Posts
Sometimes I expect too much of myself.
I get frustrated and angry sometimes, because there are moments when I am affected by things which happened in the past - bad things, which hurt me, but which I've healed from, completely, or am healing from, now. Transient moments of feeling unsettled - fleeting, an evanescent glitch in the system.
My mind, my heart - the very layers of personality which make me, *me* - my soul - has suffered injury, in the past. I've been burnt, broken; cut, crushed.
I've worked hard, endured, repaired. The work was long and painful, exhausting.
So when these moments come, when for a little while, I feel damaged still - I have to remember quite how damaged I once was, and give myself permission to not be 100% healed and baggage free. I am allowed to not be perfect. I am allowed to still be healing.
It does not mean that the work was all for nothing. Just because an old injury flairs up like a long-forgotten weakness in a limb during a cold winter, it does not mean the wound is still open and ragged. It's a twinge in the scar tissue. A momentary ache in a bone once broken.
The soul takes time to recover. Nothing can hurry the process, save soft kindness at the right time. And I am wrapped in that, from all the people that I love. I am lucky.
So today, I am celebrating the road journeyed so far. I am celebrating how far I've come - the distance I've travelled, the success I've made of my life. I'm celebrating the person that I am - because I wouldn't be me; interesting, unusual, strange, fucked up and dirty, and all those wonderful things - if my soul wasn't twisted into strange shapes and scarred.
I look at what I have, who I am. And I smile. And nothing and no-one can take that away from me.
Today - I am proud of myself.
Monday 24 May 2010
Tuesday 11 May 2010
"Something wicked this way comes"
Reading back over the last year's blogs, it's hard to recognise some of the urgent longing, the unfulfilled yearning contained within them, as mine. It's fascinating, and enlightening, for me to look back and see the crushing loneliness, need, compulsion and impulsion which was ruling me. No wonder some of my friends were concerned about me - I was going off the rails a little. Being who I am, it was in a slow and fairly constrained fashion, but I know myself; my thoughts, emotions, and eventually behaviour often spiral quite quickly downwards once they pick up speed. I was still holding onto the wheel, so to speak, but increasingly having trouble keeping control and finding it slipping more and more often out of my grip, as I went into an uncontrolled skid which may well have ended in a metaphorical ditch.
All my life, I have felt like the black sheep that didn't belong. I often feel a sense of 'waiting to get caught out', that it's only a matter of time before someone will notice, and realise I don't belong here. I'm mostly okay with that, I've found other black sheep to huddle with against the cold, and we've taken delight in living a different kind of life from the one which those in the centre of the flock must have. But it does mean my sense of loneliness is finely honed and lives close to the surface.
For many years, my husband (R), was my defence against that loneliness. Him and me together against the world - a team, that's how I felt. But it's difficult to maintain that feeling of team spirit in the face of something huge and unspoken which is missing from your life. A yawning gap so wide that you can't even name it, for fear it will swallow you whole.
I am a deeply sexual, sensual, submissive person. It is fundamental to my personality, my core. And yet for almost all my life I've had no real outlet for it. I NEEDED, on a level so profound, so achingly wracking, and yet I did not get. There's a relief that I sense from R recently - a relief that I'm no longer trying to claw satisfaction from him of a need which he simply cannot fulfil.
I am unmistakeably, unquestionably, unrelentingly, in charge, in the relationship I have with R. I make the decisions. It's as simple as that. R gets to veto, yes, but I come up the plans, I arrange the details, I do what needs to be done to put the plans in action. I am the driving force - the ambition - the focus; in a way that is much more traditionally the preserve of the male partner. It is natural for me to do this, and I need an expression for this side of my character, which R has always allowed me to be completely fulfilled in.
And yet, equally, I need expression for the soft side of me, the half which is always warm, malleable, very very feminine, hopelessly sexual, which is not hard and controlled but moulds itself around something that is, which is allowed to lose that so very iron control, drop the barriers, disintegrate into something untidy and primal, unorganised, chaotic, implusive, spontaneous, free. It's soft as velvet, inky black, and lies puddled on the floor, not laid flat, straight. It's complex, dark, shadowed in the folds, and smells of musky, messy fluids, honey, vanilla and violets. And it's had no place to go, to be. Until now.
R is a little black sheep too, but his darkness is all on the outside. He's a merry fellow, pure, and an innocent; he doesn't like to play in the dirt like I do. I need R, I need his sweetness, his light. But I also need someone who can get down and dirty in the dark places with me. Someone who can pour their dominance over me like treacle, who speaks to that bottomless depth of yearning in me and answers the call that my loneliness screams out into the night. Someone like M.
It's almost as if that desperate calling, my aching hunger, drew him to me. And I know that I ease his own thirst, too; that he was searching for me, as I was searching for him, is clear. We were drawn to each other, we must have been, even before we met. How else could two so impossibly complicated pieces of a puzzle fit so exactly, so perfectly together, as if the molecules we are made from slide minutely aside to make it possible for us to occupy the same space in time, even while we move.
I needed to be fucked. I needed dominance. I needed nurturing. I needed love. I needed pain. He gives me all these things, and so much more besides. I never even imagined someone like me could hope for so much to be given. He violates me, he abuses me, he tears me apart - and then he makes me whole again. Not just glueing the pieces back together, but creating something which is better than it was before. It's like re-breaking a broken limb that has healed crooked, in order for it to set straight again. My tears are the molten steel which he folds in the forge of his rage; creating something with greater flexibility but not sacrificing the hardness of the cutting edge.
If my neural pathways are an overgrown forest; the habits of thought, well-trodden paths; then the force of his passion smashes me away from the rutted ground I'm stuck in. My bare feet turn the ground underneath me, walking along paths which hurt my feet. The soles are tender, they bleed from deep scratches, and still I can't seem to stop hurting myself, can't stop walking through this dream landscape which takes me further and further away from where I want to be, and yet is also looping back on itself so that I can't break away. I am used to being hurt, then neglected, then abandoned. I am used to fixing myself. He hurts me, abuses me, and my feet find this familiar path. But then he soothes away the hurts, wraps me in his love, his care, dries my tears, and with his solid, continued presence in my life, the knowledge that I can rely on him, lean on him, he gives me the tools I need to cut myself a new path. I can journey somewhere new, somewhere else, somewhere 'other'; somewhere I'm just beginning to explore.
