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You stand in the doorway. Light from the streetlamp eludes you, your face is shadowed as you count the money dealt out to you by the stranger. The black, leather trenchcoat you wear gives you an air of menace, protected as you are by its thick, concealing folds. In contrast I am exposed, vulnerable - all my flaws unveiled as I stand under the harsh light, my back against the post, arms above my head; not because I am bound in that position by rope, chains or shackles, but because of you - because you told me to.
I am your whore. The man who searches through his handful of change to find the last twenty pence for the five pounds you have charged him, is eager, but drunk - or drugged. His crude, trying too hard, clumsy movements, seem to suit him though, and match his appearance. His clothes are label brands, stained with drops of food and drink from an evening on the piss. His baseball cap can't conceal how dirty his hair is, and the white t-shirt, blue jeans and trainers are a perfect match for those worn by his friends who stand a few feet away, drinking from cans and laughing, joking, and arguing over who gets to go next.
The transaction complete, you step forward, into the light for a moment. I look into your perfect eyes and you answer my unspoken question.
'No.'
You unbutton my coat, slowly, while you kiss me. You pull up the thin, satiny fabric of my skirt, and push my ruffled panties down. I step out of them, and you put them in the pocket of your trenchcoat. I'm left with only my top, cut low and revealing, heels, fishnet stockings and the coat that frames it all. You work your fingers inside me, step back and suck the silky wetness from them.
Turning, you nod your head at the man who just paid to fuck me. He grins in dazed fashion, and unbuttons his jeans with rushed haste. The air tastes of diamonds tonight, cold and bitter as I breathe in, quenching the sickness in me. His cock is of average size, but he holds it as if he were a club to hit me with. It's not yet fully hard, filled as he is with alcohol and amphetamines, and it looks and smells unwashed. I part my legs as he approaches me, and he rubs the plump lips of my perfectly clean and shaven pussy with his dirty, inadequate prick.
He shoves it in. I shift uneasily to gather balance. I look at you, standing watch in the doorway, and there's a warning in your gaze. I look up, instead, and watch the stars, falling in my mind, pieces of the sky inside my head, inside me. An empty place, now filled. The man grunts and shifts position. Now that he's worked his way in fully, I can feel he's becoming harder. He shouts over his shoulder to his friends. 'Fuck, this is brilliant! Her pussy's really tight. I'm gonna fucking come in a minute!' His buttocks thrust mindlessly, as he falls into a rhythm. He is a single speed thruster fuck - his sole aim being to shoot his load inside me as quickly as possible, using my cunt to jerk himself off, job done. I am surprised then, when he slows, and turns his face towards you, hands still on my hips, thrusting still but his focus on his question. 'I can stick it in her arse, yeah?'
'That costs extra', you reply. 'Two quid, pay up front before you do it'.
'No fucking way?! Two quid? Fucking hell!' He sighs, loudly. 'Oh, alright then...' He rummages in his pocket for change, his rhythm becoming erratic. He turns around and shouts out to his mates, who are laughing with almost hysterical amusement. 'Anyone got a couple of quid?' His friends come up with the money between them, and pay you the extra. Your face is utterly serious. You don't return their smiles. I know they disgust you as much as they disgust me. You are using them, like a whip, or a crop - as a tool.
He pulls out of me, and then feels between my legs for my puckered opening. He doesn't know that it's not necessary - you've trained me to angle my body for you perfectly, and my asshole splays itself for you on your first touch. He jams his fingers inside, awkwardly, and I wince with pain. He doesn't notice - but you do. I see your cock twitch inside your jeans, sensitive as I am to every aspect of your presence, however transient or trifling. More confident now, he brings his cock to meet his fingers and starts to push himself in. 'Ahhhh, yeah - fuck yeah', he sighs. He pushes in with force and falls into a rhythm again. With each assault on my body I feel myself come closer to sobs. I won't give in, I won't. Not to him.
He shoves roughly into me, jamming his prick as deep as it will go. His jeans are around his ankles now, and his pitiful buttocks twitch and clench as he pokes his dick into my arse relentlessly. His moans become closer together and louder, he cries out with shocking noise as his prick convulses inside me, shooting hot, scalding, plentiful cum into my body, into my arse, as he empties his anger at a world that he is too ignorant to understand, inside me.
He jerks away, not wanting to touch me, now that he's left me mired in filth like his own. Cum dribbles down my legs, soaking into my stockings, dripping in warm, creamy droplets onto the gritty pavement on which I stand, my legs apart still.
Before he's even buttoned up his jeans again, the next customer stands forward to trade with you for your whore.
And afterwards, after they've all taken what they paid for, you let me sink to the floor, stinking and fouled in mind and body. You clean me with soft words and rock me as I cry, I cry for you, sobbing into the leather of your coat as you cradle me.
'You fucking whore', you whisper, as you pull me closer still. 'You're mine. My whore. Mine'.
Saturday 27 February 2010
Thursday 25 February 2010
A Quick Drink [erotic fiction]
My pussy glistens, soaking wet, as my body prepares itself for you to enter me. Pushed down onto the red leather of the sofa, my wrists grasp each other, arms stretched out in front of me, exactly as you have told me to put them. My buttocks are raised, ready for you to choose where you want to fuck, my back arches, my legs are spread obediently on your command, without question, for you - and only you.
As your fingers slide with almost no resistance into my tight little pussy, your cock hardens. You should be familiar by now, with how drenched I become for you - not just moist or damp but sodden, slippery with silken liquid. But still, this time you are shocked at the dripping extent of the defiled plump lips of my puss.
You know you can take me, however, whenever, you want. Or not at all. Maybe you'll just keep me like that, waiting, bent over the sofa of the pub, while people walk past on their way to smoke, or piss. You know I won't move. Not until you tell me I can. Although you know, if you wait too long, I might start to whimper, or silently cry. You rub yourself through your jeans in anticipation, knowing I am fighting the desire to peek through my hair, to see what is happening, who is watching. You're controlling what I see...and what I fear.
Without a word you get your dick out, and rub it against my silky hole. This is the first time you've ever fucked me and you want me to know you can do whatever the fuck you want to with me, wherever, however, you want to. You yank me into a kneeling position and growl aggresively into my ear. ''Where shall I fuck you? Shall I fuck your arse, or your pussy?'
I suck air through my mouth, gasping, struggling not to cry out loud and draw any more attention to myself. You yank my head back even further. You jab your shaft painfully, violently, against my mouth, slapping me in the face with it, pushing, distorting my features as you shove it into the side of my cheek. You know I find this almost unbearably humiliating. 'Don't you know?', you rasp into my ear. 'You don't fucking know, where I want to put my fucking cock?'
I can barely speak with the effort of trying not to sob out loud. 'You...you...you can fuck me...however you want to...please....please...I can't...'
You shake me like a rag doll. 'CAN'T FUCKING WHAT?!', you spit at me, 'Can't fucking stay there while I stick my cock in you? Don't fuck you? You don't want me to fuck you?!'
Your eyes are huge and furious, the pupils dilated.
'No....I don't...I can't...I don't know...please, please don't be mad at me... I'll do whatever you want me to...I'm sorry...please...PLEASE! I'm yours, you can do whatever you want to, to me'. My voice is high and frightened.
'You're fucking right I can do what I fucking want to with you. Now get your face in that fucking leather and spread your legs further apart. NOW'.
I obey, instantly. Only because you know me so well can you see the reluctance, confusion, shame, in my body.
'Where?', you ask me, a fraction calmer. You're giving me the chance to redeem myself. Just one word - but I know exactly what you are asking. And I'm happy...so happy because I know the right answer and I can give it to you.
'Anywhere', I whisper.
'When?', you ask me.
