Wednesday 31 March 2010

Even the Heart Must Pause to Breathe

"Then I will tell you a great secret, Captain. Perhaps the greatest of all time. The molecules of your body are the same molecules that make up this station, and the nebula outside, that burn inside the stars themselves. We are starstuff. We are the universe made manifest, trying to figure itself out. And as we have both learned, sometimes the universe requires a change of perspective." - Delenn, Babylon 5

Moments of transition, caught in amber...

He stripped me down to underwear - bra, stockings and suspenders, heels. Knickers roughly pulled down to mid-thigh. He likes to leave them there. Sometimes while he's fucking me. Sometimes just to look at me while I blush. He shoved a crumpled note in my bra, called me a whore. Told me to earn my money. Told me he wanted change. He took me bent over a table in the window of the cheap hotel - lights on, curtains open, dark outside. He likes to fuck me where other people can see. Sometimes he is proud of his whore.

He buggered me. Hard. I learned I like it really rough. I moan the loudest when he's hammering his cock into my ass. It hurts. I relish the pain.

He forced a brutal dildo into me - not far, it was too big, I couldn't take very much. He violated me, I was open, stretched. I tried - I tried my best. I wanted to please him.

We slept. We slept through hunger, physical needs, pain - for hours and hours and hours. Held in his arms, re-breathing his breath. He breaks me, then remakes me, soothes my tears, returns me to his perfect whore, his fucktoy, his beloved, his cherished and treasured precious thing. I am loved. I am protected. He shelters me from myself - keeps my heart warm and safe.

There were things I wanted to call him - words that came to mind while we were fucking; not at any other time. Strange, unsettling. Something seen through a mist. Glimpses. I said things - things I shouldn't, or thought that I shouldn't. Later, it terrified me. Veins full of bleaching, burning cold, thirsting, yearning, uncomfortable. I slept, talked, breathed, recovered.

We went to the Club With No Name together. He broke me into pieces. I was drunk with pain, delicious, like being smashed on champagne.

Very late at night. I need to sleep with his cum inside me. In the darkness, silence, muffled sounds. We shouldn't be doing this - if we get caught it'll be hell to pay. I can't not - I need him.

How strange that I should seek this out, this recreation of a source of damage. Quiet, I strain to see clearly, struggle to make sense of the images refracted through dense black fluid - a shadowgraph. Words pour out from us both, words I never thought to hear, speak, relearn. Photographs on an inky lake float to the surface, stained and torn. I collapse into myself - my implosion is not catastrophic, but chaotic.

I need space to re-order, reflect. Tell myself to stop, breathe, take perspective. It doesn't work - I fall, I fall hard. Pieces of myself fly outward, shattered. I try to collect them, but there are too many - I can't hold them all in my hands. I need time and space to curl up into, so the broken pieces won't fall too far from where I'm laying. I'm afraid that when I hit the bottom of this rocky cave, more will smash, and it will take time, too much time, to remake me. I'm frightened. I'm damaged, filled with fault lines, I smash more easily, more explosively, than others. I'll never be whole, unbroken. I'll always be at risk of falling.

It doesn't matter. I find I have a safety net. I have two loved ones who catch me. Neither of them give a damn that I am breakable. At such times I fear their love - I fear my tears will wash it away, like drawings in the sand, transitory, ephemeral. I fear to tread on it in case I fall into quicksand. But instead, their care is a wall made of diamond rock. A strong, shining thing, in which I shelter for a while. They see my fault lines as a reason to hold me for longer, not push me away. Instead of a flawed thing to be discarded, a mistake, I become like pottery with crackle glaze.

It still takes me some time to make repairs. We do quiet things. Hold hands across the restaurant table. I sleep, curled up against him, while he watches a film. I am shaky, still. He guards the den while I lick my wounds.

