurgle, drool into the fabric, narrow my eyes with rage, muffled sounds of violence making their way through the gag. You push my head back with using it, so hard I think the edges of my mouth might tear, and bang my head into the wall behind as you drive your hips against mine, forcing your stiff prick into my unwilling cunt.
You rip the gag out of my mouth, slide me, crying now, onto the floor and mount me spread over the sofa, from behind. You plunge into my tight arsehole. It is agonising. You piston your dick into me, not caring whether I enjoy it or not, not caring that it hurts, just taking what you want, what you need from me. You fill my arse with spunk, cumming so much and so deeply inside me that hours later, I am still leaking from your anal rape.
Saturday, 1am
I hold my breath in apprehension as we drive into the dogging spot. It is crowded tonight, and you pull up in front of a picnic bench set among a few trees. My mind instantly fills with images of what you might do to me.
We kiss, and a couple of men begin to crowd around the car. You hitch up my skirt, run your hands over my fishnet stockings, and work your fingers inside me. I cum, noisily, messily, as a horde of men press in close against the windows. A man furtively jerks himself off - I can hear his hand hitting the door.
"Pull your knickers down", you tell me. I obey. "Take them off". I obey. You get your fingers inside me again.
You unhook my bra, are lifting my heavy breasts out from the cups, holding them in your hands. Two men crawl over the bonnet, leaning on the windscreen.
A frantic knocking on the door - all the men disappear in seconds - "Pull your skirt down" you tell me. I hear the urgency in your voice. I obey. The police send us on our way.
We drive home. You park some way up from the house. One of the men has followed us in his car from the site. He looks intensely into my eyes as he pulls up alongside our car. He drives off. I am glad I don't live here.
Saturday, 2.30am.
You exercise your rights over my body. I am tired, exhausted. You stroke me, draw me closer against your body as you spoon me from behind. I push back against you, tilting my hips. Your touch feels possessive, territorial even; you handle my body as if you own it, own me, and this arouses me. I want you to make use of me, if you should want to do so, before we sleep. You slip into me from behind and I moan, arch my back, grind my cunt into you.
You fill me with your cum. I wake, hours later, in a pool of it, leaking out of me, soaking the mattress underneath me, covering my thighs. I go back to sleep - happy, proud.
Saturday, 10.30am
You force me to watch vile porn while I suck your cock. Sometimes licking, sucking your balls into my mouth, taking you deep into me and feeling you hit the back of my throat. Sometimes you're taking my mouth, fucking my throat. All the time you show me clip after clip of fucking, sucking, cumming, on your phone.
You ruin my cunt with my own favourite glass dildo. It was not designed to be used so brutally. I am sore, swollen, after your assault. I hold my vibrator onto my clit while you use the dildo in me, and I cum very hard. I want to show you, I want to do it for you - I am simultaneously shy, ashamed, aroused, proud.
You jerk yourself off, kneeling over me as I lie back and rub the sweat that falls from you, into my tits. I feel a need for something in my mouth. I begin with my fingers, then when they are not enough, reach over for another, different dildo, and suck it. I run my tongue over the pointed end, slide it between my lips. Lost in the moment I am shocked when you take it from me, and use it in me. It is very big at the base, too big, and I am sore and throbbing. I whimper, "it hurts, it hurts". You moan, toss aside the dildo and blow your load inside me.
I am in love with you.
Saturday, 3pm
We spend the afternoon with another member of our poly family, your little girl. We trail slowly over the heath with the dogs, exchanging stories, kissing, holding hands. Later we drink coffee, eat tiffin, and laugh - far too loudly - making everyone glare at us. We don't care - we are happy and enjoying each other's company. I cuddle her goodbye before you walk her to the train station, while I check on my husband. He is at a music festival this weekend, hence my spending so much time with you.
Saturday, 10pm
We enter the club, and you wait for me while I pause in the toilet to check my make-up, straighten my dress. It is the one I think of as my 'rape dress', completely see-through, and my blue leopard print underwear shows unrelentingly through from beneath it.
This will be the last of this particular club for a while, and the room is heaving. We stop to talk with people we know, catch up a little. We settle on a sofa near the play. Things are hotting up. The play right next to us is spectacular - a young girl in a school uniform is tied with her hands above her head, blindfolded, flogged. It's nothing I haven't seen before, but the connection between them is beautiful, intense, startling.