Last Weekend
It's friday night. I'm waiting for him to come for me - I'm standing at the bar chatting to aquaintances. I'm completely comfortable here, I feel happy and excited to be waiting in my favourite local for him to arrive. I just happen to be wearing a school uniform. And not just any school uniform. Fishnet tights, with knee high white socks over them. The highest of mary jane patent black platform heels. Little ruffled white knickers (which, let me just establish here, are the ONLY item of white underwear I own). Short (obscenely so) black wool skirt. Lacy black bra showing clearly through the tight white tailored shirt with only one button done up. Skull and crossbones tie. My dreadlocks extra blonde, in bunches. Little fence net gloves to match my tights. Innocent, nasty.
He walks in the door, I greet him. We laugh, talk, kiss. Shortly he asks, 'Are you wearing a tie?!'
'Happy birthday', I say, and open my coat. It's only one of his birthday presents, but he likes it. A lot. A girl always likes to be appreciated. He made me feel like the sexiest woman on the planet. Such things are balm to the soul. Soul noms. Nom nom nom.
We saw a comedy show - I sat with my cotton-clad legs in his lap, while he finger fucked me. I came all over his hand - fortunately during a bout of laughter, as I cried out quite loudly.
He took me to a deserted carpark in the countryside. He terrorised me - threatened to let the next man who pulled up, fuck me over the bonnet of his car. Pushed me onto the back seat while he stood outside, yanked down my white knickers and fucked his prick into me like a maniac, shoved my legs as far apart as they would go so they were painfully wide while he slammed into me, passion-ridden, spreading me on his cock as far as he was able. But the angle meant he couldn't get that deep into me, and he wanted more. He ripped aside more of my clothing, yanked me along the seat so my little school skirt rode up, my white shirt open, torn, my socks around my ankles, dishevelled and dirty. He forced piss out of his hard cock and urgently, painfully, hosed me down with it. As his hot piss splashed onto my smooth, hairless cunt, we met each other's eyes - shocked, bare, open, raw with emotion. An act of trust, and of love. He marked me as his, claimed my pussy as belonging to him, his territory. He stuck his dick inside and pissed IN me, before finally spraying the last few drops over my thighs.
He fucked me then, urgently, as if, should he not do so, the stars would fall from the sky. Slapped me, again and again. Spat in my mouth. I fell, unsteady, to the floor, and stained my clothes with dust made into mud by his piss. On all fours, my hands and knees grazed by the rocky ground, he violently buggered me. My anal violation only ceased when I collapsed, and clambered, dizzy and faint, back into the car. He covered me in blankets, drew me onto his lap, but could not even speak clearly, he was so shaken with ardor. Still, he continued to fuck me in the arse, until I was ragged.
We were staying at our friend's house, who has a dungeon in his bedroom. We only used one piece of equipment that whole weekend - the doctor's table, and even that, only for him to get a greater angle of penetration so he could get his dick even deeper into my arsehole. Only when he had finished ruining me, did we finally collapse in sleep.
The whole of the next day, we barely paused for eating, drinking, going to the toilet, sleeping. We didn't even stop to shower, we weren't willing to give any more time up than was actually necessary for us to keep going. We spent all the remaining time, fucking - cunt, arse and mouth. He buggered me harder than I've ever taken before - he tried to drive his hips through my body and into the bed. He's powerfully built - his hindquarters thrust downwards, skewering me on his dick. I had no way to escape, I was crushed underneath him, mewling with pain, trying to scrabble away, but with no possibility of escape.
He put me so thoroughly, so completely, into submission, that when he lay on top of me, stroking my face, allowing his weight to press heavily downwards, whispering soft pride in me and then a command, I came for him, I came without his touch between my legs. For him - always for him. When I cum, I cum for him. My orgasm is his, my pain is his. And he does give me so much of both.
He takes great pleasure in wrapping me up warm and tight in layers of soft blankets, and then gifting me with food, drink, or whatever else I need. He is the most generous of lovers, in many ways.
And I, who so always loves to please, take an astonished delight in being pleased. And in this new kind of family, in which we are all black sheep either inside or out. In which I feel so safe.
All my life, I have felt like the black sheep that didn't belong. I often feel a sense of 'waiting to get caught out', that it's only a matter of time before someone will notice, and realise I don't belong here. I'm mostly okay with that, I've found other black sheep to huddle with against the cold, and we've taken delight in living a different kind of life from the one which those in the centre of the flock must have. But it does mean my sense of loneliness is finely honed and lives close to the surface.
For many years, my husband (R), was my defence against that loneliness. Him and me together against the world - a team, that's how I felt. But it's difficult to maintain that feeling of team spirit in the face of something huge and unspoken which is missing from your life. A yawning gap so wide that you can't even name it, for fear it will swallow you whole.
I am a deeply sexual, sensual, submissive person. It is fundamental to my personality, my core. And yet for almost all my life I've had no real outlet for it. I NEEDED, on a level so profound, so achingly wracking, and yet I did not get. There's a relief that I sense from R recently - a relief that I'm no longer trying to claw satisfaction from him of a need which he simply cannot fulfil.
I am unmistakeably, unquestionably, unrelentingly, in charge, in the relationship I have with R. I make the decisions. It's as simple as that. R gets to veto, yes, but I come up the plans, I arrange the details, I do what needs to be done to put the plans in action. I am the driving force - the ambition - the focus; in a way that is much more traditionally the preserve of the male partner. It is natural for me to do this, and I need an expression for this side of my character, which R has always allowed me to be completely fulfilled in.