I am regathering myself like drumming tatters wrapped tight. He makes me ride him, he makes me use his cock like a dildo. He fucks me in the arse while I hold another dildo in my pussy. I can barely take it - the shame is stretching me more than the physical act. I hate to engage actively in my own pleasure, when I am with him. I hate to touch myself in front of him, use toys on my own body, hold things in place. My body was made for pleasure, yes - but his pleasure, not my own. When I am with him I should be, want to be, touching him, not myself. To do otherwise draws deep on my shyness, makes me feel shamed and mortified. Yet I am able to endure it because he is in charge - forcing me to abuse myself, strangely I take my satisfaction from his, which he takes from mine, yet he knows I hate it so. It is the same when he tells me to just let him look at me. Standing with my skirt pulled up to my waist, knickers pulled to the side or level with my stocking tops, slutty, dishevelled, flushed - I cannot even look back at him, I just want to hide, but he won't let me.

We went to Sweet Torments - I am feeling confident and go in my underwear, not even bothering to put on the dress I had brought with me, whore that I am. He chooses to cuff me to a bar which is then winched above my head. He hits me, he spanks me, he takes what he wants from me, with fingers and tongue. The pain is cleansing, liberating. I am alive.

I want him - I can't stop touching him. I really want to fuck - I want it hard, deep, pounding. He lets me sit in the quiet space away from people, so I can have a little time for the chemicals flooding my body to clear. I am high still. He keeps my knickers in his pocket - I don't ask for them back. I want them, I am horribly exposed when we go to the bar, coat notwithstanding. I can't imagine asking him for them; he'll put them back on me when he wants them back on me. It's not for me to choose, no matter how I flush, knowing there are people, people who I know, who can see my pussy, see that I'm wet, that there's satin liquid on my thighs. Because of the man who stands next to me. And everyone knows. I'm filled with shame, hot with it.

When he's ready, he allows me to step back into my panties. We play again, harder this time. I am insatiable with rage, anger seems an endless supply, I wonder if it will ever wash me clean or if it will still leave a pool inside me. But his hand and his crop scourges me empty. Exhausted, I still want him. We have drained each other dry, and then fill each other again - vessels for the other's soul.

A last moment before travelling home tore me away: in the back of his car, a sweet treat for me, to comfort me because I'd been so sad. There wasn't time, there is never enough time, but still - I needed so badly to have him in my mouth. And he let me, he let me take that one last chance to have something of his, inside some part of me. A comforting thing, the taste and smell and texture of my loved one, a memory that that I wanted - needed - to carry home with me. I was so grateful he had listened to my pleading and begging, and given me what I asked for, what I needed. So very content and happy, and grateful, to be allowed to comfort myself in this way before leaving him.

Thursday 18 March 2010

"Quiero hacer contigo lo que primavera hace con los cerazos." - Pablo Neruda

When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us. - Helen Keller

The last two weeks have contained such significant steps on my journey into my sexuality, I can't not mark them by writing about them, but whether I can do justice to them, I really do not know.

When I reach back with my mind to a year ago, and meeting my first girlfriend, playing for the first time, I can see now that she didn't want me to go on a journey - it frightened, threatened her. She wanted to keep me in the same place, close to her - and it was stifling and claustrophobic. She wanted to clip my wings.

Being with M as I am now, I feel as if he's taught me how to fly. He doesn't want to keep me in a cage, he wants to show me things, show me the world, show me what my body is capable of - and my heart. He loves me unselfishly, generously - it is a love without walls or bars.

My heart stills fears, and my fear still tells my heart this happiness can't last, it's too good, I will lose it someday - but strangely, for once, instead of making me want to pull away in fright at what may come, I'm able to savour this for what it gives me right now, to treasure each moment while I have it. To roll in it, lick it up, smear it all over me, wear it like a dress, to not let the fear of future hurt taint the current joy.

I've had some novel, profound, and intense sexual experiences during the last year. I've made love with women, been raped with a strap-on, enjoyed pain, experienced bondage, played in public, had my clothes cut off with a knife, opened up my marriage, kissed, touched and played with men, been in a triad relationship and slept between two lovers, discovered rough sex, oral rape, and what it feels like when another person makes you come - but until two weeks ago, I had never been fucked by a man.

I've made love, I've had sex - good and bad, and I've never done either of these things with a man I wasn't in love with, and in a relationship with, and who I believed loved me. But I've never been...taken. I've never been used....fucked...I've never had anyone just stick their fucking dick in me and empty their balls into me, with their own pleasure forefront in mind.

I am his whore, and he can do anything, anywhere, anytime, however we wants to, with me. I trust in him not to abuse this. Through this power exchange, I am empowered. I have never felt so deliciously that I owned my own sexuality - instead of fighting against my body, I am centered within it.