'Whenever you want to. However you want to'. I'm calm now, too. I've given in. Given up. To you. Whatever happens now, it's you who will make the decisions. My soul is naked to you but I'm clothed in the confidence that your commanding presence gives to me. You run your hands up and down my body, lifting my skirt, tugging with your fingernails on my stockings. You slowly, deliberately, pull on one of them. The fabric strains against my thighs, then gives as your strength overpowers it. You hear a ripping sound as you tear it off my body. My skin reddens, and you know you're hurting me, but I'm too far gone to voice protest. Gone too far, into that space in my mind in which you have chosen to put me, in this place. In this time.
'That's right', you softly tell me. 'Good girl'. You sit back on the sofa and for a moment I imagine a reprieve. Shock...relief...confusion...disappointment...anxiety. Have I done something wrong? Do you not want me anymore? But then, you put both arms around me and lift me, positioning me on your lap, facing you. You arrange my skirts so that no-one can see, and tell me to kneel up. Your fingers slide inside me - you start to push, pulling, using, stretching out my pussy. I don't last long...I can't...it is only moments before I start to come, and as I gush over your fingers, you put your other hand over my mouth and pinch my nostrils closed. My eyes are huge...you see my distress...and you drink it in.
You position the fat head of your cock against the lips of my pussy. Lips that are dripping with my cum, and open like a flower...for you to pluck, or crush, as you choose. You rub against me, your prick so hard it hurts, and watch my face as I moan, seeing my expression move from lust, to fear, to shame. I think that you will use my pussy, but suddenly and shockingly, you slam your dick into my arse. Without warning you drive yourself deeper into me. It must hurt you a little - and for me, it's agonising. You see the pain in my eyes, as every thrust hurts me and causes me to cry out - you thrust deeper and harder. Your hands are on my hips, forcing me to bear down...your tongue in my mouth, is taking my kiss, stealing my breath. You are making me ride you...making me take your dick inside me so deep, as you fuck my arse savagely, here in this place, where everyone can see...where everyone can see I'm yours.
And those are the words that you say, as you slam yourself into me. Then without a word you lift me, and throw me down on the sofa. Automatically I assume the position of presenting myself to you.
'You. Are. MINE', you remind me, as your length drives in to my virgin pussy, for the first time. You fuck hard...and harder...deeper...I scream and cry your name, over and over and over again...my cunt throbs as it clenches around your cock, squeezing, as I come so intensely I lose all control.
You cry out once, then pull out. You know I want your cum inside me - need it inside me - but you choose instead to soak me in it...my back...my torn and tattered stockings...my pussy lips and used holes...and after you empty your balls over me...drain yourself, pour yourself over me...you collapse, and little sighs and words escape you, as you tell me that I'm yours, that you need me, that you love me. I'm crying again, this time because it hurt, and still hurts, that this moment will not last for all time, so much do I love you and want this completion to be now and forever.
You finally raise yourself, and sticky with your seed...soaked in sweat and cum, we see the gathered crowd and prepare ourselves to find a way to explain this mess.
You smile, and I return it. Neither of us can even begin to care. We only have space for thoughts of each other, and the intimacy, the intensity, or what has just passed between us.
As your fingers slide with almost no resistance into my tight little pussy, your cock hardens. You should be familiar by now, with how drenched I become for you - not just moist or damp but sodden, slippery with silken liquid. But still, this time you are shocked at the dripping extent of the defiled plump lips of my puss.
You know you can take me, however, whenever, you want. Or not at all. Maybe you'll just keep me like that, waiting, bent over the sofa of the pub, while people walk past on their way to smoke, or piss. You know I won't move. Not until you tell me I can. Although you know, if you wait too long, I might start to whimper, or silently cry. You rub yourself through your jeans in anticipation, knowing I am fighting the desire to peek through my hair, to see what is happening, who is watching. You're controlling what I see...and what I fear.
Without a word you get your dick out, and rub it against my silky hole. This is the first time you've ever fucked me and you want me to know you can do whatever the fuck you want to with me, wherever, however, you want to. You yank me into a kneeling position and growl aggresively into my ear. ''Where shall I fuck you? Shall I fuck your arse, or your pussy?'
I suck air through my mouth, gasping, struggling not to cry out loud and draw any more attention to myself. You yank my head back even further. You jab your shaft painfully, violently, against my mouth, slapping me in the face with it, pushing, distorting my features as you shove it into the side of my cheek. You know I find this almost unbearably humiliating. 'Don't you know?', you rasp into my ear. 'You don't fucking know, where I want to put my fucking cock?'
I can barely speak with the effort of trying not to sob out loud. 'You...you...you can fuck me...however you want to...please....please...I can't...'
You shake me like a rag doll. 'CAN'T FUCKING WHAT?!', you spit at me, 'Can't fucking stay there while I stick my cock in you? Don't fuck you? You don't want me to fuck you?!'
Your eyes are huge and furious, the pupils dilated.
'No....I don't...I can't...I don't know...please, please don't be mad at me... I'll do whatever you want me to...I'm sorry...please...PLEASE! I'm yours, you can do whatever you want to, to me'. My voice is high and frightened.
'You're fucking right I can do what I fucking want to with you. Now get your face in that fucking leather and spread your legs further apart. NOW'.
I obey, instantly. Only because you know me so well can you see the reluctance, confusion, shame, in my body.
'Where?', you ask me, a fraction calmer. You're giving me the chance to redeem myself. Just one word - but I know exactly what you are asking. And I'm happy...so happy because I know the right answer and I can give it to you.
'Anywhere', I whisper.
'When?', you ask me.
'Whenever you want to. However you want to'. I'm calm now, too. I've given in. Given up. To you. Whatever happens now, it's you who will make the decisions. My soul is naked to you but I'm clothed in the confidence that your commanding presence gives to me. You run your hands up and down my body, lifting my skirt, tugging with your fingernails on my stockings. You slowly, deliberately, pull on one of them. The fabric strains against my thighs, then gives as your strength overpowers it. You hear a ripping sound as you tear it off my body. My skin reddens, and you know you're hurting me, but I'm too far gone to voice protest. Gone too far, into that space in my mind in which you have chosen to put me, in this place. In this time.
'That's right', you softly tell me. 'Good girl'. You sit back on the sofa and for a moment I imagine a reprieve. Shock...relief...confusion...disappointment...anxiety. Have I done something wrong? Do you not want me anymore? But then, you put both arms around me and lift me, positioning me on your lap, facing you. You arrange my skirts so that no-one can see, and tell me to kneel up. Your fingers slide inside me - you start to push, pulling, using, stretching out my pussy. I don't last long...I can't...it is only moments before I start to come, and as I gush over your fingers, you put your other hand over my mouth and pinch my nostrils closed. My eyes are huge...you see my distress...and you drink it in.
You position the fat head of your cock against the lips of my pussy. Lips that are dripping with my cum, and open like a flower...for you to pluck, or crush, as you choose. You rub against me, your prick so hard it hurts, and watch my face as I moan, seeing my expression move from lust, to fear, to shame. I think that you will use my pussy, but suddenly and shockingly, you slam your dick into my arse. Without warning you drive yourself deeper into me. It must hurt you a little - and for me, it's agonising. You see the pain in my eyes, as every thrust hurts me and causes me to cry out - you thrust deeper and harder. Your hands are on my hips, forcing me to bear down...your tongue in my mouth, is taking my kiss, stealing my breath. You are making me ride you...making me take your dick inside me so deep, as you fuck my arse savagely, here in this place, where everyone can see...where everyone can see I'm yours.
And those are the words that you say, as you slam yourself into me. Then without a word you lift me, and throw me down on the sofa. Automatically I assume the position of presenting myself to you.