Looking from left to right the scene is like something from the fall of the roman empire. Everywhere people are bent over benches, stalking in high heeled thigh boots, or suspended upside down, naked. I lean into your lap and kiss you, a pressing need building in me. I bite your lip. The first flickers of that anger are in your eyes. The anger I so need from you. I bite your neck, tracking teeth down your shoulder. You kiss me, hard - urgent. You bite down tightly on my lip, and I pull away from you, snarling. You lunge for me, sink your teeth into my neck, a growl trickling from your jaws. You snarl as you tear at my skin, eat away at me. I undo the halterneck of my dress, inviting your touch to move to my breasts. You maul me, ripping at the skin with your teeth.
I am standing on a small platform, next to a winch suspension device, with no real certainty in how I got here. You wind the handle which unwraps enough chain to allow lowering of the spreader bar, with attached wrist cuffs, to the height of my head. I glare at you, mutinously. You tap the bar with the 15" bowie knife you've had strapped to your belt all night, and indicate I should put my hands up to be cuffed with a mere glance of your eyes. The ringing sound reverberates throughout the room; for a moment it is all I can hear.
I feel my lip push outward as I set my face towards you. I shake my head - just a little. Underlying my thoughts is a certainty that my expression must reflect my internal state - stubborn low-lying ire, determination not to yield to you, mixed in with the spice of true fear. That fear leaps, coloured with icy rivulets of flame, violet and blue, as your eyes widen at my defiance. You grab me by the throat, smash your fist holding the knife within an inch of my eye, rumbling guttural sounds coming from your throat, grunts, huffs and snarls; I shake my head again, lean back as far as I can, struggling. This baits your temper even more, and I get a huge adrenaline surge as you lunge for me with the knife. You go to stab me in the stomach - there must only be a centimetre of distance between my flesh and your blade, when you halt.
You shake me again by the throat, like a wolf who has downed his prey. Temporarily subdued, I have run out of courage, and slowly, grudgingly, move my hands into position. You sheathe your knife; for now.
I feel your hands on my arse, running over the skin. You spank me - you never spank me lightly, it is always hard, or very hard; sometimes the rain of blows generates a syncopated pain which is easier to enjoy. You know I like it rough. I really like the feel of this, not so much a warm-up as a statement of intent; an introductory paragraph. It often sets the tone of what's to come - how much I struggle, resist, or moan and push into the blows; how hard and where you hit me, and whether you will still me through a hand in my hair, a rough fist, soft words or a knife.
Today your slaps on my behind are fighting talk, a tool to humiliate me in front of all these people. You have turned me around so that you're behind me while I face the mirror, and I turn my head aside - I hate looking at myself. I catch your eye instead, and I feel my whole face quiver, caught on the knifeblade edge between wrath, shame, pain, tears, fear.
You loose one of my wrists completely, and we both know you're taking your life in your hands, partially freeing me when I'm in this mood. You slap me in the face. Not a light blow designed to shame or rebuke, a full hit. You mean it to hurt, to provoke.
This is the moment. The tiger, hidden until now, leaps for your throat. The volcano, smouldering, spews molten lava, showering rocks and thunder into the sky. The match drops slowly, tumbling end over end, into the accelerator fluid, and clouds of smoke, flame like ultraviolet fire, explode behind my eyes with a whoomph.
I'm going to fucking kill you. I'm no longer capable of conscious thought, but some still sane part of me is glad I'm restrained and the damage I'll inflict is limited.
I go for you, with hands and claws. I slap you in the face. You slap me again, and again. I hit you back - or try to. We stalk around each other, less like prey and predator, rather like two gladiators in the arena. The bar is held between us, one wrist of mine cuffed to it, one hand of yours gently resting on it, steadying me, threatening me. Our eyes are locked. Nothing else matters. Nothing else, but being here, like this, with you.
I draw my hand back behind my head and smack you in your sneering mouth as hard as I can. You rock back on your heels - with your right hand you smack me full in the face with your open hand. The blow would have sent me flying, if I had not been held up by the wrist restraint. You take off the leather armour covering your torso, and I see the sweat pouring from your chest. You know what the sight of you in jeans, bare-chested, does to me. And I hate you for it. You know my weakness for you, you use my own lust for you against me. Taking advantage of my distraction, you leap onto the platform with me, mashing your sweaty, muscled body against my own, reminding me how soft, pliant, malleable I am in the face of your strength. You tie my other wrist onto the bar and step back, to begin hitting me.
Lashes from your whip hit my legs; a storm cloud where the rain burns instead of soothing. I spit a curse of violent swearing at you. You whip harder. I spit into your face. You spit into mine. You punch me in the stomach. You pour a torrent of blows over me, a meteor shower of hot, painful impact injuries. I kick out at you - should one of my blows connect, it will be because I want it to, even knowing that my heels will cause you injury. You beat me unceasingly, despite the risk.