I have, at many times in my life, felt disempowered. Out of touch with my body, as if my past is a wound, my body the enemy without, my mind struggling to wrench control and force it to do what I want it to do. Coming into my sexuality late as I have, allows me to appreciate the sense of joy in becoming one with my body. I learned to orgasm only a few years ago, and until recently each climax was a struggle to pull forth something which my body and the blank places in my mind sought to deny me.

To have a lover so skilled as to reverse this, is a revelation. To have one who loves me, who I love, who is so kind and gentle with me yet so violent and enraged (and engaged), and dominant in the best possible ways - is a wonder.

I knew that he would love me, whether he ever fucked me or not. I knew he would never pressure me, or ask, or demand. I wanted to give him my trust, and my body - I wanted there to be nothing he couldn't do to me, nothing he had to hold himself back from. I wanted to give him everything.

I was terrified. I've been with my husband (R) for nearly 15 years and this is the first full sex with a man I've had in all that time, outside of my marriage. R and I agreed limits when I first began playing with men, limits that, one by one, opened up. I don't go into detail about what level of intimacy I have with M, when discussing our relationships with R, because R has asked me not to. Despite knowing I had R's full permission to do whatever I chose to with my body, it was still a huge thing, a momentous thing, to offer myself to another man in this way.

M tried his best not to terrorise me, and succeeded, although I terrified myself quite successfully. We had a hotel room booked in london and plans to go to antichrist - my decision was quite a last minute thing, and when I met him there, seeing him again was like a physical blow. I needed - NEEDED - to touch him, I wanted to crawl inside his coat and melt into his skin. As we fell into each other, he began to take control of me - and I gave to him. I submitted to his choices of where to put me, how he wanted me. I reveled in it, relished it. At first I was fighting him, then I was moving with him, seeking to pour my heart and soul into moving my body so as to give him the most possible pleasure.

I was wet before I even got through the door of the hotel room, let alone by the time he touched me, and by the time he slid inside, I was soaking for him, just covered in sticky wetness all over my thighs. He was...AMAZING...and although I had already discovered how much, how easily, how quickly, he makes me come, I surprised even myself this night. I came four times on his cock, the last as he was shooting his spunk inside me. My pussy fought him for control, clutching at him so intensely it almost pushed him out. Still hard, he took my arse, slamming into me as I locked my gaze with his - shocked, adoring, wondering.

It was so new, so intense - there aren't words. The only way I can explain what happened to my mind, is to show you - this is what it must have looked like inside my head.

And completely unexpectedly, without understanding what was happening or noticing, as I sit here writing this, choosing that link, I find my eyes are wet. I am crying with the fierceness of the emotion, as my body remembers these profound and transcendent moments.

Afterwards, we held each other, mingled in sweat and cum, lust and love, his scent and a part of him, both inside me, to keep close and safe, and on me, to mark and wear with pride, I struggled to find the desire to tear myself away from him for long enough to get ready to go out.

I was so shaken and uninhibited in my happiness, my contentment, that I almost felt lost when I went into Club Antichrist. I clung to M, scent and fluid bonded to him; he was my shield from the noise and brightness and overpowering sense of people, crushed into a small room. I was so...open...that only he could protect me from the feeling of other people - their needs, desires, thoughts and feelings, scent, sound, touch - invading my personal space. I was happy and enjoyed myself all the time he was touching me, but when he was not, I felt...lost. He grounded me, providing a centre of gravity around which I could move.

The urge to play got the better of me - I had been fucked that night, fucked good and hard - but I needed a beating too. I batted my eyelashes at M until he was in the mood to deliver some violence to me. The dungeon was set up in a small room with two exits, both onto dancefloors, and no space to recover. In hindsight it wasn't a very good place to play, but we were both too overcome with lust to stop ourselves. The crowd pressed in on all sides, separated from the players by a ring of barriers. There was something almost gladatorial about it, or like high greek theatre.I was wearing the most touchable, strokeable, eye candy of wrist and ankle cuffs that M had bought me - patent black on the outside with soft purple suede inside. As he dragged me through the crowd, shouldering onlookers out of the way, he was more than capable of slamming me onto the st andrews's cross, and clipping my cuffs to each point, despite my struggles.

