Wednesday 28 July 2010

I AM SO FUCKING ANGRY WITH YOU. I FUCKING HATE YOU.

How could you do this to me? How could you put me in this position? I stand in front of you, fuming. I can feel my cheeks flaring with red, and that makes me angry too. I want to be indifferent to you, quiet and dignified and utterly without reaction to you and this situation. Instead, my body betrays me. I do care. I am humiliated and furious, and I want to hurt you. I try not to let my anger show in my eyes; I deliberately soften them, and the line of my jaw, letting my teeth relax where they have been pressing hard together.

You must think I'm such a fucking slut. It's the arrogance as much as anything, that appalls me. The two of you sitting there. You and your cunting 'business partner'. You think, because you earn a lot of money, that makes you special? Is that why you think I lavish such attention on you? Cook, clean, run your errands, make everything run so smoothly for you? Do you not understand, value, the purity of my love?

You're leaning back in the red leather armchair that I bought for you. You pat your knee, and motion for me to sit there. You are making a mockery of everything I give to you. Fuck you.

I stare into the space above your head, and ignore you. Your expression changes slowly, surely. Shock, and the first tinge of rage, pass over like shadows from clouds, chased quickly away by your confidence and need to keep face in front of your colleague. You pat your knee again. I don't react. This time the rage flashes, it's in your eyes, the set of your mouth. Unmistakable.

You say it again. The words that began all this.
"I want to lend you to Mr Black for the night. To seal the deal of our new partnership. It's just business. Be a good little fucktoy and go let him enjoy you."

I look at you. I feel the anger rise in me like heat haze off dirty tarmac. I try to keep my face as impassive as my voice.

"Fuck you".

The bookcase must have fallen over, the contents poured on the floor. Spilled words surround me, the pages white with meaning; but my mind cannot find any, here. Why am I lying on the ground? I touch the back of my head, and look at the smudge of fresh red blood on my hand, uncomprehendingly. My head lolls back, and your face is in front of mine. I smile dreamily at you, unprepared for the punch which smashes my head down onto the floor again.

Your friend looks concerned, worried even. Is there something I should be doing for him? I forget.

You haul me across the floor by my arm. I see the words as if they are jewels, suspended in black velvet, laid out in display - I hear their shape, feel their sparkle, but they mean nothing to me but pretty shine in the light.

"I do apologise for her error. Please, make yourself at home. I will bring her back for you in a little while, once I have corrected the flaw".

It means nothing to me. It is nothing to do with me.

I know we are in the car. I can hear the engine; it sounds angry, not purring like it should. I'm still floating, but my vision is fusing, mingling, separate threads combining to form a whole. A sense of anxiety grows pressingly on me - there is something I should be doing. I cannot rest.

"Bitch". I smell freshly cut grass, hay, sunshine stored in the green, slow release from dusk.

Clothes tear. You press heavily on my body. The earth moulds itself around me. The explosive sharp rip as the air parts before your whip. The pain, the pain brings me back to this place, this moment in time. Reality re-asserts itself. I'm here. And I am fucking angry with you.

I howl into the earth and rise up from the ground; the fury, the rage, animates me, gives me speed and strength normally absent from my gently rounded, soft-skinned body. I slam my fist into your face. My fingers claw at your skull - you have little hair to use against you, my fingernails slide into your flesh instead. My throat is burning as I scream, wordless, but not soundless - no, my pain, heartsore, on fire - ragged, rough, iridescent.

Your fingers dig into my throat as you choke me, the sound of screaming is more and more remote. I rip one finger away, you lift a whole hand, cover my mouth and nose with it. You straddle my body, choking, suffocating me. Subdued for a moment, I let terror loose in me, my eyes are unresponsive with fear as you begin to thrash me again, with your hand, your whip - blood splashes, sweat falls onto me from you, I go away...I go away...

I stop fighting. I can't remember why I'm angry with you, anymore.