And yet, equally, I need expression for the soft side of me, the half which is always warm, malleable, very very feminine, hopelessly sexual, which is not hard and controlled but moulds itself around something that is, which is allowed to lose that so very iron control, drop the barriers, disintegrate into something untidy and primal, unorganised, chaotic, implusive, spontaneous, free. It's soft as velvet, inky black, and lies puddled on the floor, not laid flat, straight. It's complex, dark, shadowed in the folds, and smells of musky, messy fluids, honey, vanilla and violets. And it's had no place to go, to be. Until now.
R is a little black sheep too, but his darkness is all on the outside. He's a merry fellow, pure, and an innocent; he doesn't like to play in the dirt like I do. I need R, I need his sweetness, his light. But I also need someone who can get down and dirty in the dark places with me. Someone who can pour their dominance over me like treacle, who speaks to that bottomless depth of yearning in me and answers the call that my loneliness screams out into the night. Someone like M.
It's almost as if that desperate calling, my aching hunger, drew him to me. And I know that I ease his own thirst, too; that he was searching for me, as I was searching for him, is clear. We were drawn to each other, we must have been, even before we met. How else could two so impossibly complicated pieces of a puzzle fit so exactly, so perfectly together, as if the molecules we are made from slide minutely aside to make it possible for us to occupy the same space in time, even while we move.
I needed to be fucked. I needed dominance. I needed nurturing. I needed love. I needed pain. He gives me all these things, and so much more besides. I never even imagined someone like me could hope for so much to be given. He violates me, he abuses me, he tears me apart - and then he makes me whole again. Not just glueing the pieces back together, but creating something which is better than it was before. It's like re-breaking a broken limb that has healed crooked, in order for it to set straight again. My tears are the molten steel which he folds in the forge of his rage; creating something with greater flexibility but not sacrificing the hardness of the cutting edge.
If my neural pathways are an overgrown forest; the habits of thought, well-trodden paths; then the force of his passion smashes me away from the rutted ground I'm stuck in. My bare feet turn the ground underneath me, walking along paths which hurt my feet. The soles are tender, they bleed from deep scratches, and still I can't seem to stop hurting myself, can't stop walking through this dream landscape which takes me further and further away from where I want to be, and yet is also looping back on itself so that I can't break away. I am used to being hurt, then neglected, then abandoned. I am used to fixing myself. He hurts me, abuses me, and my feet find this familiar path. But then he soothes away the hurts, wraps me in his love, his care, dries my tears, and with his solid, continued presence in my life, the knowledge that I can rely on him, lean on him, he gives me the tools I need to cut myself a new path. I can journey somewhere new, somewhere else, somewhere 'other'; somewhere I'm just beginning to explore.
Last Weekend
It's friday night. I'm waiting for him to come for me - I'm standing at the bar chatting to aquaintances. I'm completely comfortable here, I feel happy and excited to be waiting in my favourite local for him to arrive. I just happen to be wearing a school uniform. And not just any school uniform. Fishnet tights, with knee high white socks over them. The highest of mary jane patent black platform heels. Little ruffled white knickers (which, let me just establish here, are the ONLY item of white underwear I own). Short (obscenely so) black wool skirt. Lacy black bra showing clearly through the tight white tailored shirt with only one button done up. Skull and crossbones tie. My dreadlocks extra blonde, in bunches. Little fence net gloves to match my tights. Innocent, nasty.
He walks in the door, I greet him. We laugh, talk, kiss. Shortly he asks, 'Are you wearing a tie?!'
'Happy birthday', I say, and open my coat. It's only one of his birthday presents, but he likes it. A lot. A girl always likes to be appreciated. He made me feel like the sexiest woman on the planet. Such things are balm to the soul. Soul noms. Nom nom nom.
We saw a comedy show - I sat with my cotton-clad legs in his lap, while he finger fucked me. I came all over his hand - fortunately during a bout of laughter, as I cried out quite loudly.
He took me to a deserted carpark in the countryside. He terrorised me - threatened to let the next man who pulled up, fuck me over the bonnet of his car. Pushed me onto the back seat while he stood outside, yanked down my white knickers and fucked his prick into me like a maniac, shoved my legs as far apart as they would go so they were painfully wide while he slammed into me, passion-ridden, spreading me on his cock as far as he was able. But the angle meant he couldn't get that deep into me, and he wanted more. He ripped aside more of my clothing, yanked me along the seat so my little school skirt rode up, my white shirt open, torn, my socks around my ankles, dishevelled and dirty. He forced piss out of his hard cock and urgently, painfully, hosed me down with it. As his hot piss splashed onto my smooth, hairless cunt, we met each other's eyes - shocked, bare, open, raw with emotion. An act of trust, and of love. He marked me as his, claimed my pussy as belonging to him, his territory. He stuck his dick inside and pissed IN me, before finally spraying the last few drops over my thighs.
He fucked me then, urgently, as if, should he not do so, the stars would fall from the sky. Slapped me, again and again. Spat in my mouth. I fell, unsteady, to the floor, and stained my clothes with dust made into mud by his piss. On all fours, my hands and knees grazed by the rocky ground, he violently buggered me. My anal violation only ceased when I collapsed, and clambered, dizzy and faint, back into the car. He covered me in blankets, drew me onto his lap, but could not even speak clearly, he was so shaken with ardor. Still, he continued to fuck me in the arse, until I was ragged.
We were staying at our friend's house, who has a dungeon in his bedroom. We only used one piece of equipment that whole weekend - the doctor's table, and even that, only for him to get a greater angle of penetration so he could get his dick even deeper into my arsehole. Only when he had finished ruining me, did we finally collapse in sleep.
The whole of the next day, we barely paused for eating, drinking, going to the toilet, sleeping. We didn't even stop to shower, we weren't willing to give any more time up than was actually necessary for us to keep going. We spent all the remaining time, fucking - cunt, arse and mouth. He buggered me harder than I've ever taken before - he tried to drive his hips through my body and into the bed. He's powerfully built - his hindquarters thrust downwards, skewering me on his dick. I had no way to escape, I was crushed underneath him, mewling with pain, trying to scrabble away, but with no possibility of escape.