We played hard - he marked me well. With the onset of pain my anger erupted, as it always does. Each outburst was accompanied by some physical manifestation of my rage - I shook the cross, I spat in his face, I screamed at him, swore, told him to get the fuck off me and leave him alone. I tried to kick him, break out of the cuffs, and snarled at him. He met, matched, and exceeded each of my explosions of fury with his own - he sweated with passion, so heavily drops fell on me, he spat back in my face, he yanked my hair so far back I was nearly bent double. Veins stood out on his forehead as he smashed me, again and again, with his hands, with his whip. And still, my anger kept boiling over, despite the pain. And then he covered my face with his hand, closed my mouth and pinched my nose shut. After that I gave in to him, I slumped in the cuffs and took what he gave me. No-one watching was left in any doubt that I...was...his...

Afterwards M found the quietest place for me to be, and held me wrapped close in his arms, but the noise, the light - it was still too much. And I couldn't bear to me around people again, almost as if the play had destroyed the very last of my physical and emotional barriers. Gradually they rebuilt as I recovered, and at last I could sit and float, as he protectively sheltered me until I was ready to explore again.

I danced - only a little, and with some effort, as part of me was still floating. I danced with M, and we kissed...kissed some more...and then I wanted him. I indicated that I would like to explore inside the couples darkroom, and he took me there. He led me in by my hand, I was suddenly a little shy and felt gauche. I couldn't meet anyone's eyes, the room seemed a montage of fucking and sucking, low light and deep beat. Melting flickers of pornographic images met my view as I gazed around. He fucked me - then he chose to use his fingers in me. Again, and again, and again. Something happened to my body...I remember lying back in a leather chair, my legs apart, him between them. As I came, there was suddenly liquid everywhere - soaking into my dress, running into my fishnets, splashing with the force of his fingers smashing in and out of me, splashing into his face, splashing into mine! I looked at him, I don't remember asking but my eyes must have held so many questions. I didn't know what was happening to me, and I thought...I thought something incredibly humiliating had occured, something I can't even bear to write down here now. I expected him to look back at me with either concern, or possibly, pride, confidence, knowledge. Instead his face was...crackling with energy, determination, a kind of shock, longing, passion. He looked like the maniac who would come screaming into your home at night to tear you up with a chainsaw. But none of this could stop me from coming, and coming, and coming - it made me more drawn into the intensity of the climax, and I couldn't stop, I was ashamed and afraid and I just...could...not...stop...his fingers worked in me over and over and still, every time I came, this liquid...everywhere. He re-positioned me so that I was sat on his lap with my legs wide open, my knickers tucked in his pocket, his fingers in me, and still, although everyone could see my shame, he pumped me until even more liquid gushed out, soaking his leather trousers, the chair, the floor...I was beyond caring, and yet I did care, I was horrified, and yet, and yet...he stood me up, bent over a sofa, my legs spread as he told me to, and for the fifth and final time he made me come, as liquid splashed onto the ground. I was mortified, completely put to shame, I felt debased - and at the same time, liberated, swept up, flying.

Then, he finally let me rest, and held me as I sat on his lap, struggling in as close as I possibly could, curling up into a ball, hiding my head in his shoulder. I wanted to ask - what was it? What just happened to me? What did you do to me? But I couldn't. I kept beginning the words, but then I couldn't, because asking met admitting what I was afraid had happened. It couldn't be cum - surely women just don't? I've heard of female ejaculation, but not that much, surely? It smelled, tasted, looked like cum - but...surely instead I had done something disgusting? In the end I found the courage to speak up. He petted me and reassured me and held me, told me that despite my fears, something amazing had happened, cuddled me until I felt safe again. I cannot remember the last time, as an adult, that I felt such a sense of...wonder. It was a revelation. A sexual epiphany.

It was like a dream, not real; a segment of time outside time where things were not as they seemed, and yet were more real than most of us ever get to experience. I was dazed, adrift in sensations from my body and mind, of pain, and pleasure, harmonising as one to create something so heart-touching my whole spirit responded by resonating in sympathy.