Ahh, at last. Oh, thankyou - thankyou. I feel an easing in the pressure, the almost painful pressure built up in me over the last couple of months. A feeling of satisfaction, a need met. I yield to you - you ARE stronger than me, and are able to show me so.
You sense my submission to you and pursue it, forcing your fingers inside me. You tell me to cum, and I do - but for you, not for me.
You have lanced my violent anger and allowed the first surge to come free; as have I for you. I can feel more bubbling deeper inside, but that is for later. For now, both you and I are spent. I feel such gratitude, such humility, to you. The desire in me to show it builds until I cannot NOT act. As you help me over to sit down, recover, my body moves of its own accord to honour you. I kneel before you, and bend to kiss your feet.
You lift me up, and position me on the sofa so I am sitting facing you, while you stand before me. You unbutton your jeans and take my mouth.
Then you hold me, stroke me, calm me. For a little while. Standing, you take me by the hand and lead me, swaying, unsteady, into the men's toilets. You lock us into a cubicle and force me onto my knees. I think that you will fuck me, or take my mouth again. Instead, this time when you unbutton yourself, a stream of hot piss hits me in the face. I jerk away, and your fingers are twisted in my hair, holding me in place over the toilet. Your other hand forces my mouth open, fingers pushing my jaw apart, until the warm, briny taste of you fills my mouth to overflowing. I retch a little, spit out as much as I can, but am unable to prevent some from leaking down my throat into my stomach. My face, neck, chest, is covered in your urine. Your cock is rock hard during this, it must pain you. There is no thought in me to refuse you - I would swallow it if you asked it of me. There is no thought in me at all, just an animalistic, instinctive need to obey you, to please you, to submit to you. I have been marked as yours - debased, as the filthy little whore I am. But with this act you claim me as YOUR filthy, dirty whore. I am marked unmistakeable as such.
You push your stiff cock into my mouth and I suck you. You taste of piss but I am not repulsed; but grateful. You take me outside, and lead me to the women's toilet where I can wash my face a little. I look in the mirror and see my eyeliner has run; tear-stains plain to see. I do not consider removing them; they are just as much your marks as the bruises you leave on me, the scent marks you have just covered me with.
Sunday, 12am
I ask to go out on the balcony - the cool breeze will help me recover, I know. Your body curves around me protectively everywhere we go. I feel so safe with you. As I sit, a little shaky still, and floating; you stand in front of me, and let your leather armour fall open, cloaking us from casual view. You take my mouth again, pumping it hard.
Sunday, 12.30am
We make our way towards the inside, when I see a pretty blonde friend of mine. She has already caught your eye, especially dressed as she is in the slutty school uniform of perfection. As you chat with her partner, we flirt, and kiss, and she seduces me with her delicious voice, and soft, soft lips. She sends me on my way with a promise of more to come...
Sunday, 2am
This night will be the last time this club is ever held at this venue. Everyone here hopes it will find a new home - but after tonight, all the equipment will be sold, the fittings stripped, the bar emptied. You strap me onto the St Andrew's Cross, and I realise, as you do so, that this is the same piece of equipment on which I had my first public play a year and a half ago. There is a sense of balance, of rightness, to it. I'm glad my last time on it was with you.
You strike me over and over again - my back, my thighs, and everywhere in between. I rip my arm loose from the straps and flail at you, connecting once or twice. You pin me back down and cuff me much more tightly, then beat me even harder.
There is far less anger this time, but you push me hard, generating so much screaming heat in me that I have to let it loose, and for the first time, I scream. Really scream - not trying to contain it, just letting the sound from my mouth carry the agony I'm enduring.
You slow, and then pause, coming to the front of the cross. You meet my eyes. "Stop", you say. "Stop". I look at you, uncomprehending. "Stop?" you ask me again. Are you...do you want to know if I want to stop? [it is only later than I learn you were asking me if I wanted to safeword] Is it too much? No.
You spit at me. Into my face. I conclude I must stop screaming, that this is what you want me to stop doing...you have made me scream and now I have disgusted you with my weakness...I am nothing, less than nothing. You continue to abuse me, beat me, hurt me, and I, with the last of my will, hold back the screams. I cannot stop the sobs that rack my body, make the whole frame shake, or the tears that pour from me. You come and stand in front of me again, and look into my eyes. You speak a single word, quietly. "Cum", you tell me. And I do. I am humiliated, I hate to cum in public, strapped to equipment like this, losing my dignity in front of people I know.
Again, you beat me. And something snaps inside, and the pain doesn't feel like pain anymore. I am somewhere else, and feel the blows only like pressure, they no longer hurt. You lift me down, gently, and pull me over to one side, where I float, encased by your love.