I'm lying face down. I feel you pull my knickers down. There's an urgency in you entirely absent from my own state of mind. I'm not here. You unload yourself into my cunt, cumming in seconds, spurting jet after jet of creamy jism into me, your heavy balls slapping against my arse. You scoop up a palmful of cum and blood, lift me into your arms, and rock me, gently. "Drink this, little one, it will help you feel better". You feed me sips from your hand.

You tuck me into the car seat, wrap a blanket round me, and drive. I stare out the window as you pull into the dogging spot.

"Out", you tell me, and I flop, muscles exhausted, into your waiting arms, when you open the car door for me. You lean me against the hood of your car, fix the spreader bars between my cuffed wrists and ankles.

You make the men line up, and choose six of them to fuck me. They each enter me with a groan, sliding their cockhead against my pussy lips already wet with spunk. None of them last long. They grasp and pull at me as they thrust at me; disgusting, like rutting animals.

The last finishes. Other men beg to be chosen, to be allowed in me, but you refuse them. You take me yourself, quickly, sloppily. You're on a tight schedule. You fuck my arse once your cock is greased enough. You dump your cum into me, pulling out and smearing some of it over my buttocks, rubbing it into the cuts from your whip.

You take off the spreader bars. "You fucking whore", you say, gently, as you stroke my cheek.

You lift me into the car. Drive. Carry me into the house, wrapped in the remains of my clothes, and the blanket - dirty now. Nod to your business partner. Run a bath. Clean me. Rub my body gently with your hands, careful on my sore and used cunt. Pinch my nipples cruelly as you soap them. Towel me dry. Spray my favourite perfume at my throat, wrists, cleavage. Dress me in cuffs and chains. Lead me back to the other room, the one where he is waiting.

"You'll be a good girl for me now, won't you baby?"

I kneel to him.

You say it again. The words that began all this.
"I want to lend you to Mr Black for the night. To seal the deal of our new partnership. It's just business. Be a good little fucktoy and go let him enjoy you."

I look at him. Love is in my body, in my heart.

"Yes, Sir".

Thursday 22 July 2010

"Streams full of stars, like skies at night"

For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
- XXIX, Shakespeare

A weekend of oh so very much needed calm; recharging, relaxing, rejuvenating, restorative.

He met me at the station. Travel, transition, transmutation. Physical; my territory - to his. Metaphysical; alert to the world, sited within my own space - to a shared locus of being. Home is this place, in which I am free from fear of attack, this clearing in the woods where I flourish; drinking in the light, warmth, nourishment of his love and care.

I'm a highly sexed girl. A husband, a boyfriend, and I STILL need to sort myself out on most days. To this end he dumped a substantial load of porn from his phone to mine. Thank god for the gift of bluetooth. My favourite at the moment, a nasty little scene: pretty girl gets eaten out by one of the men, while the other man fucks her throat. They tell her to bend over the table. She lies down. Re-applies her lipstick. She hasn't even finished when he enters her from behind, while the other one takes her mouth. Occasional slaps to her arse, sometimes he pulls out, rubs his cockhead against her pussy lips, before getting his meat in her slit again. They start fucking her roughly, but before very long at all, they're banging her full-on hard from both ends. I've usually cum by the time the 2.14 minutes clip rolls around twice.

I mention this to him, as he gets out of the bath. He pulls his phone out, flicks through. "Is this the one?", he says. I nod, watch eagerly as he plays it for us both. He holds the phone at my eye level as he slots his dick into my mouth. Pushes it harder down my throat until I retch. He follows the action - pulling back, then pushing in harder, in rhythm with the film.

He plays it again - stands the phone up on the side, angled so I can see it. Headfucks me while he cuntfucks me. Slaps my arse, pulls out, grinds in hard. I moan, cry out, cum - I don't even make it through the whole clip. He forces me through it again, then takes my mouth until he stops. I look at him, trying to anticipate what he wants from me next. He takes me into the bathroom. The phone playing through the porn once again, sitting up on the shelf. I watch it as his prick slides down my throat. I retch less as I begin to relax into the abuse. He stands in the bath, places me so I am on my knees in front of him, leaning over the side of the panel.