He put me so thoroughly, so completely, into submission, that when he lay on top of me, stroking my face, allowing his weight to press heavily downwards, whispering soft pride in me and then a command, I came for him, I came without his touch between my legs. For him - always for him. When I cum, I cum for him. My orgasm is his, my pain is his. And he does give me so much of both.
He takes great pleasure in wrapping me up warm and tight in layers of soft blankets, and then gifting me with food, drink, or whatever else I need. He is the most generous of lovers, in many ways.
And I, who so always loves to please, take an astonished delight in being pleased. And in this new kind of family, in which we are all black sheep either inside or out. In which I feel so safe.
Thursday 6 May 2010
"Nothing says 'I love you' like subcutaneous bruising" Part 3
I woke in the morning so sore, stiff, softened by his arms still wrapped around me. Little murmured, muted sounds without words, just as sometimes we tell each other words without sounds. Like oriental lacquer, love is built of moments like this, built up over much time with many layers, to create something both strong, and beautiful.
His fingers played over my body, re-shaping me, re-making me.
We still lay there when our friends dropped in to collect something from their flat. As I lay nearly naked in their bed, I showed off my bruises with pride. "Nothing says 'I love you' like subcutaneous bruising", said one of them.
'Too right' I thought.
After they left, we lay in bed for a long time - stroking, feeling each other's skin, sharing thoughts, memories, feelings. We talked about the way we had played the night before - deep things clenched inside my flesh as I remembered. My heartrate picked up as I thought of him, on top of me, holding me down, his hands on my arms, leaving fingermark bruises, purple and perfectly round. His eyes stare so intently into mine, so open, so unguarded, so full of things normally hidden - fear, anger, intense love, need, yearning, and also hope - 'You are mine', he says. 'Tell me who you belong to. Tell me you love me'. The joy in me, the simple, uncomplicated joy in me as I can bring pleasure, just by pulling forward the truth and tasting it on my tongue, letting it roll into my mouth and become words. 'Yes, I am yours. I am in love with you. I belong to you'.
As thoughts became expression, I needed to express my thoughts in ways other than with my mouth...I needed to use all of me, so my movement could mirror my mind. He is so powerfully present in his body, his muscles swell and fall with his breath, his light dusting of silver and black coarse fur inviting more intimate touch. As he moves above me he feels so intoxicatingly forceful, compelling. He is muscular without seeming brawny, deliciously hard without being stiff. He is so full of life, so vivid, that I feel fragile and overpowered, beneath him. As he fucks me, I moan, gasp, sob his name, plead. I feel like paper wrapped in stone. His voice is rock hard - the cliff that I plummet off, vibrations wreathed with energy as he tells me, over and over again, that I belong to him. 'I fucking OWN you', he says, as he slams his dick into me. I cry out, cum, again and again. 'You are my property. You belong to ME. You. Are. MINE'. I can't stop cumming. I just cannot stop.
He puts me on top of him, he forces me to ride his cock. He tells me to pour my love over him. I soak him - I soak his cock in my cum, my juices flow over his balls, down his thighs, they make the bed wet. And still I cum. My voice is hoarse from screaming.
Taking pity on me he allows me to slide off and take him in my mouth. I suck happily, greedily, like the slutty whore I am. In my heightened state of arousal, he tells me one last time to cum. 'Cum for me baby, cum for me. I OWN you. Cum for me, now. NOW'. And I do. I cum without a touch, from sucking his cock, and hearing his ownership of me poured out in words like cream. Like song.
Later, much later, we played again. I was bruised and sore to begin with. I was his toy, his plaything. He possessed me - inside and out. He could do anything, anything to me. He could tell me to do anything, and I would do it. He could do anything with me, and I would not only comply, not only be malleable in his will, but seek to go one step further. Whatever pleasure he wanted to take from me I would, without even consciously trying, desire to enhance. If he wanted me scared, I would be not just afraid, but terrified. If he wanted to hurt me, I would be first in agony, then beyond pain. If he wanted my anger, I would show him fury, then rage. If he needed my submission, I would not just give in, I would give up. If he wanted to stick his prick down my throat, I would make sure my head was angled so I could take in as much as he wanted to give me, and suck well, without grazing him with my teeth. And all without even knowing I sought to do that. I just do it that way. It's what I am, what I need to be. It gives me something which I cannot - I CANNOT - live without. To be perfect. To be his perfect whore. To be - to exist - to be real - to be a thing of pleasure, treasured. To wholly offer up myself, to give ALL of me, holding nothing back. Without barriers, without walls. To become a purity of one single way of being. To give, to yield, to bend, to follow his will. To be the willow which bends in the wind, not the oak which snaps under it's own strength.
This is what I need.
And more than this - I need to give this to someone who I love, adore, respect, desire, hold in such high esteem yet also consider my equal.
I lay quietly when he started beating me. He placed me on the medical table, padded leather and chrome. I breathed deeply as the pain began. Soon the sharp stings wrung harsh intakes of breath from me, becoming cries, my fists clenching, flickers of ember fire flash through me, quickly doused in the tide of rage lapping close to shore behind his eyes. I knelt up, I writhed, I lay on my side, choking, I pulled my own hair - the only relief was when he turned me on my back, my head hanging down at just the right angle for him to pump his cock in my throat, fucking my mouth, hard and so deep he stopped my breathing with his dick, only allowing me to gasp in when he chose to.
He turned me over again, my body, and my mind too, as the blows started up so fast and intensely I couldn't breathe through this, either. I sucked in air, drowning in pain. My suffering spilled out of my body, through my mouth as I wailed, my hands as they clawed the bench, my eyes, streaming with tears, my back as I struggled to endure his torturous abuse of my body. The skin on my back throbbed long after each blow had stopped, merging into the next stroke of the whip, or cane. My desolate cries of distress slowed, then stopped, as I gave him all I had to give - he wanted to hurt me, I had endured the hurt, and now I was beyond pain.