I adore what you have done to me; what you have reduced me to, and yet I am not diminished, instead I am made *more*.
Sunday, 5am.
You tell me to sleep while you walk the dogs. I am hungry, and exhausted. I refuse food, secretly wanting to be available, should you choose to fuck my mouth on your return. Through a super human effort I remain awake, so that you may take me, should you choose to do so. You choose to let me sleep. I sleep in your arms. Yours.
Sunday, 10am
We wake, slowly, lingeringly. You fist me - almost, you won't quite fit. Next time I will try even harder. As your hand moves inside me I hear you moan, mutter 'oh god, I want to cum on you', and I cum, over and over again. I am so sore now. Then you fuck me. I cum again, as you spill your seed inside me.
Sunday, 6pm
If I am with you, then taking my own pleasure, directly, by my own action, or even by yours, is difficult for me. I want *you* to have the pleasure, *all* of it. You have slowly broken me to the idea that you get direct pleasure from touching me, having your fingers inside me, using toys on me, making me cum. It became a simple thing, understanding that you were using my body to satisfy yourself, however you chose, be it with fingers or cock or tongue. I give you my body, despite my desire to refrain from taking pleasure when I could be giving it to you, as an act of submission. When I cum, it is in submission to you. When I moan, cry out, press my cunt against your hand, it is in your honour that I do so. It took time for you to force me to ride your cock, sitting astride you, without me feeling too ashamed to enjoy it.
But still, making myself cum by my own hand, just the way I would if you weren't there - how difficult was it to get around the sense that I was doing something to be ashamed of? So when I offered this up to you, offered to show you what I do when I make myself cum, alone; I know you treasured it as the gift it was.
You watch, hungry-eyed, as I push the ribbed glass dildo deep into my arse. Hold the vibrator on my clit. I soon overcome my shame and embarrassment, and get lost in the pleasure of it; eventually cumming hard, sweatily and loudly, calling your name. As I collapse into your arms, it is such a delight to be stroked and soothed by you.
Then you come over my face, and I suck what little I am allowed to, down inside me, clean you, and kiss you, then lie in your arms, covered in your sweat, replete.
Monday, 1am
After spending the evening with friends, back at my house you undress slowly in front of me. I shiver. "Is it permitted, to ask for what I want?" I speak to the floor, too shy to meet your eyes.
"Yes", you tell me. "It is always permitted. Although you might not always *get* it."
"Please", I ask you. I lift my head, bravely. "Will you hurt me?"
You leave the room for some time, and when you come back, we begin watching violent porn. I think you will fuck me, but not hurt me. I am a little wistful, but not sad. I like that it is your decision to make.
But I am delighted when you put my wrists and ankles into cuffs, and tie me to two spreader bars. You alternatively violate, and cane me, while forcing my head to one side so I see the porn. My arms are behind my back, and you pull cruelly on the bar, forcing my torso into an upright position so you can plunge more deeply into me from behind.
You cease beating me to torment me with a brutal, huge and abusive dildo. I am so swollen and sore from our weekend, I can't believe you're going to do this to me. But you do. You force it into me - not that far, I am too swollen, but far enough for it to hurt, more than the caning.
Sated, you lift me, limp and sobbing, and wrap me up in the bed while I shiver and whimper. I am so deeply asleep when you come to bed, after shutting the lights off, that you cannot even lift me enough to get your arm around me; but I know you are there. You are with me. You keep me safe.
Monday, 9am
My husband comes home unexpectedly from a music festival, hours earlier than anticipated. The lounge looks like sodom and gomorrah - a giant cock next to some lube, spreader bars, cuffs, whips, floggers, porn, and my underwear, tossed casually around the place. There is another dildo on the bathroom sink, drying. He can't go in the bedroom because you're lying in there naked on his side of the bed; only a few minutes ago, you were clearly accompanied by his wife.
I stand in the kitchen, horror, surprise and amusement sharing equal space on my face. I'm naked and covered in bruises. Could this get any worse?
Thank god for polyamory and honesty. Husband was not exactly happy, but sees the funny side and giggles to himself for hours afterwards about it. Poor you - you are persuaded to sit on the sofa and chat to him with me, instead of slinking out and killing yourself, as was your alternate plan.
Monday, 12pm
I kiss you goodbye at the door, wishing I could have yet still more time with you. I mustn't be greedy. But no amount of time could be enough. However, I am content and satiated. And in love. So very in love; with you.
Tuesday 3 August 2010
Liquid [story]
"The liquid state of a material has a definite volume, but it does not have a definite shape and takes the shape of the container, unlike that of the solid state."