He pistons his shaft into me, I retch - more and more and more, I lean back despite my good intentions, twisting and pulling to escape. Oh god, I'm going to be sick. Please, please don't - but a little voice at the back of my mind; you knew, you knew this was going to happen. That's why he stood in the bath. It's okay, you can go ahead and be sick, he wants you to, he won't be mad.

Another, contrary voice - oh please no, it's disgusting, dirty. He can't want this, I'm disgusting. I'm ashamed, embarrassed, please, please, please don't.

He does. He clamps the back of my head so tight to his groin I think I will suffocate. Then finally releases me. A thin stream of vomit pours out of my throat, pure bile. I couldn't breathe around him, his cock cut off my air supply completely. I was totally filled with him. He would not let me escape until he was done, until he had had enough. Surely he will let me go now, let me rest? To my joy and pain, instead he continues to use me, until he's had his pleasure, his fill. Starburst shine, close to cracking, closing in now, closing in on me.

He lets me go. I sink to the ground. I've been sobbing for some time, but now there is nothing in my mouth obstructing my cries; they are loud and plentiful. Tears wreck chaos with my pretty make-up; my face is hot, red, ruined. His voice is soft now. "There, there, baby. Let's splash some water on your face. Put a little cool water in your mouth. There my darling, there, my baby girl".

It's all worth it.

He takes me to bed. I can't stop cumming - it's painful with how fierceful my pussy clamps down on his cock. I am raw afterwards from the sheer grinding friction of it. He blows his load inside me as I scream for the last time.

I lie, limbs spread with abandonment, across the covers. Flushed, satiated. He leaves me drifting while he cooks me dinner. I am his. I am cherished.

Later, in the dark, he pushes me down onto the floor. Lifts my skirt, pulls my knickers down. Whispers things...shhhh, don't tell. No-one must know, no-one must hear you. Quiet, baby. I am like a child again, helpless. Shhhh. Do not speak of it, lest it burn your mouth with more acid than bile.

Shaking. Is this sickness?

Held. Comfort. Light. Warmth. Home.

Before I travel back, transitioning to my own territory and once more alert to the world and its needs, he marks his possession of me. Spills his seed all over and inside me. Spatters my face with it, allowing me to catch a little, leaving my throat slick with his semen.

Yes.

Monday 5 July 2010

Metamorphosis

Segue
Definition: "(in music and film) move without interruption from one song, melody, or scene to another"


Sometimes, the more darkly I play, the purer and lighter of heart I feel. My mouth, hot and wet, around his cock as he pounds my throat. My thighs, splayed open to the point of pain, the muscles, tendons, ligaments, straining as he pushes in, unmercifully, then pumps me full of his cum. My face, mashed against black leather as he bears down on me with all his weight.

These things help me walk in the light, keep me away from the valley of tears, the slits along the shadow shawl, the memory sunspots which burn too brightly if I look at them. They keep me pure with the force of his rage for me; his love for me is not just given in words but in the fury of his violent strength, poured over my body as he mauls me, his heart's balm.

A few weeks ago we relieved each other of tension - a difficult fortnight for both of us, various of life's normal trials and tribulations contributing stress, which we dealt with in our own ways. Mine, quiet weeping; fury strapped firmly down inside. His, calm and laid-back in the face of constant myriad pressures, but you've got to wonder: where does all that strain go? Same way as mine - the rage and the anger flowing into playfulness together. Murderous thoughts transmuted by an esoteric process, into consensual non-consensual violence, sexual rage; a passion poured out over each other in torrents, splashing into each other's faces, dripping from us, over every inch of our bodies. Denied satisfaction in one part of our lives, so we take satisfaction in this, the soaking of each other in the incandescent light of fierce violence, pain and fear the accelerator fluid for the fucking to come, that lights up the starless sky with dark flame.

We met at my house, quiet words of greeting exchanged, boyfriend and husband both arriving home at the same time, chatting to each other while I got changed. Slipped my slutty hellcat school uniform on, kissed husband goodbye, and took boyfriend's hand for a night out at the local perve's club. We didn't exactly match, him wearing his leather armour, but the sight of him in dirty, used, filthy leather, buckles, straps, sheen of sweat and glint of 'something nasty this way comes' in his eye, left me breathless and oh so very willing to be something dirty, used and filthy of his, too.