Everything seemed distant, so far away - emotions, sound, sensation. I lay, knowing but not caring that my mouth was open and drool fell in thin lines of spittle down my face to the leather of the table. I knew that my eyes must appear vacant, because I knew I wasn't there, not truly seated within my body. A thought travelled through my mind - he must be worried, I ought to tell him I'm okay - but no action followed. I couldn't seem to motivate myself to speak, or move, or react in any way. There was no longer any feeling of pain, only pressure, or extreme sensation. I don't know how long I lay like that for, it seemed only moments, before one ultimately hard stroke brought a bubbling, fizzing sensation in my hands and head, I heard myself cry out, and although there was still no pain, I was more truly present. He finished with me then, and the light hurt my eyes. There was a bed, there was warmth against my bitingly cold limbs, there was a safety, a smell, touch, sound which soothed me, and there was sleep.
When I woke, it was dark outside. I ached - but I could feel that I ached. I was still wrapped in the warmth of his scent, his touch, but I needed more, chilled as I was. I had been somewhere very dark, and I was ice-cold to the touch. He brought me back to life by wrapping me in his darkness, which is burning hot, passionate and scalding, and forced it into me with his cum.
Later now. Dressed and woozy still, we sit in a pub that once would have been heavy with smoke, and is full of life and itinerants. Our corner is heavily guarded and close around us, he pulls me into him deeper, we whisper exchanges of memory - 'I loved it when you did that', 'I came because you did this'.
Stolen moments in his car, wary of the thief of time. We speak of small things, heavily laden, and I want him to be inside me again. He let me take him in my mouth once more, then he possesses me, cunt and mouth. I am held and he breathes me in. 'I love you baby, sleep now'. I slip, drunk with sleep and bodily harm, away from him but heart warm and wrapped up tight, into my house, climb into bed with my husband, kiss him goodnight, see him stir, warm and sleepy, as I nestle into him and sleep, dreaming of my blessings, my two loves, dreaming and thinking and more, of my dominant, my alpha male, of family, and of pack.
I am in love. And I am loved.
I am happy.
His fingers played over my body, re-shaping me, re-making me.
We still lay there when our friends dropped in to collect something from their flat. As I lay nearly naked in their bed, I showed off my bruises with pride. "Nothing says 'I love you' like subcutaneous bruising", said one of them.
'Too right' I thought.
After they left, we lay in bed for a long time - stroking, feeling each other's skin, sharing thoughts, memories, feelings. We talked about the way we had played the night before - deep things clenched inside my flesh as I remembered. My heartrate picked up as I thought of him, on top of me, holding me down, his hands on my arms, leaving fingermark bruises, purple and perfectly round. His eyes stare so intently into mine, so open, so unguarded, so full of things normally hidden - fear, anger, intense love, need, yearning, and also hope - 'You are mine', he says. 'Tell me who you belong to. Tell me you love me'. The joy in me, the simple, uncomplicated joy in me as I can bring pleasure, just by pulling forward the truth and tasting it on my tongue, letting it roll into my mouth and become words. 'Yes, I am yours. I am in love with you. I belong to you'.
As thoughts became expression, I needed to express my thoughts in ways other than with my mouth...I needed to use all of me, so my movement could mirror my mind. He is so powerfully present in his body, his muscles swell and fall with his breath, his light dusting of silver and black coarse fur inviting more intimate touch. As he moves above me he feels so intoxicatingly forceful, compelling. He is muscular without seeming brawny, deliciously hard without being stiff. He is so full of life, so vivid, that I feel fragile and overpowered, beneath him. As he fucks me, I moan, gasp, sob his name, plead. I feel like paper wrapped in stone. His voice is rock hard - the cliff that I plummet off, vibrations wreathed with energy as he tells me, over and over again, that I belong to him. 'I fucking OWN you', he says, as he slams his dick into me. I cry out, cum, again and again. 'You are my property. You belong to ME. You. Are. MINE'. I can't stop cumming. I just cannot stop.
He puts me on top of him, he forces me to ride his cock. He tells me to pour my love over him. I soak him - I soak his cock in my cum, my juices flow over his balls, down his thighs, they make the bed wet. And still I cum. My voice is hoarse from screaming.
Taking pity on me he allows me to slide off and take him in my mouth. I suck happily, greedily, like the slutty whore I am. In my heightened state of arousal, he tells me one last time to cum. 'Cum for me baby, cum for me. I OWN you. Cum for me, now. NOW'. And I do. I cum without a touch, from sucking his cock, and hearing his ownership of me poured out in words like cream. Like song.
Later, much later, we played again. I was bruised and sore to begin with. I was his toy, his plaything. He possessed me - inside and out. He could do anything, anything to me. He could tell me to do anything, and I would do it. He could do anything with me, and I would not only comply, not only be malleable in his will, but seek to go one step further. Whatever pleasure he wanted to take from me I would, without even consciously trying, desire to enhance. If he wanted me scared, I would be not just afraid, but terrified. If he wanted to hurt me, I would be first in agony, then beyond pain. If he wanted my anger, I would show him fury, then rage. If he needed my submission, I would not just give in, I would give up. If he wanted to stick his prick down my throat, I would make sure my head was angled so I could take in as much as he wanted to give me, and suck well, without grazing him with my teeth. And all without even knowing I sought to do that. I just do it that way. It's what I am, what I need to be. It gives me something which I cannot - I CANNOT - live without. To be perfect. To be his perfect whore. To be - to exist - to be real - to be a thing of pleasure, treasured. To wholly offer up myself, to give ALL of me, holding nothing back. Without barriers, without walls. To become a purity of one single way of being. To give, to yield, to bend, to follow his will. To be the willow which bends in the wind, not the oak which snaps under it's own strength.
This is what I need.
And more than this - I need to give this to someone who I love, adore, respect, desire, hold in such high esteem yet also consider my equal.
I lay quietly when he started beating me. He placed me on the medical table, padded leather and chrome. I breathed deeply as the pain began. Soon the sharp stings wrung harsh intakes of breath from me, becoming cries, my fists clenching, flickers of ember fire flash through me, quickly doused in the tide of rage lapping close to shore behind his eyes. I knelt up, I writhed, I lay on my side, choking, I pulled my own hair - the only relief was when he turned me on my back, my head hanging down at just the right angle for him to pump his cock in my throat, fucking my mouth, hard and so deep he stopped my breathing with his dick, only allowing me to gasp in when he chose to.