'You. Are. MINE', you remind me, as your length drives in to my virgin pussy, for the first time. You fuck hard...and harder...deeper...I scream and cry your name, over and over and over again...my cunt throbs as it clenches around your cock, squeezing, as I come so intensely I lose all control.
You cry out once, then pull out. You know I want your cum inside me - need it inside me - but you choose instead to soak me in it...my back...my torn and tattered stockings...my pussy lips and used holes...and after you empty your balls over me...drain yourself, pour yourself over me...you collapse, and little sighs and words escape you, as you tell me that I'm yours, that you need me, that you love me. I'm crying again, this time because it hurt, and still hurts, that this moment will not last for all time, so much do I love you and want this completion to be now and forever.
You finally raise yourself, and sticky with your seed...soaked in sweat and cum, we see the gathered crowd and prepare ourselves to find a way to explain this mess.
You smile, and I return it. Neither of us can even begin to care. We only have space for thoughts of each other, and the intimacy, the intensity, or what has just passed between us.
"Stars, hide your fires, Let not light see my black and deep desires."
Look, if you want to torture me, spank me, lick me, do it. But if this poetry shit continues just shoot me now please. ~ Lori Petty in Tank Girl
I almost don't know where to start. I've had so many new experiences...been to so many new places in my head in the last couple of weeks, that it's just blown my mind. I need a bit of time to reflect and process what has happened to me, in the best way I know how - write it out, pour it out, let myself organise and frame this personal history in a way in which I can understand it.
Back in November, I contacted M on informedconsent.com (IC) - because his profile struck a chord with me. Something about it, I don't even know what, spoke to me, and resonated. I contacted a few people from IC around that time, in the wake of a relationship break-up - I think it's very common to start searching for something to replace what you've lost, long before you're ready.
I never chat online with people I don't know. I prefer to memo back and forth, and within a few memos-worth of conversation I usually know whether I want to take it forward or not. I tend to go with my gut instinct, and all but a couple of IC'ers got excluded on the grounds of just not being what I was looking for, bad writing skills, bad attitude, or hideousness in the photo department.
M though, stood out right from the beginning. But I wasn't ready. I felt strongly drawn to him, but my instincts were saying 'no' - and I think now, that they were GOOD instincts, because if I'd gone forward with it at that time, I would have blown the chance to connect with someone, so damaged still as I was from the ending of my previous relationship. I needed to give myself time to heal, and let go. So I told him 'no'. He took this rejection in the most gentlemanly fashion, asking me only that I would promise to get in touch, should I change my mind.
A few weeks later, I was still going through a really tough time. I blogged on IC as normal, struggling to make sense of my messy head. He got in touch again - not in a predatory 'brilliant, you're a bit fucked up, can I have a go on you?' sort of way, but in a 'listen, I know you're not into me in *that* way, but if you want someone to vent to, or offer advice, or just be here for you to offload on, then I'm offering'. I was so desperate at the time, that the chance to pour my heart out, even to some random stranger on IC, was a lifeline. He wasn't the only one I memo'd about what I was going through, but he was the only one who offered advice that actually made a significant difference to my problems. In fact, I think it's quite possible that his advice might have saved my marriage, which is quite bizarre under the circumstances!
It was I, not him, who asked if we could meet in person. He treated me much as you might a scared rescue dog - with patience, gentleness, and kind generosity. And I responded to it - god, did I need someone to just carry my burdens for a little while, so I could rest. I was so lost. I got so lost. But I was so, so afraid. I'd barely lived through my previous break-up, and was terrified of being hurt again. I kept running scared...but still, that patience, gentleness and kindness, even in the face of being pushed away, time and time again, remained one of the few consistent things in my life, at that point.
Then the day came when I stopped pushing him away. And fuck - how I wanted him. Desired him. Needed him - not just sexually, but the person that he is, what he gives to me, how he makes me feel, about him, about myself, about the world. The world is...softer...because he is in it.
When we started playing, it was in a very different way from how I was used to. I worried we wouldn't be compatible, couldn't, or wouldn't, meet each other's needs. I couldn't have been more wrong. I have never felt such a perfect sense of 'match' in a partner, sexually. Over time, it has become less and less, something that can be described as 'play'. One scene merges into another, and suddenly - it's not sexual role-play anymore. It's just the way we are, together. And I have never, NEVER, felt such a burning desire to couple with someone.
A week or so ago, he came to see me at my house. It was only for the evening, I was tired, he was tired, we expected only to cuddle and maybe just talk, kiss, be soft with each other. He knocked on my door - I opened it, and he was wearing a thick leather trenchcoat. I've got....a bit of a 'thing' for leather trenchcoats, so my eyes lit up on sight. And frankly, seeing M in one...my god, the man *IS* sex personified. He came in, and before we'd even gone up the stairs in the corridor, he made me come, noisily, messily (in the echo chamber that is our corridor, right above the downstairs flat's kitchen). Twice.
We ended up in a sweaty, tumbled heap on my bed, via the sofa, the floor, the walls... Instead of fighting him, defiant shouting, swearing, kicking, slapping or shoving, this time I just...submitted. He took what he wanted from me - and I gave it. With difficulty. Some of the things he was choosing to make me do were hard - physically, and emotionally. Humiliating. Shameful. But I was so frightened that he would punish me more if I refused, or denied him - frightened that I wouldn't be able to take the punishment, and also frightened that I would displease him.
I don't think it's accurate to say that I have never truly submitted before this time - and yet, something new did happen. Perhaps there are levels of submission, and this took me deeper - far deeper into that space - than I had ever been before. It made something inside me be....not broken anymore. As I lay in his arms afterwards, and he put my pieces back together, I became something a little more whole than I was before.
Just a few days later, we saw each other again. In our fierce need for each other, we kissed, falling on each other with starved haste, and as we started to become more intense my anger flaired - never suppressed for long. Defiantly I shoved him off me - he shoved back harder. I fought and struggled - he overwhelmed me. He pinned me down, then let me go, free to move as I wanted to, while he spanked me. He struck me - I slapped him in the face. He struck me again - I slapped him again. Then the anger inside him exploded to meet mine - he held me down and beat me over and over again, his sweat hitting my face in droplets, along with the spittle from each expelled word. Shocked, I lay unmoving as he tossed me aside onto the floor, and walked away.
When he returned and put a knife to my throat, ripping my head back by the roots of my hair, a hot, burning fear jolted through me. I felt sick with terror, ill with it. A deep and primal dread pulsed back and forth through my body as he ran the knife over my back, and when he told me to stay still and not move, I had no thought other than to obey...there were no thoughts in me, only reaction. He beat me so hard I almost couldn't take it - it was pushing my limits, and the pain made me cry out, scream, beg, and then sob, soaking the fabric under my face with tears, hot and full of release. He held the knife to my throat one last time, and just as I thought I couldn't take any more, he held me, and stroked me, and made me safe again. I sobbed piteously for a long time - a very long time. And when it was all over, all gone, I felt....clean. Scrubbed new and shining. Light, and more than light - golden.
Later, as he took more of what he wanted, I gushed for the first time in my life. I used to find it so hard to come - I even warned him before we first played together, that it was hard for me, and infrequent, and took a long time. Now, I lose count of how many orgasms he's given me, every single time we're together. I felt safe enough this time, ready enough, to ask him if I could make myself come while he watched. Not only was I given permission, I was reassured that it was okay to ask, that it was a good thing, and I realised I would not be laughed at, or ignored, or that he would just tolerate it but be bored as I'd feared.
We went out for the evening, and were walking back through a little used side street when he pushed me up against a lamppost, kissing me. As we became more passionate, little flashes of consciousness that we were in a public place, intruded. Every time I looked around, to see who was in the alleyway, or walking past it, he turned my face back to him. He was controlling what I could see, and my mind played tricks on me, not knowing whether the echo of heels on the pavement was a few yards away, or in the next street.