My body is liquid, neither one thing, nor another. I move seamlessly, both ephemeral, floating, flowing; yet also animalistic, rooted, sure-footed as if my body grows from the floor, unable to fall, unable to trip or falter. There is nothing which can induce viscosity in me, take my ability to flow from me; I feel resonance in every cell of my beautiful, strong, graceful body. I am perfect. I am free. It feels as if I am remembering and re-enacting the dance, rather than improvising, each movement made without conscious decision in the knowledge it is perfect and exactly right.
The swollen, rich bass drives my feet, hips, wrists, fingers. Forward, back, centre, forward, back, centre. My arm rises, my wrist tilts, fingers arch delicately in rhythm with the coloratura; I am made of particles which are constantly moving. I am at the center, connected by invisible spokes to the spiral of dancers around me.
I am glad I insisted on air-conditioning for the club. The summer heat is kept out slightly of this basement property, but the huge mass of sweaty bodies brings its own temperature rise. The cool breeze freshens my skin and lifts away the heat which comes from inside, as I grind my hips to the song.
The EBM finishes and leads into the industrial section of the night. I leave the floor, sated for now, and lean up against the cool black marble of the bar. I look around me, happy and proud. The arched alcoves are low lit in darklight, padded with black leather seats, finished with glass topped tables, green recessed lighting; in the DJ booth, my friend, headphones worn sideways to accommodate her mass of hair, moves slickly to the beat as she flicks through for the next track. The dull metal screens act as room-dividers. They lend a faintly sinister air to the industrial-styled decor. I drink in the reward of the hard work, the loving toil of the last few weeks getting the club ready for its first night.
*tick tock*
Everyone has gone, now. I have the music on low. I've switched some of the lights off. The recessed lights shimmer off the metal poles, frames, marble. I shiver a little. The room is cooling rapidly now the only body in it is my own. I close my eyes and allow myself time to enjoy the shiver - pleasurable after so much movement. I have finished cleaning the floor, collecting the detritus of the night.
*tick tock*
I pause. There is something so wrong that for a moment my eyes can't make sense of it.
"Who the fuck are *YOU*??!! And what are you doing in *MY CLUB*?"
*tick tock*
You're in the doorway. I can see only half of your body, your face. The club is dark, I'm standing in the lit space, and there are no lights on in the stairwell.
"What do you want? How did you even get *IN* here?"
*tick tock*
You move forward slightly. Your eyes meet mine. I've never seen your face before this moment, but you look menacingly familiar. Black jeans, black top, plain, simple. Your expression is complex. Anger, surprise, desire. Fear? I must have imagined that. The overwhelming impression is of someone who *inspires* fear, not one who *feels* it.
*tick tock*
You walk forward towards me. There is a moment where I am reminded of the dancers earlier; we meet in the centre of the floor, eyes locked, bodies oh so aware of each others. Will we begin to dance? It will be Latin, I think, full of vitality and constrained tension, movements slow then sudden, soft then hard.
And here is the audience. Black-clad clothes, washed in tears. Rain blue highlights. Almost a uniform. Your friends? Back-up? Gang? Entourage? They move inside the room in a way which brings the word 'slinking' into my mind. They seat themselves in the alcoves, hunched forward, tense, anticipatory. Predatory - but not on their own behalf. On yours.
You are so self-contained. When your arm moves, there is nothing to signal the violence, the explosion to come. The impact transfers energy in one huge blow to my face. I am lifted off the floor, into the air.
*tick*
Weightless.
Breathless.
Gestalt.
*tock*
Collision.
Confusion.
I hit the floor.
*tick tock, tick tock*
My body compresses under the force of the blow. The impact judders up my body, causing ripples of agony to swell within the initial numbness. It's too early to tell if anything's broken. You are on me. Above me. Your hands on my shoulders, fingers curling into my clothes, nails breaking my skin. You are shouting but I can't make sense of the words, because my mind is still processing the shock of connecting with the floor.
Your rage is a waterfall, drowning me. I tumble and struggle to the surface, pulled down by the current. So much anger, so much. Who would think liquid could strike as hard as this?
*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*
Your words fall into place. Suddenly I am hearing them as language, full with meaning - rather than random fury-filled sounds. "Cunt. Stupid little broken cunt on the floor. Think you're fucking better than me? Fucking bitch. Nasty little fucking bitch".
I hear myself speak, stammer. "What....what...I don't understand...please, PLEASE?"
"You don't fucking UNDERSTAND?! Are you fucking STUPID or something?! Well? Well? Bitch!"
You haul me up onto my knees, a frenzy of movement.
"THIS! THIS is what I'm fucking talking about!" You shove a flyer for the opening night of the club into my hands. A corner of my mind notes the blood pouring from his knuckles onto the paper, and wonders dispassionately if my cheekbone is broken.