He turned me over again, my body, and my mind too, as the blows started up so fast and intensely I couldn't breathe through this, either. I sucked in air, drowning in pain. My suffering spilled out of my body, through my mouth as I wailed, my hands as they clawed the bench, my eyes, streaming with tears, my back as I struggled to endure his torturous abuse of my body. The skin on my back throbbed long after each blow had stopped, merging into the next stroke of the whip, or cane. My desolate cries of distress slowed, then stopped, as I gave him all I had to give - he wanted to hurt me, I had endured the hurt, and now I was beyond pain.
Everything seemed distant, so far away - emotions, sound, sensation. I lay, knowing but not caring that my mouth was open and drool fell in thin lines of spittle down my face to the leather of the table. I knew that my eyes must appear vacant, because I knew I wasn't there, not truly seated within my body. A thought travelled through my mind - he must be worried, I ought to tell him I'm okay - but no action followed. I couldn't seem to motivate myself to speak, or move, or react in any way. There was no longer any feeling of pain, only pressure, or extreme sensation. I don't know how long I lay like that for, it seemed only moments, before one ultimately hard stroke brought a bubbling, fizzing sensation in my hands and head, I heard myself cry out, and although there was still no pain, I was more truly present. He finished with me then, and the light hurt my eyes. There was a bed, there was warmth against my bitingly cold limbs, there was a safety, a smell, touch, sound which soothed me, and there was sleep.
When I woke, it was dark outside. I ached - but I could feel that I ached. I was still wrapped in the warmth of his scent, his touch, but I needed more, chilled as I was. I had been somewhere very dark, and I was ice-cold to the touch. He brought me back to life by wrapping me in his darkness, which is burning hot, passionate and scalding, and forced it into me with his cum.
Later now. Dressed and woozy still, we sit in a pub that once would have been heavy with smoke, and is full of life and itinerants. Our corner is heavily guarded and close around us, he pulls me into him deeper, we whisper exchanges of memory - 'I loved it when you did that', 'I came because you did this'.
Stolen moments in his car, wary of the thief of time. We speak of small things, heavily laden, and I want him to be inside me again. He let me take him in my mouth once more, then he possesses me, cunt and mouth. I am held and he breathes me in. 'I love you baby, sleep now'. I slip, drunk with sleep and bodily harm, away from him but heart warm and wrapped up tight, into my house, climb into bed with my husband, kiss him goodnight, see him stir, warm and sleepy, as I nestle into him and sleep, dreaming of my blessings, my two loves, dreaming and thinking and more, of my dominant, my alpha male, of family, and of pack.
I am in love. And I am loved.
I am happy.
Wednesday 5 May 2010
"Nothing says 'I love you' like subcutaneous bruising" Part 2
We were staying at a friend's house, they'd lent us the place for the weekend, knowing how much it would mean to us to be able to spend the night together in someplace other than a hotel. Even better - they have their own dungeon, which for the price of our eternal gratitude, was ours to use exclusively for 24 hours. It gave us the space, and time, and freedom, to unleash and explore as fully as we wanted to.
I imagined we would drown in each other's skin as soon as we got through the door. We didn't - we were too awestruck. We explored the dungeon, the other rooms, with amazement and delight and slight trepidation. Some of it was so beautifully arranged and perfect we were afraid to touch it. He does like to slam me around the place rather, and we do get so carried away...I was a little scared we might end up trashing the room and oweing my friend a little more than just our gratitude...
I started making dinner - he stood behind me, slid his arms around me, mauled my tits, fingers squeezing on each half covered breast, digging in, crushing...his hands moved to my buttocks, rubbing against the satin, slipping and sliding the paper-thin fabric over my skin, soft and scented with vanilla as it always is when I prepare myself for him - but unlike normal, this time there were no knickers to interfere with his exploration of my body. Last week, I let him tell me what to wear on a date with him - something I have never let anyone, work, society, friend, family, lover or husband do. I even told him once, that this was a hard limit! And yet when he instructed me the other day that I must absolutely not wear any knickers for our mid-week date, and then told me he liked my outfit so much that he wanted me to wear the exact same thing, with the exact same lack of underwear, then I found myself not only wanting to do it for him, but delighted at an opportunity to show how well I could obey him, what a good girl I was.
He hitched up my skirt, which was tight and short, and left it around my waist, knicker-less, with only stockings and my heels, and my top with cut-out hole to show off my cleavage. All in black of course, except for my hair, which was blonde, purple, black and red, this time. He threw me in the bedroom and fucked me, until he was done, and I had my own cum dripping hot and sticky down my thighs.
We settled down on armchairs with a meal we could eat with fingers, tearing bread apart, feeling the little plum tomatoes slip, silky and plump, luscious, inside our mouths, while we watched a dvd from the more violent end of my porn collection. Finished with our food, it seemed natural to move closer and closer to each other as I pointed out my favourite bits, and explained the abusively incestuous plots I had grafted on in my head, to the relatively innocent vignettes.
During my all-time favourite scene in the porn, I was unable to resist for any longer and slipped to my knees to take him in my mouth. I love the texture and the taste of him, the scent of his balls - soap, with an underlying maleness, a musky fragrance of arousal. I love the way his cock caresses the inside of my mouth, the texture of his silky skin, and how he feels so huge against my tongue, my lips. I love the sense of safety I find in burying my lips against the base of his cock where it meets his balls, and in sucking and licking at the very tip, as if it were a sweetie given to me as a treat for being such a good girl.
We both resisted for as long as possible, but at some point we were overcome - suddenly I was half-way up the corridor being jerked along by my hair, thrown onto the bed, cuffed, and attached to the whipping bench with my arms spread almost painfully wide along the front.