Enraptured by each other, tearing apart to speak to others, always coming back to feed our skin hunger, moving apart, coming together again, always a link between us, always precisely aware of where the other was, the evening was a night-long dance, painting the space and the stage, with movements in the air; flirtation, overture, crescendo...

Everything combining, harmonic sparking, bringing us to this moment, this space carved into the time and place, a silhouette cut out of paper held up to the black background of velvet curtains, framing the stage. I knelt down on the bench willingly, for him, although hesitant, uncertain, my slow and troubled movements betraying me; betraying me like the damp, sticky moisture beading on ruffled white knickers, threatening to seep down into my stocking tops.

As he slides my knickers down, I feel his fingers drag on the fabric, I know he can feel the texture of me, wet silk on thigh. Ahhhhh - yes; his hand on my flesh. He caresses, strikes, strokes, pounds into me with his open hand. Hard. His fingers stroke my swollen cunt; he barely pauses to part the lips before plunging fingers deep inside me, pumping my soaked flesh and ripping reluctant shivers and moans from me - the bad man hurts me, so why does it feel so good?

Moving me deeper underneath him and the focus of his fury, he presses down heavily on my back with his weight, crushing me under him. His belt, lashes out at me, over and again - ripping cries from my throat, startled, animal sounds. He finds my beast. In anger, I scratch and spit and hiss at his face, my own features contorted, snarling, eyes wide and fucking furious. It trips his anger-switch into thunderous incensed determined outrage - he doesn't have to say the words: 'Who the FUCK do you think you are? I will fucking DESTROY you...' as the sweat which pours from him, the foam beginning to show in his mouth, his staring eyes with the pupils blown open so there is barely any iris left, no sign of any softness at all...

Involuntarily, sounds escapes him as he lifts me, strong fingers coiled firmly, quickly, into my dreadlocks, and his fingers clawing, mauling into my flesh. I am lifted and slammed down on the bench, my back lying flat, my legs falling off the bench, jerking, as he bears down on me - hand covering my nose and mouth. His face is inches from mine, there is no space for thought - I cannot breathe, I cannot breathe - I count, silently, hoping this will calm my terror, which then loosens like a spring under pressure, released, a rapid convolution spiraling impossibly fast as my legs jerk, my body struggles, start to scream through his hands, a scream which builds up pressure underneath the meat of his hands which are tearing away my endurance - then it is released, high pitched and terrified as he lets me go.

Always before, this terror has divorced me from my red mist, revealed the submissive, bared my slave self naked in chains, led by him. This time though, longing though I am to be stripped, the heat of my anger rises back again - the fire has taken too much of a hold. It is only stilled for a moment, smothered, before flaring almost as strongly as before. I shout and writhe, furious at him, indignant at his offense to me, the acts of violence, unreasoned, unjust. I am unchained, unbound, free to say what I want, do what I want, react immediately and emotionally to the blows, there is no need for restraint or holding back from within - the restraints are his wrists closing around my arms, the leather strap pinning me to the bench, the heavy pressure of his body as he pushes, pushes down on me. He stops my breathing again, and this time as I burst, terrified, to the surface of my fear as he releases me, the air is ragged with my screams, hot and painful, air sucked down into my lungs, burning my throat. Now the smothered flames of my anger take longer to leap back up again.

He has wrapped his thick leather belt around my neck - not enough to choke me, just enough to remind me that he could, if he wanted to. I clutch at it desperately, fearfully - and as he begins beating me with the cane, the belt falls into my hands, loose. I grab and squeeze at it as the blows fall down, the pain arcing in swollen red and purple rings behind my eyes. I cannot see, I cannot see - my focus constricting to the small territory we have made, nothing except him, and me, and the pain, the pain like ribbons of thuggish painful knives, gathered in burgundy velvet; horrifying, obscene - a terrible beauty.