He pulled my knickers down - fucked me with his fingers - pulled my knickers down MORE so they were below the level of what little modesty was preserved by my coat - finger fucked me again - took my knickers off completely and put them in his pocket - brought me to orgasm - very loudly - and finally, supported my body until the shudders left me. I asked him if I could pull my skirt down - I was clasped in his arms in my heels, fishnet stockings, yanked up skirt and no knickers, in a public street, curtained only from view by my undone coat, and his body. He said 'let me look', in a soft, firm voice, and backed away a few paces. I'll never forget the sight of him, his coat framing his muscular body, his eyes drinking in my naked and moistened thighs. My face was turned to one side, I couldn't meet his eyes, my cheeks burning. Then he let me cover myself, and we walked - with him holding me as I struggled to walk, my legs shaky, my face flushed, my eyes shining in the dark.
We made it to the pub for a quick drink, and curled up together on the sofas on which we had sat when we first met. We talked, stroked, kissed...he got hard, I got wet. I wanted him - and I told him so. He threatened to take me outside to the smoking area, and fuck me bent over the grimy table in the beer garden, if I wasn't careful, and didn't stop taunting him - but I continued to tease. And then with careful deliberation he folded our coats and tucked them out of sight, and led me by my hand to follow him. There was no thought in my mind to refuse - I could have as easily stopped my heart beating, as told him no.
Against my expectations, he led me into the toilets instead - the urinals stank of stale male urine, the floor was dirty, the walls scrawled with meaningless graffitied swearwords over the red paint. He took me into a cubicle, where I knelt on the floor at his will. Afterwards, he told me to stay there while he checked outside, then led me back onto the sofas again, to reclaim our seats. Then he held me - and my body sank into his like a physical manifestation of my submission. My very flesh submits to his. He told me once, that it's almost as though all of my body is submissive - that as he pushes himself inside me, his tongue into my mouth, his fingers into my pussy, he sinks in so easily, just taking what he wants. That's how it feels to me, as well.
And that is what he did to me, with me - as we sat on the sofas together, in full view of the foreign student couple seated at the sofa in the other half of the 'L-shape' from us. As they talked, the unknown words of their conversation provided a dream-like quality to this already surreal evening. He sat upright, I lay sprawled in his lap, facing him, his arms around me. Slowly he slid a hand under my skirts, encountering my soaked and slippery cunt. No knickers impeded his fingers - they were still tucked out of sight in his pocket from when he took them away from me earlier. Slowly and deliberately, he brought me to a silent climax that was almost unbearable, so hard did I have to work not to cry out. I gushed over his hand again...
Despite the intensity, the transcendent, all-encompassing nature of the experiences I have with him, unlike other lovers I have had, I do not find him draining or emotionally exhausting. I do not spend many hours in tears because of him, or troubled in my mind. He is so....*easy* to be with, someone I would want in my life as a friend, even if I never touched him again. But oh, how I need to touch him. It is almost impossible for me to be in his presence, and not to be touching him, and more. I cry less, I worry less, I angst less...because he is in my life. The only other person I've ever met who caused that effect, rather than the opposite, I ended up marrying. I wake up every day and think how lucky I am, to have two such special people give me their love, in such completely different ways, but ultimately two people I can hold in my heart to adore.
I almost don't know where to start. I've had so many new experiences...been to so many new places in my head in the last couple of weeks, that it's just blown my mind. I need a bit of time to reflect and process what has happened to me, in the best way I know how - write it out, pour it out, let myself organise and frame this personal history in a way in which I can understand it.
Back in November, I contacted M on informedconsent.com (IC) - because his profile struck a chord with me. Something about it, I don't even know what, spoke to me, and resonated. I contacted a few people from IC around that time, in the wake of a relationship break-up - I think it's very common to start searching for something to replace what you've lost, long before you're ready.
I never chat online with people I don't know. I prefer to memo back and forth, and within a few memos-worth of conversation I usually know whether I want to take it forward or not. I tend to go with my gut instinct, and all but a couple of IC'ers got excluded on the grounds of just not being what I was looking for, bad writing skills, bad attitude, or hideousness in the photo department.
M though, stood out right from the beginning. But I wasn't ready. I felt strongly drawn to him, but my instincts were saying 'no' - and I think now, that they were GOOD instincts, because if I'd gone forward with it at that time, I would have blown the chance to connect with someone, so damaged still as I was from the ending of my previous relationship. I needed to give myself time to heal, and let go. So I told him 'no'. He took this rejection in the most gentlemanly fashion, asking me only that I would promise to get in touch, should I change my mind.
A few weeks later, I was still going through a really tough time. I blogged on IC as normal, struggling to make sense of my messy head. He got in touch again - not in a predatory 'brilliant, you're a bit fucked up, can I have a go on you?' sort of way, but in a 'listen, I know you're not into me in *that* way, but if you want someone to vent to, or offer advice, or just be here for you to offload on, then I'm offering'. I was so desperate at the time, that the chance to pour my heart out, even to some random stranger on IC, was a lifeline. He wasn't the only one I memo'd about what I was going through, but he was the only one who offered advice that actually made a significant difference to my problems. In fact, I think it's quite possible that his advice might have saved my marriage, which is quite bizarre under the circumstances!
It was I, not him, who asked if we could meet in person. He treated me much as you might a scared rescue dog - with patience, gentleness, and kind generosity. And I responded to it - god, did I need someone to just carry my burdens for a little while, so I could rest. I was so lost. I got so lost. But I was so, so afraid. I'd barely lived through my previous break-up, and was terrified of being hurt again. I kept running scared...but still, that patience, gentleness and kindness, even in the face of being pushed away, time and time again, remained one of the few consistent things in my life, at that point.
Then the day came when I stopped pushing him away. And fuck - how I wanted him. Desired him. Needed him - not just sexually, but the person that he is, what he gives to me, how he makes me feel, about him, about myself, about the world. The world is...softer...because he is in it.
When we started playing, it was in a very different way from how I was used to. I worried we wouldn't be compatible, couldn't, or wouldn't, meet each other's needs. I couldn't have been more wrong. I have never felt such a perfect sense of 'match' in a partner, sexually. Over time, it has become less and less, something that can be described as 'play'. One scene merges into another, and suddenly - it's not sexual role-play anymore. It's just the way we are, together. And I have never, NEVER, felt such a burning desire to couple with someone.
A week or so ago, he came to see me at my house. It was only for the evening, I was tired, he was tired, we expected only to cuddle and maybe just talk, kiss, be soft with each other. He knocked on my door - I opened it, and he was wearing a thick leather trenchcoat. I've got....a bit of a 'thing' for leather trenchcoats, so my eyes lit up on sight. And frankly, seeing M in one...my god, the man *IS* sex personified. He came in, and before we'd even gone up the stairs in the corridor, he made me come, noisily, messily (in the echo chamber that is our corridor, right above the downstairs flat's kitchen). Twice.
We ended up in a sweaty, tumbled heap on my bed, via the sofa, the floor, the walls... Instead of fighting him, defiant shouting, swearing, kicking, slapping or shoving, this time I just...submitted. He took what he wanted from me - and I gave it. With difficulty. Some of the things he was choosing to make me do were hard - physically, and emotionally. Humiliating. Shameful. But I was so frightened that he would punish me more if I refused, or denied him - frightened that I wouldn't be able to take the punishment, and also frightened that I would displease him.
I don't think it's accurate to say that I have never truly submitted before this time - and yet, something new did happen. Perhaps there are levels of submission, and this took me deeper - far deeper into that space - than I had ever been before. It made something inside me be....not broken anymore. As I lay in his arms afterwards, and he put my pieces back together, I became something a little more whole than I was before.