It had been a while since he'd smashed me up with such intensity. He rained blows down on me like a fucking tropical thunderstorm. His energy seared me, his rage boiling over my body, the door opens, the blackness inside spills out, washes everything away in a flood of pure emotion, unspeakable, given voice in my cries and screams, something inky dark and stained, depraved and hidden, showing itself at last, made manifest by the sound of my begging and pleading.
I poured my sorrow out, tears and spit and drool soaking the bench in front of my mouth. I howled with pain, I screamed, I writhed. He hit me - over, and over, and over, and over again. My skin discoloured in front of his eyes, blemished, damaged, spoiled.
He ordered me to suck him, over and over again. I refused, I was so angry, furious. Even though the pain was ruining me, I. Would. Not. Submit.
The last torrent of blows cracked my will, cracked open my mind, and brought me into the place I needed to be, so very much. I wanted to say yes - I wanted to, but I couldn't, held back as I was by anger, pride, all the hundreds of layers of barriers I wrap around myself to keep myself safe. With those last strokes of the cane, he ripped a hole through those final defences, and, sobbing brokenly, crying so hard I could barely breath, I sucked him, choking with tears though I was, drooling as I breathed through my mouth; my face, nose, puffed up and reddened with crying.
He stepped away in disgust and angrily strode over to the door, turned the light off, and slammed the door behind him. The blackout curtains in the room meant I could see - ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. I'm terrified of the dark - I used to sleep with a nightlight on in my room for years (he didn't know that - I'd never told him). It was pitch black, and I lasted seconds, which seemed like forever, before I panicked, and screamed. Just screamed - fucking WAILED - and then cut off abruptly as his hands lovingly wrapped around me from behind, where he'd been all along. He'd never left the room.
I thought I was alone in the dark. But I wasn't. I wasn't alone. I was safe all along. He was with me.
He untied me, stroked me softly, held me close, carried me to the bed and drew me in tight to him, where I was safe. He whispered soft things, rocked me and shushed me as my sobs tailed off. Then he fucked me, very deep, very hard, and I came, and came, and came. I was his prize, he had won me - I gave up everything to him. And he took me. He sprayed me with his cum, marking me as his. It dripped heavily into my open mouth, on my shoulders, my bruised tits, my hair, my neck...
It soaked my face.
I slept covered in him, and tucked in close to his body, safe inside his arms. I am always safe with him, even when he ruins me.
I imagined we would drown in each other's skin as soon as we got through the door. We didn't - we were too awestruck. We explored the dungeon, the other rooms, with amazement and delight and slight trepidation. Some of it was so beautifully arranged and perfect we were afraid to touch it. He does like to slam me around the place rather, and we do get so carried away...I was a little scared we might end up trashing the room and oweing my friend a little more than just our gratitude...
I started making dinner - he stood behind me, slid his arms around me, mauled my tits, fingers squeezing on each half covered breast, digging in, crushing...his hands moved to my buttocks, rubbing against the satin, slipping and sliding the paper-thin fabric over my skin, soft and scented with vanilla as it always is when I prepare myself for him - but unlike normal, this time there were no knickers to interfere with his exploration of my body. Last week, I let him tell me what to wear on a date with him - something I have never let anyone, work, society, friend, family, lover or husband do. I even told him once, that this was a hard limit! And yet when he instructed me the other day that I must absolutely not wear any knickers for our mid-week date, and then told me he liked my outfit so much that he wanted me to wear the exact same thing, with the exact same lack of underwear, then I found myself not only wanting to do it for him, but delighted at an opportunity to show how well I could obey him, what a good girl I was.
He hitched up my skirt, which was tight and short, and left it around my waist, knicker-less, with only stockings and my heels, and my top with cut-out hole to show off my cleavage. All in black of course, except for my hair, which was blonde, purple, black and red, this time. He threw me in the bedroom and fucked me, until he was done, and I had my own cum dripping hot and sticky down my thighs.
We settled down on armchairs with a meal we could eat with fingers, tearing bread apart, feeling the little plum tomatoes slip, silky and plump, luscious, inside our mouths, while we watched a dvd from the more violent end of my porn collection. Finished with our food, it seemed natural to move closer and closer to each other as I pointed out my favourite bits, and explained the abusively incestuous plots I had grafted on in my head, to the relatively innocent vignettes.
During my all-time favourite scene in the porn, I was unable to resist for any longer and slipped to my knees to take him in my mouth. I love the texture and the taste of him, the scent of his balls - soap, with an underlying maleness, a musky fragrance of arousal. I love the way his cock caresses the inside of my mouth, the texture of his silky skin, and how he feels so huge against my tongue, my lips. I love the sense of safety I find in burying my lips against the base of his cock where it meets his balls, and in sucking and licking at the very tip, as if it were a sweetie given to me as a treat for being such a good girl.
We both resisted for as long as possible, but at some point we were overcome - suddenly I was half-way up the corridor being jerked along by my hair, thrown onto the bed, cuffed, and attached to the whipping bench with my arms spread almost painfully wide along the front.
It had been a while since he'd smashed me up with such intensity. He rained blows down on me like a fucking tropical thunderstorm. His energy seared me, his rage boiling over my body, the door opens, the blackness inside spills out, washes everything away in a flood of pure emotion, unspeakable, given voice in my cries and screams, something inky dark and stained, depraved and hidden, showing itself at last, made manifest by the sound of my begging and pleading.
I poured my sorrow out, tears and spit and drool soaking the bench in front of my mouth. I howled with pain, I screamed, I writhed. He hit me - over, and over, and over, and over again. My skin discoloured in front of his eyes, blemished, damaged, spoiled.
He ordered me to suck him, over and over again. I refused, I was so angry, furious. Even though the pain was ruining me, I. Would. Not. Submit.
The last torrent of blows cracked my will, cracked open my mind, and brought me into the place I needed to be, so very much. I wanted to say yes - I wanted to, but I couldn't, held back as I was by anger, pride, all the hundreds of layers of barriers I wrap around myself to keep myself safe. With those last strokes of the cane, he ripped a hole through those final defences, and, sobbing brokenly, crying so hard I could barely breath, I sucked him, choking with tears though I was, drooling as I breathed through my mouth; my face, nose, puffed up and reddened with crying.