I smash him in the fucking face with his own belt - he catches my hand just as the blow is about to land; smashes me from the bench onto the floor against the wall, fucking me up, slapping me, shaking me, screaming into my face. He covers my nose and mouth again and growls low, threateningly as he does so. I don't think he even realises, the sound drools out like spit. This last time it is not so much fear, as relief, mixed with capitulation, as if he is a surgeon excising my anger from me. But his cuts are not careful and deliberate - instead they are a frenzied, brutal assault. But my rage requires handling like this - it is a destructive force, which destroys and damages, whether turned outwards, or - nearly always - inwards, burning and scarring me from the inside. As abandoned as his onslaught might seem, the trauma to my body purges trauma from my soul, and at all times he treats this part of me like a priceless possession. Just as he treats my body, and my mind, once he has finished destroying me. This is how he remakes me.

Sobbing and mascara streaked, my flesh purpled and reddened and criss crossed with so many cane stripes, there was little space unmarked. He pulled me into his arms. Held me close. Whispered soft things in my ear, tucked the hair to one side. Stroked my face. The noise and the heat and the sense of other people just being too *close* became too much. He carried me into the garden where I asked to lay down on the cool, calm space of the wooden flooring. There, as the breeze soothed my mind, and the peace helped me to be safe, with him and in his arms, I was quiet. I felt shaky, a little sick, sound and vision expanding and contracting, sudden loudness, then fuzzy muffled. Sharp and bright, then dim at the edges. Quiet, cool - safe.

This is what I had been seeking. I needed this. We all have our sense of personal space. Intimate space, it is called - a boundary through which only close friends and intimates, can pass. Within this physical boundary is the barrier of our bodies, but also a protective wrapping around our psyches, preventing the casual aquaintance or stranger from penetrating too deep. It is as if pain strips me of this; and the simple existance of others close to me - their noise and light, sounds and colours - are an attack on my senses. I need to be - 'Away' - to enjoy the floating intoxication of the endorphin high.

He took me home, where he enjoyed me; his prize, his pet, his possession - for hours. Then sleeping, wrapped in love and care. Proudly examining the bruises with him, observing the black, purple, red, blue. Pointing out this one or that for his approval. Receiving his praise, earning his pride.

Pleasure. Pain. Degradation. Worth.
Antonyms become synonyms.
Metamorphosis becomes Preservation.
To metamorphose - to transform, to renew, to remake.
To preserve - to protect, care for, look after.

THE NEXT TWO WEEKENDS

Time merges, expands, collapses, when I am with him. We are late everywhere, arriving dishevelled, giggling, flushed and slightly shame-faced. A constant round of apologies - we were late because we were fucking; sorry. Both of us happy to miss social dates altogether, and just stay in; our bodies, heads and hearts still in a whirlwhind of pleasure and excitement. It doesn't matter whether we are at a party, club, fetish market - or if we stay inside all day, playing with the dogs, talking, walking around the supermarket. All of life takes on a shine: it sparkles, when I am with him. And I am more alive now, even when we are apart. Life itself, is shiny again, for me. I have been returned to how I used to be - my real self. And I have discovered something new, something vital, something so very much in my core.

What began as play, is now so much more than that. Once we have spent a little time together on our own, it is as if he has removed not only the barrier around my psyche that I spoke of above, but the wisps of protection around my innermost being, my core. Clouds, threads, locks of behaviour, patterns of thoughts, action, mood - gone, gone like candy floss twisted up on a stick and held by him, to be returned to me later. Bare and naked, the pillar around with those candy floss mists swirl is the core of my essential substance, my identity no longer masked by obscuring layers. In a daydream I happily walk beside him, tucked under his shoulder, or with his fingers encircling my wrist. He gathers my hands in his and holds me in flesh handcuffs. He twists my arm behind my back, takes my neck, or throat, in his grasp. He does all these things without noticing, until I alert him to them with a smile, or gesture. They make me feel proud - proud to be his, and proud that he asserts his ownership of me without conscious action.