Just a few days later, we saw each other again. In our fierce need for each other, we kissed, falling on each other with starved haste, and as we started to become more intense my anger flaired - never suppressed for long. Defiantly I shoved him off me - he shoved back harder. I fought and struggled - he overwhelmed me. He pinned me down, then let me go, free to move as I wanted to, while he spanked me. He struck me - I slapped him in the face. He struck me again - I slapped him again. Then the anger inside him exploded to meet mine - he held me down and beat me over and over again, his sweat hitting my face in droplets, along with the spittle from each expelled word. Shocked, I lay unmoving as he tossed me aside onto the floor, and walked away.
When he returned and put a knife to my throat, ripping my head back by the roots of my hair, a hot, burning fear jolted through me. I felt sick with terror, ill with it. A deep and primal dread pulsed back and forth through my body as he ran the knife over my back, and when he told me to stay still and not move, I had no thought other than to obey...there were no thoughts in me, only reaction. He beat me so hard I almost couldn't take it - it was pushing my limits, and the pain made me cry out, scream, beg, and then sob, soaking the fabric under my face with tears, hot and full of release. He held the knife to my throat one last time, and just as I thought I couldn't take any more, he held me, and stroked me, and made me safe again. I sobbed piteously for a long time - a very long time. And when it was all over, all gone, I felt....clean. Scrubbed new and shining. Light, and more than light - golden.
Later, as he took more of what he wanted, I gushed for the first time in my life. I used to find it so hard to come - I even warned him before we first played together, that it was hard for me, and infrequent, and took a long time. Now, I lose count of how many orgasms he's given me, every single time we're together. I felt safe enough this time, ready enough, to ask him if I could make myself come while he watched. Not only was I given permission, I was reassured that it was okay to ask, that it was a good thing, and I realised I would not be laughed at, or ignored, or that he would just tolerate it but be bored as I'd feared.
We went out for the evening, and were walking back through a little used side street when he pushed me up against a lamppost, kissing me. As we became more passionate, little flashes of consciousness that we were in a public place, intruded. Every time I looked around, to see who was in the alleyway, or walking past it, he turned my face back to him. He was controlling what I could see, and my mind played tricks on me, not knowing whether the echo of heels on the pavement was a few yards away, or in the next street.
He pulled my knickers down - fucked me with his fingers - pulled my knickers down MORE so they were below the level of what little modesty was preserved by my coat - finger fucked me again - took my knickers off completely and put them in his pocket - brought me to orgasm - very loudly - and finally, supported my body until the shudders left me. I asked him if I could pull my skirt down - I was clasped in his arms in my heels, fishnet stockings, yanked up skirt and no knickers, in a public street, curtained only from view by my undone coat, and his body. He said 'let me look', in a soft, firm voice, and backed away a few paces. I'll never forget the sight of him, his coat framing his muscular body, his eyes drinking in my naked and moistened thighs. My face was turned to one side, I couldn't meet his eyes, my cheeks burning. Then he let me cover myself, and we walked - with him holding me as I struggled to walk, my legs shaky, my face flushed, my eyes shining in the dark.
We made it to the pub for a quick drink, and curled up together on the sofas on which we had sat when we first met. We talked, stroked, kissed...he got hard, I got wet. I wanted him - and I told him so. He threatened to take me outside to the smoking area, and fuck me bent over the grimy table in the beer garden, if I wasn't careful, and didn't stop taunting him - but I continued to tease. And then with careful deliberation he folded our coats and tucked them out of sight, and led me by my hand to follow him. There was no thought in my mind to refuse - I could have as easily stopped my heart beating, as told him no.
Against my expectations, he led me into the toilets instead - the urinals stank of stale male urine, the floor was dirty, the walls scrawled with meaningless graffitied swearwords over the red paint. He took me into a cubicle, where I knelt on the floor at his will. Afterwards, he told me to stay there while he checked outside, then led me back onto the sofas again, to reclaim our seats. Then he held me - and my body sank into his like a physical manifestation of my submission. My very flesh submits to his. He told me once, that it's almost as though all of my body is submissive - that as he pushes himself inside me, his tongue into my mouth, his fingers into my pussy, he sinks in so easily, just taking what he wants. That's how it feels to me, as well.
And that is what he did to me, with me - as we sat on the sofas together, in full view of the foreign student couple seated at the sofa in the other half of the 'L-shape' from us. As they talked, the unknown words of their conversation provided a dream-like quality to this already surreal evening. He sat upright, I lay sprawled in his lap, facing him, his arms around me. Slowly he slid a hand under my skirts, encountering my soaked and slippery cunt. No knickers impeded his fingers - they were still tucked out of sight in his pocket from when he took them away from me earlier. Slowly and deliberately, he brought me to a silent climax that was almost unbearable, so hard did I have to work not to cry out. I gushed over his hand again...
Despite the intensity, the transcendent, all-encompassing nature of the experiences I have with him, unlike other lovers I have had, I do not find him draining or emotionally exhausting. I do not spend many hours in tears because of him, or troubled in my mind. He is so....*easy* to be with, someone I would want in my life as a friend, even if I never touched him again. But oh, how I need to touch him. It is almost impossible for me to be in his presence, and not to be touching him, and more. I cry less, I worry less, I angst less...because he is in my life. The only other person I've ever met who caused that effect, rather than the opposite, I ended up marrying. I wake up every day and think how lucky I am, to have two such special people give me their love, in such completely different ways, but ultimately two people I can hold in my heart to adore.
Wednesday 24 February 2010
Blood, Sweat, Tears... and Cum
Before there is peace, blood will spill blood, and the lake will run red. ~ Erin Hunter
The body's own river, why is blood so bound up with emotion? The act of spilling my blood always increased the intensity of any play, tenfold. It has such power, is imbued with so much symbolism. The moment of being born, the imagined moment of our death, the very core of how we know we're alive - all these things are carried in our veins.
For women, blood spilt does not always mean an injury, or pain. We are comfortable with blood, in a way men are not, and can never be - just as we are comfortable with penetration.
But for blood to be taken in violence - that is taking away our power over our own bodies, something that should belong to us, and only us.
Don't feel entitled to anything you didn't sweat and struggle for. ~ Marian Wright Edelman
It's only in the last few months, I've become aware of what a visceral person I am. I've always known I'm a sensual, earthy person - I love to touch and be touched, to run my hands along the garden walls as I walk down the street, to feel the texture of leaves, bring my fingers close and breathe in the scent of rosemary, lavender, or rose. I want and need beautiful things around me, and I adore running my eyes over the curves of my female friends, drinking in their shape, their plump dimpled elbows, or slender pointed hip bones, with equal pleasure. The sound of my partner's orgasm can bring me to climax - voice and tone are essential to good sex, for me. I love to have texture and taste in my mouth, I want to experience my lover's body, I need to drink it in, drink it down.
I sometimes find myself 'scenting' people close to me, or those I'm drawn to. Something will trigger a need, and I will just rub my head, urgently, against them. I love it when people sweat - people who I want in my life. I want to cover myself in it, rub myself in it, sleep covered in it. I want to combine my scent with theirs, to make a group scent - pack.
What higher compliment can there be that someone thinks you are worth their toil, their sweat?
If I were to die and I could come back as anything, I would want to come back as one of your tears. What girl wouldn't want to be conceived in your heart, born in your eyes, live on your cheek, and die on your lips. ~ anon
Can there be any pleasure/pain more profound than being hurt by the one you love until you cry? Why are my tears so arousing to the one who's causing them? The vulnerability, the humiliation - shedding tears is normally something done in secret, a private thing, shared only with those most intimate with us. It is an action willingly chosen - crying..sobbing...these things are normally caused by events or people outside ourselves. We are not in control, when we cry.