He stepped away in disgust and angrily strode over to the door, turned the light off, and slammed the door behind him. The blackout curtains in the room meant I could see - ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. I'm terrified of the dark - I used to sleep with a nightlight on in my room for years (he didn't know that - I'd never told him). It was pitch black, and I lasted seconds, which seemed like forever, before I panicked, and screamed. Just screamed - fucking WAILED - and then cut off abruptly as his hands lovingly wrapped around me from behind, where he'd been all along. He'd never left the room.
I thought I was alone in the dark. But I wasn't. I wasn't alone. I was safe all along. He was with me.
He untied me, stroked me softly, held me close, carried me to the bed and drew me in tight to him, where I was safe. He whispered soft things, rocked me and shushed me as my sobs tailed off. Then he fucked me, very deep, very hard, and I came, and came, and came. I was his prize, he had won me - I gave up everything to him. And he took me. He sprayed me with his cum, marking me as his. It dripped heavily into my open mouth, on my shoulders, my bruised tits, my hair, my neck...
It soaked my face.
I slept covered in him, and tucked in close to his body, safe inside his arms. I am always safe with him, even when he ruins me.
Tuesday 4 May 2010
"Nothing says 'I love you' like subcutaneous bruising" Part 1
'I want to hold you close
Skin pressed against me tight
Lie still, and close your eyes girl
So lovely, it feels so right
I want to hold you close
Soft breasts, beating heart
As I whisper in your ear
I want to fucking tear you apart'
Tear You Apart, by She Wants Revenge
I wait for him on the corner - it feels like meeting a boyfriend after school. So exciting. I catch my breath as he rolls up in his big car. I'm a grown woman and I've never cared for cars, but all of a sudden I find myself feeling young and innocent, waiting for this older man to give me a ride, take me somewhere. Knowing he's going to do things to me, and I don't know what they are. Dark things, terrible things, that come from somewhere hidden, buried deep inside him that he unleashes with me - and only me. Because I welcome his sickness, I draw it to me. I want every last nasty, vile, twisted, fucked-up, messy, dirty thing he has to give me, that he has to do to me. I want it, and I need it. Because I'm just as twisted and nasty. Every bit as much. And it makes me happy that I am. I like to feel ashamed, but I'm not ashamed of being like this.
Into his arms he pulls me. We kiss, and he smells of home. It feels so right, and so wrong, in all the best of ways. I cross my legs, knowing he's watching. His eyes travel up my thighs, followed swiftly by his hand. He touches my perfectly shaven skin through the thin satin of my skirt, and finds I've obeyed his instructions. 'Good girl', he says. Warmth spills through me and I can't not smile, shyly.
We can't get through the journey of twenty minutes or so, without touching. I snuggle into him, breathing deep of his scent. He puts my hand onto the stick as he changes gear, moving me effortlessly, with no resistance in my muscles, no tension in my fingers. I slide like silk under him. He puts me where he wants me to go. I flow - I anticipate his movements without even thinking, always wanting to please, always wanting to give him what he needs from me. That is what *I* need - to give him what *he* needs.
When we began, it was just in play. Now it is all the time. And it satisfies something deep in us, something fundamental. It is what we want, choose, need, must have from each other.
We walked through the supermarket, talking over our week, picking up, discussing potential purchases for the weekend's provisioning. He kept a possessive touch on me almost all the time. A hand on my wrist, his arm around my shoulder. He kept me close, safe, his body language shouted 'this is MINE, MINE!'
And my body language shouted, 'I am HIS, HIS!' as I leaned into the arm, stroked his hand with mine, rubbed my head against his shoulder, turned my face up into the sunlight of his kiss.
Skin pressed against me tight
Lie still, and close your eyes girl
So lovely, it feels so right
I want to hold you close
Soft breasts, beating heart
As I whisper in your ear
I want to fucking tear you apart'
Tear You Apart, by She Wants Revenge
I wait for him on the corner - it feels like meeting a boyfriend after school. So exciting. I catch my breath as he rolls up in his big car. I'm a grown woman and I've never cared for cars, but all of a sudden I find myself feeling young and innocent, waiting for this older man to give me a ride, take me somewhere. Knowing he's going to do things to me, and I don't know what they are. Dark things, terrible things, that come from somewhere hidden, buried deep inside him that he unleashes with me - and only me. Because I welcome his sickness, I draw it to me. I want every last nasty, vile, twisted, fucked-up, messy, dirty thing he has to give me, that he has to do to me. I want it, and I need it. Because I'm just as twisted and nasty. Every bit as much. And it makes me happy that I am. I like to feel ashamed, but I'm not ashamed of being like this.
Into his arms he pulls me. We kiss, and he smells of home. It feels so right, and so wrong, in all the best of ways. I cross my legs, knowing he's watching. His eyes travel up my thighs, followed swiftly by his hand. He touches my perfectly shaven skin through the thin satin of my skirt, and finds I've obeyed his instructions. 'Good girl', he says. Warmth spills through me and I can't not smile, shyly.
We can't get through the journey of twenty minutes or so, without touching. I snuggle into him, breathing deep of his scent. He puts my hand onto the stick as he changes gear, moving me effortlessly, with no resistance in my muscles, no tension in my fingers. I slide like silk under him. He puts me where he wants me to go. I flow - I anticipate his movements without even thinking, always wanting to please, always wanting to give him what he needs from me. That is what *I* need - to give him what *he* needs.
When we began, it was just in play. Now it is all the time. And it satisfies something deep in us, something fundamental. It is what we want, choose, need, must have from each other.
We walked through the supermarket, talking over our week, picking up, discussing potential purchases for the weekend's provisioning. He kept a possessive touch on me almost all the time. A hand on my wrist, his arm around my shoulder. He kept me close, safe, his body language shouted 'this is MINE, MINE!'
And my body language shouted, 'I am HIS, HIS!' as I leaned into the arm, stroked his hand with mine, rubbed my head against his shoulder, turned my face up into the sunlight of his kiss.
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