"You open a club on the same night as MINE?! How fucking DARE you?! Are you setting yourself up to be in competition - with ME? We'll see how much fucking competition you are when you're in spreader bars, you little cunt".
Your fingers snap. Instant response - four of your group are kneeling on the floor surrounding us. My mind unlocks, allows entry to the little facts it has been struggling so hard to keep out. A sudden and unnerving attention to detail; fingernails and teeth - a little too long and pointed; eyes like traffic lights - red, amber, or green. Gutteral vocalisations - a hiss in some, in others, a snarl, or rumbling growl. An impression of wildness, speed, untamed sense of Other.
*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*
My limbs are seized and spread, pulled and laid out. I struggle pointlessly, pitifully, in the grasp of cold hands, metallic in strength, and warm hands, heavy with hair but no less strong. Dirty, leather cuffs are strapped onto my wrists, my ankles. They stink of years. My movement is stilled. The cuffs attached to bars, short for my arms, a longer one to hold my legs apart.
*tick*
You cry out a word that more like a howl than any human language. There are ripples and eddies in your skin. A rumble gushes out of your mouth which begins in your belly, vibrating up through your torso until it spills from you. You sway, but it is not weakness, but strength which rocks you gently. Fur cascades down your body, a thickening black and silver mist, the touch of foam upon your lip.
*tock*
I am abruptly aware of my own helplessness. This is a monstrous thing; they are monsters. This is a dreadful thing; I dread my own destruction. I cannot save myself, I am unable to change my fate; it will be whatever you choose.
*tick*
I lie on my back, my legs spread open between the bars. My arms spread equally, the bar lying beneath my body. My back, sore and bruised, lies pressed painfully into it. You are quiet now. Moving slowly. Your voice like ripping pieces of meat falls gutturally, horrifically, onto me, with your stringy saliva. I flinch at the slightest touch of your fur, my skin creeping away, raising bumps.
*tock*
"Biii-tchhhhhh." I can barely make sense of the long, damaged vowels as they leave your throat from deep inside.
"Need to be fuuu-cked like a biii-tcchhhhh. Seeeee if this teeeacc-hes yo-uuu. Ruuu-in you. Ruuu-ut with yo-uuu. Like a do-ogg. Biii-tchhhhhh."
All the while, slowly, slowly moving. The music, and the dance, slowed to a single beat, pulsing between us. Disgusted, terrified of you, humiliated by you as I am, we share something, you and I. Your eyes stare into mine. That same complex mix of emotions present in them. My eyes lock to yours. I AM yours; to debase, abuse, save, on your whim. You are crouching now between my legs. I feel the head of your prick touch softly against my soft inner thigh, then my pussy lips, brushing against the shaven skin. We both breathe in, sharply. Our connection deepens.
*tick tock*
Unexpectedly you are inside me, a yawning chasm of pain opening me almost to the womb. You are big - very - and your too-hard cock stretches me unbearably. I scream. You stay unmoving, waiting. My body clenches and thrashes, but I can't get away. Your hips press down on mine, waiting.
You slowly begin to move, easing out, then back in. Again.
Again.
*tick tock, tick tock*
Against all reason my cunt is wet. With relentless speed you pull out and turn my body, with the help of your monstrous chosen few, so that I am on all fours in front of you. As you enter me, you pull towards you the spreader bar between my wrist, so that my upper body is lifted, painfully, and no matter how I lean forward there is no escaping you. You bang into me with eager haste, and at my entrance I feel a widening at the base of your thick cock, a bulging mass seeking to enter me also, which I resist, twisting and turning, screaming out, no more, no more!
But I am too slick and liquid to refuse you entry, welcoming you in despite myself, every huge knotted inch of you, and you take me with such violence, so complete is my violation, that I think you mean to kill me.
*tick tock*
You complete my degradation. You unleash the contents of your heavy, full balls inside me, a torrent of spunk, mixed animal and human, savagely slamming into me to leave it as deep inside as you can, but still it leaks from my ravaged pussy as you withdraw, and stick your dick into my mouth, forcing me to lick it clean as two of your servants feed deeply on me, burying their fangs into my neck and sucking, drinking, taking my fluid just as you have dumped your load in me, and forced me to take yours.
*tick tock, tick tock*
*tick tock, tick tock*
When I wake you are gone, and all your group gone with you. Cum, blood, sweat, tears, are hours cold on my skin. My wrist are free now, my ankles uncuffed.
A letter waits on the table, the writing calligraphic in style. "Until next month, mon loup".