I confess to sometimes putting on extra mascara and eyeliner in the knowledge that my eyes will start to run, as I choke on cock, or even better, my sobs and tears from pain will prettily blacken my face. I take an erotic pleasure from crying that is rooted in the sense of being exposed...opened...and not by choice.
When my friends and loved ones let me see them cry, I am honoured. They share with me a part of themselves that few others get to see, and I treasure it, and treat it with the respect it deserves.
The measure of your life will not be in what you accumulate, but in what you give away ~ Wayne Dyer
I am a cum whore. Unashamedly. I adore cum. Fresh, scalding hot spunk surging out of a man's balls, as he empties himself onto, or into me - if I haven't already orgasmed myself, there's a very good chance that will trigger it, just by sight and feel alone.
The taste of it - my god, why would anyone waste that? Spit or swallow - are you mad?! Who wouldn't want to drink down their lover's seed, carry it around inside them, deep in their belly, for as long as possible. Especially if you have to be apart afterwards...it's a way to keep a piece of your loved one with you, for a little longer.
I've never understood women who say they can't deep throat either. What does that mean? How can you not? Do they mean that they gag? Isn't that part of the fun?
I like to sleep clothed in a loved one's cum, wrapped in their sweat and their arms - the safest place I can be. It's beautiful - it's a beautiful thing.
The body's own river, why is blood so bound up with emotion? The act of spilling my blood always increased the intensity of any play, tenfold. It has such power, is imbued with so much symbolism. The moment of being born, the imagined moment of our death, the very core of how we know we're alive - all these things are carried in our veins.
For women, blood spilt does not always mean an injury, or pain. We are comfortable with blood, in a way men are not, and can never be - just as we are comfortable with penetration.
But for blood to be taken in violence - that is taking away our power over our own bodies, something that should belong to us, and only us.
Don't feel entitled to anything you didn't sweat and struggle for. ~ Marian Wright Edelman
It's only in the last few months, I've become aware of what a visceral person I am. I've always known I'm a sensual, earthy person - I love to touch and be touched, to run my hands along the garden walls as I walk down the street, to feel the texture of leaves, bring my fingers close and breathe in the scent of rosemary, lavender, or rose. I want and need beautiful things around me, and I adore running my eyes over the curves of my female friends, drinking in their shape, their plump dimpled elbows, or slender pointed hip bones, with equal pleasure. The sound of my partner's orgasm can bring me to climax - voice and tone are essential to good sex, for me. I love to have texture and taste in my mouth, I want to experience my lover's body, I need to drink it in, drink it down.
I sometimes find myself 'scenting' people close to me, or those I'm drawn to. Something will trigger a need, and I will just rub my head, urgently, against them. I love it when people sweat - people who I want in my life. I want to cover myself in it, rub myself in it, sleep covered in it. I want to combine my scent with theirs, to make a group scent - pack.
What higher compliment can there be that someone thinks you are worth their toil, their sweat?
If I were to die and I could come back as anything, I would want to come back as one of your tears. What girl wouldn't want to be conceived in your heart, born in your eyes, live on your cheek, and die on your lips. ~ anon
Can there be any pleasure/pain more profound than being hurt by the one you love until you cry? Why are my tears so arousing to the one who's causing them? The vulnerability, the humiliation - shedding tears is normally something done in secret, a private thing, shared only with those most intimate with us. It is an action willingly chosen - crying..sobbing...these things are normally caused by events or people outside ourselves. We are not in control, when we cry.
I confess to sometimes putting on extra mascara and eyeliner in the knowledge that my eyes will start to run, as I choke on cock, or even better, my sobs and tears from pain will prettily blacken my face. I take an erotic pleasure from crying that is rooted in the sense of being exposed...opened...and not by choice.
When my friends and loved ones let me see them cry, I am honoured. They share with me a part of themselves that few others get to see, and I treasure it, and treat it with the respect it deserves.
The measure of your life will not be in what you accumulate, but in what you give away ~ Wayne Dyer
I am a cum whore. Unashamedly. I adore cum. Fresh, scalding hot spunk surging out of a man's balls, as he empties himself onto, or into me - if I haven't already orgasmed myself, there's a very good chance that will trigger it, just by sight and feel alone.
The taste of it - my god, why would anyone waste that? Spit or swallow - are you mad?! Who wouldn't want to drink down their lover's seed, carry it around inside them, deep in their belly, for as long as possible. Especially if you have to be apart afterwards...it's a way to keep a piece of your loved one with you, for a little longer.
I've never understood women who say they can't deep throat either. What does that mean? How can you not? Do they mean that they gag? Isn't that part of the fun?
I like to sleep clothed in a loved one's cum, wrapped in their sweat and their arms - the safest place I can be. It's beautiful - it's a beautiful thing.
Sunday 14 February 2010
"Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance"
How I long to fall just a little bit, to dance out of the lines and stray from the light. ~Dar Williams
I thought I would spend the whole night dancing, but instead, he danced with me the weekend through.
He got here late, due to a combination of circumstance and misfortune. I was already stuck into the gin and ensconced at a kitchen party, when he arrived at my friend's house. The room was tiny, really I should have just sat and behaved...but I'm a bad, bad girl, and bad girls misbehave and smile while they're doing it...
I couldn't resist touching him, stroking him, I wanted his scent on me, I needed to reconnect after a week apart. I wanted to make him happy and mentally grimaced as I found myself not only opening bottles of beer for him and handing them to him - but drawing other people's attention to it. 'Look, look, see this powerful, muscular and charimatic man? I'm his!' My submissiveness made me angry at him, so I used every opportunity to let him know...digging my nails into his skin...glaring. I probably deserved what came later.
In the dingy little metal club, uninspired by the music (with so much potentially fantastic music to draw from, how is it possible to so epically fail at DJ'ing?!) I stayed off the dance floor. As I kissed a couple of friends of mine, leaning into their mouths, enjoying the whisper of their tongues on mine, I felt like a whore. And I smiled.
He reclaimed me with a hand inside my knickers, not even up against a wall or in a dark corner, just taking what was his. My eyes, shocked and slightly confused, taking in nothing but his face, became unfocused as my attention locked in to what he was doing to me. He took my first orgasm from me while I was standing, my body pressed against his for support, my cries unheard amid the pounding beat, my flushed face unseen by the press of the crowd as I buried my head in his shoulder.
Later, much later, he put his hand around my throat and made me pay for earlier. My back to the wall, he put his fingers inside my mouth and stretched it out, then pushed his hand further in until I started to gag. He let me breathe a little then continued...so erotic, so terrifying...I must have looked frightened enough that someone I didn't even know came up and checked we were okay, that I was okay. We smiled and he went on his way, happy at having done his duty.
The next day, exhausted, and (in my case) hideously hungover, we contented ourselves with just talking softly, and taking what we needed from each other - naked, skin-to-skin, gentle whispering strokes on my body, on his. Toast, tea, bath...everyday things, but special, so special because they were with him. Okay, so we might have played a tiny bit, too. ;-) The time disappeared again, as it always does.
We walked into town, had a drink and some dinner. I love to watch his face as he talks. I like having all his attention to myself, but I also enjoy watching him with other people...so charismatic, spell-bindingly so. People watch him, caught almost despite themselves in whatever story or anecdote he tells. He uses his hands to speak, more so than anyone else I know - and his hands, his arms, are so beautiful, so very....male.