After a time of glorious contentment we rose, and made our way slowly home. As we walked through the streets, in the quiet time after sunrise, before most inhabitants of the city are awake, I felt that we'd somehow slipped into an altered world, where everything looks the same, yet is different, touched by meaning, changed because *I* was changed. Because *we* were changed.

My dress, slutty at best, rose even higher as we walked the pavements and the tube stations. I could have asked for my knickers back. I'm fairly sure M would have given them to me, had I done so. But I knew it would please him more if I walked along, dishevelled, barely clothed, exposed - and so I did. I walked along the street with my pussy on display, smeared in my own cum, for everyone to see. Part of me felt shame for being such a whore, part of me glowed with pride in how I had pleased the man I adored.

The journey was long, and took some time - it was so late, and I needed to sleep, I was so very tired. And I should have slept, but I couldn't until I had been given what I needed. He took me again, more gently this time, but still aggressive and rough by my normal expectations. It was...delicious. I slept with his cum inside me - it was still leaking out in the morning, which was a good excuse for him to rape me. Just a little bit. I wanted it to hurt more but I was still so slick with cum, that he slid straight in...

That evening, he took me dogging - he fucked me from behind in the car, in front of strangers, dirty drug dealers, desperate chavs, haggard losers, and the rest - they watched from outside and lit our scene by phone-light, as he marked his property. He turned me so that I lay on my back, on the seat, and took me with his fingers until I came, with more of that silky gushing liquid flowing out of me, onto my clothes, his clothes, the seat, his hands...

Drained, he wrapped me in a blanket he keeps in his car so he can make me warm and safe. He drove me home - an hour's drive at best, from where he lives. I could have caught the train but he wouldn't let me, not like that, not when emotionally vulnerable and needing care and comfort. He held me and touched me on the way, and then when we reached my home, I didn't want him to leave. Not without just one more fuck. I begged, pleaded, abased myself, used every possible means I could think of to try and persuade him.

I should have let him just drive home without draining his balls again, it was late at night and he had a long way to go. But I got my slutty way at last, he put me in the back of his car, stripped me naked, and made me ride his cock, bring myself to orgasm by working his dick back and forth inside me. I gushed on his cock, screamed his name, begged for release...he turned me and fucked me from behind - hard, very hard. I came again, I forget how many times. When he finally blew his load into me and filled me with his seed, we had a little time together to learn how to breathe again, and then I went home, content and clutching his cum inside me, a souvenir of the weekend...

Monday 15 March 2010

Unchained

This poet's heart's desire is overflowing;
This poor inadequate offering my gift.
I long to find the words to honour truly,
This sea of change on which I am adrift.

In lust, I dreamed of this before I chose it,
In love, I ached to feel my hips meet yours.
My heart, this fragile, damaged, fearful thing,
My body, impatient for the chance to be your whore.

A tumble of emotions spiralled through me.
As you caught the knotted threads and pulled,
Untangled every yarn and bade me wind it,
With me in shocked obeisance to your will.

By my hand you pulled me in towards the darkness
You lay me down and opened me by force.
You took me first with raping strength and power,
There was no indecision, no remorse.

With your fingers you degraded and abused me;
This virgin's pussy stretched into a whore's.
Your brutal penetration forcing from me,
Violent proof in heart and body I am yours.

Over and again you roughly took me,
The cries ripped from me merging to the beat.
The darkness veiling glimpses of my body,
You displayed me on your lap - I was in heat.

Confused, I felt the liquid gushing from me
Afraid, I saw the spasms of my limbs,
I begged for you to ease this degradation;
Yet I suffered gladly further for your whim.

When last I shuddered, crying out in shock,
My shame dripped wetly from me to the floor.
Exhausted, you drew me closer to you;
As you rocked me, I loved you even more.

You held me in your arms and I clung close to you,
I whimpered quietly for you as I sobbed,
Finally I gathered up my courage,
And dared to ask you if I was still loved.

Once my body held me prisoner inside it,
I struggled to break free from chain and lock.
I longed to find the key to my own freedom,
But no matter where I turned the way was blocked.

You found the key and gave it to me for release,
My desire no longer caged or clipped.
What was once so broken is now healed,
And love has broken every chain that did exist

It's not just your love and care that I need -
It's your rage, your violence and your seed.

Let these last words tell you what I know -
I am yours, in mind, in body and in soul.