My body is liquid, neither one thing, nor another. I move seamlessly, both ephemeral, floating, flowing; yet also animalistic, rooted, sure-footed as if my body grows from the floor, unable to fall, unable to trip or falter. There is nothing which can induce viscosity in me, take my ability to flow from me; I feel resonance in every cell of my beautiful, strong, graceful body. I am perfect. I am free. It feels as if I am remembering and re-enacting the dance, rather than improvising, each movement made without conscious decision in the knowledge it is perfect and exactly right.
The swollen, rich bass drives my feet, hips, wrists, fingers. Forward, back, centre, forward, back, centre. My arm rises, my wrist tilts, fingers arch delicately in rhythm with the coloratura; I am made of particles which are constantly moving. I am at the center, connected by invisible spokes to the spiral of dancers around me.
I am glad I insisted on air-conditioning for the club. The summer heat is kept out slightly of this basement property, but the huge mass of sweaty bodies brings its own temperature rise. The cool breeze freshens my skin and lifts away the heat which comes from inside, as I grind my hips to the song.
The EBM finishes and leads into the industrial section of the night. I leave the floor, sated for now, and lean up against the cool black marble of the bar. I look around me, happy and proud. The arched alcoves are low lit in darklight, padded with black leather seats, finished with glass topped tables, green recessed lighting; in the DJ booth, my friend, headphones worn sideways to accommodate her mass of hair, moves slickly to the beat as she flicks through for the next track. The dull metal screens act as room-dividers. They lend a faintly sinister air to the industrial-styled decor. I drink in the reward of the hard work, the loving toil of the last few weeks getting the club ready for its first night.
*tick tock*
Everyone has gone, now. I have the music on low. I've switched some of the lights off. The recessed lights shimmer off the metal poles, frames, marble. I shiver a little. The room is cooling rapidly now the only body in it is my own. I close my eyes and allow myself time to enjoy the shiver - pleasurable after so much movement. I have finished cleaning the floor, collecting the detritus of the night.
*tick tock*
I pause. There is something so wrong that for a moment my eyes can't make sense of it.
"Who the fuck are *YOU*??!! And what are you doing in *MY CLUB*?"
*tick tock*
You're in the doorway. I can see only half of your body, your face. The club is dark, I'm standing in the lit space, and there are no lights on in the stairwell.
"What do you want? How did you even get *IN* here?"
*tick tock*
You move forward slightly. Your eyes meet mine. I've never seen your face before this moment, but you look menacingly familiar. Black jeans, black top, plain, simple. Your expression is complex. Anger, surprise, desire. Fear? I must have imagined that. The overwhelming impression is of someone who *inspires* fear, not one who *feels* it.
*tick tock*
You walk forward towards me. There is a moment where I am reminded of the dancers earlier; we meet in the centre of the floor, eyes locked, bodies oh so aware of each others. Will we begin to dance? It will be Latin, I think, full of vitality and constrained tension, movements slow then sudden, soft then hard.
And here is the audience. Black-clad clothes, washed in tears. Rain blue highlights. Almost a uniform. Your friends? Back-up? Gang? Entourage? They move inside the room in a way which brings the word 'slinking' into my mind. They seat themselves in the alcoves, hunched forward, tense, anticipatory. Predatory - but not on their own behalf. On yours.
You are so self-contained. When your arm moves, there is nothing to signal the violence, the explosion to come. The impact transfers energy in one huge blow to my face. I am lifted off the floor, into the air.
*tick*
Weightless.
Breathless.
Gestalt.
*tock*
Collision.
Confusion.
I hit the floor.
*tick tock, tick tock*
My body compresses under the force of the blow. The impact judders up my body, causing ripples of agony to swell within the initial numbness. It's too early to tell if anything's broken. You are on me. Above me. Your hands on my shoulders, fingers curling into my clothes, nails breaking my skin. You are shouting but I can't make sense of the words, because my mind is still processing the shock of connecting with the floor.
Your rage is a waterfall, drowning me. I tumble and struggle to the surface, pulled down by the current. So much anger, so much. Who would think liquid could strike as hard as this?
*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*
Your words fall into place. Suddenly I am hearing them as language, full with meaning - rather than random fury-filled sounds. "Cunt. Stupid little broken cunt on the floor. Think you're fucking better than me? Fucking bitch. Nasty little fucking bitch".
I hear myself speak, stammer. "What....what...I don't understand...please, PLEASE?"
"You don't fucking UNDERSTAND?! Are you fucking STUPID or something?! Well? Well? Bitch!"
You haul me up onto my knees, a frenzy of movement.