Hand in hand, we walked back through town. If anyone saw us who shouldn't have done - who doesn't know I'm poly and wonders what I'm doing with a man who is not my husband - I find it hard to care. I forget myself, when I'm with him. I'm not as clumsy as I normally am, he makes me feel like I'm dancing, dancing all the time when I'm with him - a hip-swaying, heel strut of a dance, sinuous and dizzying.
We spent that night in a hotel together, playing. I don't know how many times I came that weekend, because I lost count. Each a little death, a little rebirth...I died a thousand times of love, that night for him. A strange kind of love, whose only flower petals are the bruises blooming on my skin, the poetry of which is whispered, 'whore.. you are MINE'.
I find myself hoping I've pleased him.
Covered in the smell of him, dazed with the lifetime of treasured moments collapsed into this tiny space of time, marked by the ruin he's made of my skin...I come together enough to assemble my public persona. Corsetted, heeled, and slightly unsteady, he carries my bag as we make our way to the car. Little things like this make me happy. Almost as much as having the shit beaten out of me. ;-)
We arrive at the London Alternative Market, and for a moment, I'm unsure. It's been a while since I've been to LAM, and I don't quite know what reception I'll get from friends of my ex. I needn't have worried - people are as friendly and welcoming as ever. I see lots of people I know, and enjoy catching up on the scurrilous gossip. I also meet someone I've only ever corresponded with on IC, and never met in the flesh, and am pleased to find he looks about twenty years younger in person, and tolerates my mild flirtation with good humour. God, I'm such a whore!
I can't take my eyes off the man I've come (and cum) with, though...of all the people there, I need his hands on me, his lips, so delicious to kiss, lick, and...bite. I probably deserved what happened later. Are you spotting a theme here? ;-)
We ambled around the market, picking up some interesting things to have fun with, and then taking some time out for food. The things he says to me, when we're alone, and with other people. I don't think anyone's ever paid me so many compliments...
When trouble came, in the form of a large group of loud, burly, vulgar men (let in through the door on strict instruction that they would have to leave when the downstairs closed in an hour), he sent me round the other side of the bar, and positioned himself where he could quietly calm matters if possible, and keep an eye on things. Unbeknownst to him, I was on the other side of the bar, keeping an eye on him! Although, as he pointed out when I told him this afterwards, I'm not sure what I would have done, had a massive fight kicked off...fallen over in my heels on them, possibly? Got my knockers out and distracted them? Fainted in my corset and landed on them?
All was well in the end and everyone ended up safely upstairs, the ignorant blokey blokes dispatched in a taxi with directions to the other side of london, courtesy of my young man *preens*.
And so then to the play which occupies a particularly special place in my mind, I think quite the most fulfilling and transcendent public play I've had to date. I wasn't sure we would play at all...the LAM afterparty can be quite a surprisingly unsexy and unatmospheric place, brightly lit and set up more like a school dinner hall rather than a sex club. Compounded by the fact you can't actually have any kind of penetrative sex in it, something I got a very gentle reminder/ warning about from Cosmic while I was sat on my dom's lap, legs open, flashing the room. Why I got told off, I really don't know - I'm not the one in charge!
We were sitting right at the back of the hall, where it was a little darker and more intimate. No-one else was up there, at that time, and so I don't know who saw, when he decided to make me pay for all the little scratches and bites I'd given him throughout the day. He dragged me off the chair by my throat, and threw me up against the wall, banging me into it again and again and again. I honestly thought we might crash through it at one point, as he lifted me onto my toes, choking me, pulling my hands above my head, or to the side, kissing me so deeply, and then slapping me as I pushed and struggled to get away from him.
He let go of my arms a few times and I used this opportunity to get a few blows in, with one very powerful slap to his face. I was furious...feral...channelling all the anger, all the frustration from a very difficult week. His face was transformed, like an animal, bestial, brutish. His colour darkened...when veins started to stand out on his face I knew I was in trouble. And still I hissed insults at him, uncaring that he would shout back at me, inches away from my face, his spit hitting my cheeks with the force of his words, vicious, degrading words, abusive words...words that got me even more soaking wet than I already was from his use of me.
He dragged me to my feet by my hair, and thrust through the crowd, his fingers digging deep into my arms, causing instant bruising. By my hair he pulled me, and then threw me over the piece of kit - a flat-bottomed barrel with restraint straps. He hauled up my skirts and started beating me in earnest. I fought free of him for long enough to slap him again, and he heaved me back over the barrel and held me down as I flailed wildly against him. He hit me so hard I gasped for breath, blows raining down, pouring over, onto me. And still I screamed. I swear there was a moment when I called him a fucking cunt at the top of my lungs, when the whole room took a breath. He tied me into the restraints and took out the thick crop-like whip he'd bought that day, that I had no idea he'd kept on his body. His rage showered down on me, and still I fought, spitting into his face, the moment he ceased to hold me down. He wrapped the body of the whip around my throat and spat into my face, I was terrified...I couldn't speak with my mouth, I let my eyes speak for me, instead. Then he smashed me back into the barrel, putting his full weight into holding me there, and he beat me, and beat me, and beat me, breaking me down, until finally, at last, at last, I could give in, give up, to him. Exhausted, I lay my head against the barrel and made little utterances of submission, murmuring that I was sorry, that I loved him, please...please...anything, take anything from me that you want.
And he did. He slowed, but continued to spank and beat me, and do whatever he fucking chose to, to me. Because he was in charge. I'd at long last, surrendered. He took some more from me...I wanted to give him everything - I wanted him to fuck me, over the barrel, with everyone watching, so that they could see I was his, his woman, his choice. All my rage, my thunderous fury, gone. When he'd finally finished, and he stopped because he wanted to, not because I wanted or needed him to, he lifted my dead weight up, and carried me over to the side of the room. He held me up against the wall, as I stroked his head, my eyes luminous in the dark, soft and loving, as he took me, kissing me, mauling the flesh he had just won, caressing my face.
He sat me on his lap, and we held each other, as if the world was ending, the cosmos turning to dust in the void, and us uncaring. The perfection of a newborn self glimpsed for a moment, shattered pieces of my soul collected one by one, an infinite jigsaw puzzle made whole, pressed back together again by the magic and the mystery, accomplished by the consummation of love through play.
Is it any wonder that I cry sometimes, from the sheer joy of it, afterwards?
And then he took me home, driving me all the way back to Brighton, before his own long journey home.
This is how it should be. Always, is too much to ask for. Sometimes, is enough, when it's as good as this.
Je vous remercie de tout coeur, mon loup.
I thought I would spend the whole night dancing, but instead, he danced with me the weekend through.
He got here late, due to a combination of circumstance and misfortune. I was already stuck into the gin and ensconced at a kitchen party, when he arrived at my friend's house. The room was tiny, really I should have just sat and behaved...but I'm a bad, bad girl, and bad girls misbehave and smile while they're doing it...
I couldn't resist touching him, stroking him, I wanted his scent on me, I needed to reconnect after a week apart. I wanted to make him happy and mentally grimaced as I found myself not only opening bottles of beer for him and handing them to him - but drawing other people's attention to it. 'Look, look, see this powerful, muscular and charimatic man? I'm his!' My submissiveness made me angry at him, so I used every opportunity to let him know...digging my nails into his skin...glaring. I probably deserved what came later.
In the dingy little metal club, uninspired by the music (with so much potentially fantastic music to draw from, how is it possible to so epically fail at DJ'ing?!) I stayed off the dance floor. As I kissed a couple of friends of mine, leaning into their mouths, enjoying the whisper of their tongues on mine, I felt like a whore. And I smiled.
He reclaimed me with a hand inside my knickers, not even up against a wall or in a dark corner, just taking what was his. My eyes, shocked and slightly confused, taking in nothing but his face, became unfocused as my attention locked in to what he was doing to me. He took my first orgasm from me while I was standing, my body pressed against his for support, my cries unheard amid the pounding beat, my flushed face unseen by the press of the crowd as I buried my head in his shoulder.