Back at his house, he asserts his ownership of me consciously, constantly. He is becoming addicted to fucking my mouth, and letting me suck his cock. I adore sucking cock. In the past I have taken pleasure in knowing I am skilled, enthusiastic, in this - I knew that I did a mean blow-job.

But with him, I don't give blow-jobs. They are not something I do to him. They are something he does to me. He just happens to have his dick down my throat, instead of in my cunt or arse. Sometimes he forces me to submit to a brutal throat fucking while I retch and gag and drool. Sometimes he lets me suck him. Regardless, I do not do what I used to. I used to just suck and lick, exactly the way I liked to, doing whatever felt good, *to ME*. Unless he makes a special effort not to give me any verbal or non-verbal cues, I find it impossible now. Which I love. Because I don't want my pleasure to be the focus of sex. I want to be used. I want my body to be used for HIS pleasure, not mine.

And so joyous is it to please him, that my body reacts automatically to what he wants, desires, and needs. Because what he wants, desires, and needs, is what *I* want, desire, and need. Pleasing him in this way gets me impossibly wet. Just talking to him about my need to please, to make him proud of me, to be the perfect fucktoy for him, gets me wet. I am proud and vain and boastful regarding this - it gives me such joy to be always available for him, from the moment we are together to the moment that I leave him. He can claim his property at any time. I never wear tights when I am with him, or if I do, I make sure that they are ones he can rip if he wants to fuck me urgently. Instead I prefer stockings, and heels, and either very short skirts or long ones, easily lifted or moved aside. I like to look pretty for him, with soft skin, scented and clean, shaven. It pleases me. Many of these things I did before I ever met him, but if I know he has a preference for something, it makes me want to always ensure he can have it, if he wants it. Whether I am wet or not, he can sink his fat cock into my swollen pussy at any moment, and know that within a minute or two, I will be sloppily, messily, wet.

I am proud that I have a tight cunt for him, that sucking his dick gets me soaking wet, and that when he tells me to cum, I cum. It pleases me to ask for permission if I am about to climax, and he has not already instructed me to. He likes me to cum hard and often, and it pleases me and makes me happy that I can bring him pleasure this way. When I move to make it easier for his fingers to be inside me, it is not for me that I move, but for him. He likes to play with my cunt, my tits, or to finger my arsehole, while he fucks me, or wanks himself off over me, forcing me beneath him so he can spray his sticky load all over my face, or smother my tits with it, or spunk up all over my pussy, finishing off inside me. Sometimes he will push more of it inside me, with his fingers, or his cock. Or I will lap it from his hand, or his stomach, eagerly. It makes me feel so proud, and happy, to be the perfect fucktoy for him.

Three times now, he has forced me to cum through my whole body, bringing me to orgasm with his voice, telling me where and how to feel it, building it inside me, and then, when he is ready, releasing me. I shook afterwards, twitched and writhed like I had taken an electric shock. Terrifying. Amazing. I am stunned.

I tell him about some of my first fantasies, reminding him that until I was in my late twenties, I had never had a sexual fantasy about anyone except my husband, and never used a toy on my clit, and I had never cum, until then. My whorish ways now, conceal this. Later, he took me through the story of a fantasy so unwholesome and repulsive, I have never shared it with anyone, before. He made it real for me, my body reacted as if it was real - it WAS real, and finally he spun the climax of the tale in my head as he greased me and slowly worked inside me the most brutal, obscene, appalling, of all our dildos, that I have never been able to take before. So determined was I to please him, so fucking incredibly hot was it to feel my depraved imaginings be made real, that I bore down on the immense shaft wantonly, letting the huge meat fill my slutty little pussy, breathing through the pain, until it became pleasure and pain, then only pleasure, heat, pressure, and finally, I came as he worked it back and forth inside me, my cunt becoming unbearably tight on it as my muscles shuddered and squeezed and I moaned, rocking back and forth, uncaring of how shameless, how much of a fucking slut he had made of me.

Because I am *his* slut, *his* whore, *his* fucktoy. His beloved. And he is proud of me. And this makes me happy.