"THIS! THIS is what I'm fucking talking about!" You shove a flyer for the opening night of the club into my hands. A corner of my mind notes the blood pouring from his knuckles onto the paper, and wonders dispassionately if my cheekbone is broken.
"You open a club on the same night as MINE?! How fucking DARE you?! Are you setting yourself up to be in competition - with ME? We'll see how much fucking competition you are when you're in spreader bars, you little cunt".
Your fingers snap. Instant response - four of your group are kneeling on the floor surrounding us. My mind unlocks, allows entry to the little facts it has been struggling so hard to keep out. A sudden and unnerving attention to detail; fingernails and teeth - a little too long and pointed; eyes like traffic lights - red, amber, or green. Gutteral vocalisations - a hiss in some, in others, a snarl, or rumbling growl. An impression of wildness, speed, untamed sense of Other.
*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*
My limbs are seized and spread, pulled and laid out. I struggle pointlessly, pitifully, in the grasp of cold hands, metallic in strength, and warm hands, heavy with hair but no less strong. Dirty, leather cuffs are strapped onto my wrists, my ankles. They stink of years. My movement is stilled. The cuffs attached to bars, short for my arms, a longer one to hold my legs apart.
*tick*
You cry out a word that more like a howl than any human language. There are ripples and eddies in your skin. A rumble gushes out of your mouth which begins in your belly, vibrating up through your torso until it spills from you. You sway, but it is not weakness, but strength which rocks you gently. Fur cascades down your body, a thickening black and silver mist, the touch of foam upon your lip.
*tock*
I am abruptly aware of my own helplessness. This is a monstrous thing; they are monsters. This is a dreadful thing; I dread my own destruction. I cannot save myself, I am unable to change my fate; it will be whatever you choose.
*tick*
I lie on my back, my legs spread open between the bars. My arms spread equally, the bar lying beneath my body. My back, sore and bruised, lies pressed painfully into it. You are quiet now. Moving slowly. Your voice like ripping pieces of meat falls gutturally, horrifically, onto me, with your stringy saliva. I flinch at the slightest touch of your fur, my skin creeping away, raising bumps.
*tock*
"Biii-tchhhhhh." I can barely make sense of the long, damaged vowels as they leave your throat from deep inside.
"Need to be fuuu-cked like a biii-tcchhhhh. Seeeee if this teeeacc-hes yo-uuu. Ruuu-in you. Ruuu-ut with yo-uuu. Like a do-ogg. Biii-tchhhhhh."
All the while, slowly, slowly moving. The music, and the dance, slowed to a single beat, pulsing between us. Disgusted, terrified of you, humiliated by you as I am, we share something, you and I. Your eyes stare into mine. That same complex mix of emotions present in them. My eyes lock to yours. I AM yours; to debase, abuse, save, on your whim. You are crouching now between my legs. I feel the head of your prick touch softly against my soft inner thigh, then my pussy lips, brushing against the shaven skin. We both breathe in, sharply. Our connection deepens.
*tick tock*
Unexpectedly you are inside me, a yawning chasm of pain opening me almost to the womb. You are big - very - and your too-hard cock stretches me unbearably. I scream. You stay unmoving, waiting. My body clenches and thrashes, but I can't get away. Your hips press down on mine, waiting.
You slowly begin to move, easing out, then back in. Again.
Again.
*tick tock, tick tock*
Against all reason my cunt is wet. With relentless speed you pull out and turn my body, with the help of your monstrous chosen few, so that I am on all fours in front of you. As you enter me, you pull towards you the spreader bar between my wrist, so that my upper body is lifted, painfully, and no matter how I lean forward there is no escaping you. You bang into me with eager haste, and at my entrance I feel a widening at the base of your thick cock, a bulging mass seeking to enter me also, which I resist, twisting and turning, screaming out, no more, no more!
But I am too slick and liquid to refuse you entry, welcoming you in despite myself, every huge knotted inch of you, and you take me with such violence, so complete is my violation, that I think you mean to kill me.
*tick tock*
You complete my degradation. You unleash the contents of your heavy, full balls inside me, a torrent of spunk, mixed animal and human, savagely slamming into me to leave it as deep inside as you can, but still it leaks from my ravaged pussy as you withdraw, and stick your dick into my mouth, forcing me to lick it clean as two of your servants feed deeply on me, burying their fangs into my neck and sucking, drinking, taking my fluid just as you have dumped your load in me, and forced me to take yours.
*tick tock, tick tock*
*tick tock, tick tock*
When I wake you are gone, and all your group gone with you. Cum, blood, sweat, tears, are hours cold on my skin. My wrist are free now, my ankles uncuffed.
A letter waits on the table, the writing calligraphic in style. "Until next month, mon loup".
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