Later, much later, he put his hand around my throat and made me pay for earlier. My back to the wall, he put his fingers inside my mouth and stretched it out, then pushed his hand further in until I started to gag. He let me breathe a little then continued...so erotic, so terrifying...I must have looked frightened enough that someone I didn't even know came up and checked we were okay, that I was okay. We smiled and he went on his way, happy at having done his duty.
The next day, exhausted, and (in my case) hideously hungover, we contented ourselves with just talking softly, and taking what we needed from each other - naked, skin-to-skin, gentle whispering strokes on my body, on his. Toast, tea, bath...everyday things, but special, so special because they were with him. Okay, so we might have played a tiny bit, too. ;-) The time disappeared again, as it always does.
We walked into town, had a drink and some dinner. I love to watch his face as he talks. I like having all his attention to myself, but I also enjoy watching him with other people...so charismatic, spell-bindingly so. People watch him, caught almost despite themselves in whatever story or anecdote he tells. He uses his hands to speak, more so than anyone else I know - and his hands, his arms, are so beautiful, so very....male.
Hand in hand, we walked back through town. If anyone saw us who shouldn't have done - who doesn't know I'm poly and wonders what I'm doing with a man who is not my husband - I find it hard to care. I forget myself, when I'm with him. I'm not as clumsy as I normally am, he makes me feel like I'm dancing, dancing all the time when I'm with him - a hip-swaying, heel strut of a dance, sinuous and dizzying.
We spent that night in a hotel together, playing. I don't know how many times I came that weekend, because I lost count. Each a little death, a little rebirth...I died a thousand times of love, that night for him. A strange kind of love, whose only flower petals are the bruises blooming on my skin, the poetry of which is whispered, 'whore.. you are MINE'.
I find myself hoping I've pleased him.
Covered in the smell of him, dazed with the lifetime of treasured moments collapsed into this tiny space of time, marked by the ruin he's made of my skin...I come together enough to assemble my public persona. Corsetted, heeled, and slightly unsteady, he carries my bag as we make our way to the car. Little things like this make me happy. Almost as much as having the shit beaten out of me. ;-)
We arrive at the London Alternative Market, and for a moment, I'm unsure. It's been a while since I've been to LAM, and I don't quite know what reception I'll get from friends of my ex. I needn't have worried - people are as friendly and welcoming as ever. I see lots of people I know, and enjoy catching up on the scurrilous gossip. I also meet someone I've only ever corresponded with on IC, and never met in the flesh, and am pleased to find he looks about twenty years younger in person, and tolerates my mild flirtation with good humour. God, I'm such a whore!
I can't take my eyes off the man I've come (and cum) with, though...of all the people there, I need his hands on me, his lips, so delicious to kiss, lick, and...bite. I probably deserved what happened later. Are you spotting a theme here? ;-)
We ambled around the market, picking up some interesting things to have fun with, and then taking some time out for food. The things he says to me, when we're alone, and with other people. I don't think anyone's ever paid me so many compliments...
When trouble came, in the form of a large group of loud, burly, vulgar men (let in through the door on strict instruction that they would have to leave when the downstairs closed in an hour), he sent me round the other side of the bar, and positioned himself where he could quietly calm matters if possible, and keep an eye on things. Unbeknownst to him, I was on the other side of the bar, keeping an eye on him! Although, as he pointed out when I told him this afterwards, I'm not sure what I would have done, had a massive fight kicked off...fallen over in my heels on them, possibly? Got my knockers out and distracted them? Fainted in my corset and landed on them?
All was well in the end and everyone ended up safely upstairs, the ignorant blokey blokes dispatched in a taxi with directions to the other side of london, courtesy of my young man *preens*.
And so then to the play which occupies a particularly special place in my mind, I think quite the most fulfilling and transcendent public play I've had to date. I wasn't sure we would play at all...the LAM afterparty can be quite a surprisingly unsexy and unatmospheric place, brightly lit and set up more like a school dinner hall rather than a sex club. Compounded by the fact you can't actually have any kind of penetrative sex in it, something I got a very gentle reminder/ warning about from Cosmic while I was sat on my dom's lap, legs open, flashing the room. Why I got told off, I really don't know - I'm not the one in charge!
We were sitting right at the back of the hall, where it was a little darker and more intimate. No-one else was up there, at that time, and so I don't know who saw, when he decided to make me pay for all the little scratches and bites I'd given him throughout the day. He dragged me off the chair by my throat, and threw me up against the wall, banging me into it again and again and again. I honestly thought we might crash through it at one point, as he lifted me onto my toes, choking me, pulling my hands above my head, or to the side, kissing me so deeply, and then slapping me as I pushed and struggled to get away from him.
He let go of my arms a few times and I used this opportunity to get a few blows in, with one very powerful slap to his face. I was furious...feral...channelling all the anger, all the frustration from a very difficult week. His face was transformed, like an animal, bestial, brutish. His colour darkened...when veins started to stand out on his face I knew I was in trouble. And still I hissed insults at him, uncaring that he would shout back at me, inches away from my face, his spit hitting my cheeks with the force of his words, vicious, degrading words, abusive words...words that got me even more soaking wet than I already was from his use of me.
He dragged me to my feet by my hair, and thrust through the crowd, his fingers digging deep into my arms, causing instant bruising. By my hair he pulled me, and then threw me over the piece of kit - a flat-bottomed barrel with restraint straps. He hauled up my skirts and started beating me in earnest. I fought free of him for long enough to slap him again, and he heaved me back over the barrel and held me down as I flailed wildly against him. He hit me so hard I gasped for breath, blows raining down, pouring over, onto me. And still I screamed. I swear there was a moment when I called him a fucking cunt at the top of my lungs, when the whole room took a breath. He tied me into the restraints and took out the thick crop-like whip he'd bought that day, that I had no idea he'd kept on his body. His rage showered down on me, and still I fought, spitting into his face, the moment he ceased to hold me down. He wrapped the body of the whip around my throat and spat into my face, I was terrified...I couldn't speak with my mouth, I let my eyes speak for me, instead. Then he smashed me back into the barrel, putting his full weight into holding me there, and he beat me, and beat me, and beat me, breaking me down, until finally, at last, at last, I could give in, give up, to him. Exhausted, I lay my head against the barrel and made little utterances of submission, murmuring that I was sorry, that I loved him, please...please...anything, take anything from me that you want.
And he did. He slowed, but continued to spank and beat me, and do whatever he fucking chose to, to me. Because he was in charge. I'd at long last, surrendered. He took some more from me...I wanted to give him everything - I wanted him to fuck me, over the barrel, with everyone watching, so that they could see I was his, his woman, his choice. All my rage, my thunderous fury, gone. When he'd finally finished, and he stopped because he wanted to, not because I wanted or needed him to, he lifted my dead weight up, and carried me over to the side of the room. He held me up against the wall, as I stroked his head, my eyes luminous in the dark, soft and loving, as he took me, kissing me, mauling the flesh he had just won, caressing my face.
He sat me on his lap, and we held each other, as if the world was ending, the cosmos turning to dust in the void, and us uncaring. The perfection of a newborn self glimpsed for a moment, shattered pieces of my soul collected one by one, an infinite jigsaw puzzle made whole, pressed back together again by the magic and the mystery, accomplished by the consummation of love through play.
Is it any wonder that I cry sometimes, from the sheer joy of it, afterwards?
And then he took me home, driving me all the way back to Brighton, before his own long journey home.
This is how it should be. Always, is too much to ask for. Sometimes, is enough, when it's as good as this.
Je vous remercie de tout coeur, mon loup.
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