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I am happy. Really, really happy. Not just content. My life is full of joy.
It's all been worth it.
Monday 9 August 2010
Wednesday 4 August 2010
Black Liner Run
[Disclaimer: this journal entry contains strong violence, punch play, rape play, abuse play, and knife play. If these themes make you uncomfortable, I strongly advise you not to read. This journal entry is not fiction.]
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(Still it’s nice to wish)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(If he understands)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(This could never be)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(Still he’s making plans)
~ She Wants Revenge
Friday, 7pm.
I've been edgy all day, fraught with longing for you. I want you. I'm in a provocative mood. You signal to me that I should suck your cock. With eyes never leaving your face, I catch my breath, shake my head, without a sound. You play with yourself. My heart beats faster. I catch my breath with need. I can't resist for much longer, I have to have you in my mouth. You moan in pleasure as your hands stroke your shaft, pull and stretch out your balls. I am weak for you. I find myself licking the tip of your fat prick, despite myself, and letting saliva seep out of my mouth and drip onto your flesh; swollen, hard.
Angry, playful, I pull back. You have tricked me. I refuse your game of cat and mouse. You see my mood change - seconds later you feel my nails digging into your skin, deliberately trying to cause pain. Testing. Always testing for weakness.
Somehow I am face down on the sofa, my arms behind my back, twisted brutally. I resist, struggle, kick out at you as you press heavily down on me from above. My face is turned, crushed into the cushion, my mouth spiteful, hissing, swearing, snarling. Without hesitation or difficulty you pull my knickers down while I'm still pinned, and get your cock inside me. I writhe, frantic. Bastard. Furious.
"You're not going anywhere, love", you taunt. Cocky, so fucking cocky. I'll wipe that arrogance off your face. Teeth ground together, I go for you, claws outstretched. Against all fairness, I am now face up on the other sofa, my legs spread far too wide for comfort, as you stick your cock in my mouth, using me to get yourself off. You kneel on my hands to give me nowhere to retreat to, as you fuck me mouth almost to the point of being sick. Fucking cunt, I hiss at you. You pull your t-shirt off, wind it like a rag, and jam it into my mouth like a gag. I gurgle, drool into the fabric, narrow my eyes with rage, muffled sounds of violence making their way through the gag. You push my head back with using it, so hard I think the edges of my mouth might tear, and bang my head into the wall behind as you drive your hips against mine, forcing your stiff prick into my unwilling cunt.
You rip the gag out of my mouth, slide me, crying now, onto the floor and mount me spread over the sofa, from behind. You plunge into my tight arsehole. It is agonising. You piston your dick into me, not caring whether I enjoy it or not, not caring that it hurts, just taking what you want, what you need from me. You fill my arse with spunk, cumming so much and so deeply inside me that hours later, I am still leaking from your anal rape.
Saturday, 1am
I hold my breath in apprehension as we drive into the dogging spot. It is crowded tonight, and you pull up in front of a picnic bench set among a few trees. My mind instantly fills with images of what you might do to me.
We kiss, and a couple of men begin to crowd around the car. You hitch up my skirt, run your hands over my fishnet stockings, and work your fingers inside me. I cum, noisily, messily, as a horde of men press in close against the windows. A man furtively jerks himself off - I can hear his hand hitting the door.
"Pull your knickers down", you tell me. I obey. "Take them off". I obey. You get your fingers inside me again.
You unhook my bra, are lifting my heavy breasts out from the cups, holding them in your hands. Two men crawl over the bonnet, leaning on the windscreen.
A frantic knocking on the door - all the men disappear in seconds - "Pull your skirt down" you tell me. I hear the urgency in your voice. I obey. The police send us on our way.
We drive home. You park some way up from the house. One of the men has followed us in his car from the site. He looks intensely into my eyes as he pulls up alongside our car. He drives off. I am glad I don't live here.
Saturday, 2.30am.
You exercise your rights over my body. I am tired, exhausted. You stroke me, draw me closer against your body as you spoon me from behind. I push back against you, tilting my hips. Your touch feels possessive, territorial even; you handle my body as if you own it, own me, and this arouses me. I want you to make use of me, if you should want to do so, before we sleep. You slip into me from behind and I moan, arch my back, grind my cunt into you.
You fill me with your cum. I wake, hours later, in a pool of it, leaking out of me, soaking the mattress underneath me, covering my thighs. I go back to sleep - happy, proud.
Saturday, 10.30am
You force me to watch vile porn while I suck your cock. Sometimes licking, sucking your balls into my mouth, taking you deep into me and feeling you hit the back of my throat. Sometimes you're taking my mouth, fucking my throat. All the time you show me clip after clip of fucking, sucking, cumming, on your phone.
You ruin my cunt with my own favourite glass dildo. It was not designed to be used so brutally. I am sore, swollen, after your assault. I hold my vibrator onto my clit while you use the dildo in me, and I cum very hard. I want to show you, I want to do it for you - I am simultaneously shy, ashamed, aroused, proud.
You jerk yourself off, kneeling over me as I lie back and rub the sweat that falls from you, into my tits. I feel a need for something in my mouth. I begin with my fingers, then when they are not enough, reach over for another, different dildo, and suck it. I run my tongue over the pointed end, slide it between my lips. Lost in the moment I am shocked when you take it from me, and use it in me. It is very big at the base, too big, and I am sore and throbbing. I whimper, "it hurts, it hurts". You moan, toss aside the dildo and blow your load inside me.
I am in love with you.
Saturday, 3pm
We spend the afternoon with another member of our poly family, your little girl. We trail slowly over the heath with the dogs, exchanging stories, kissing, holding hands. Later we drink coffee, eat tiffin, and laugh - far too loudly - making everyone glare at us. We don't care - we are happy and enjoying each other's company. I cuddle her goodbye before you walk her to the train station, while I check on my husband. He is at a music festival this weekend, hence my spending so much time with you.
Saturday, 10pm
We enter the club, and you wait for me while I pause in the toilet to check my make-up, straighten my dress. It is the one I think of as my 'rape dress', completely see-through, and my blue leopard print underwear shows unrelentingly through from beneath it.
This will be the last of this particular club for a while, and the room is heaving. We stop to talk with people we know, catch up a little. We settle on a sofa near the play. Things are hotting up. The play right next to us is spectacular - a young girl in a school uniform is tied with her hands above her head, blindfolded, flogged. It's nothing I haven't seen before, but the connection between them is beautiful, intense, startling.
Looking from left to right the scene is like something from the fall of the roman empire. Everywhere people are bent over benches, stalking in high heeled thigh boots, or suspended upside down, naked. I lean into your lap and kiss you, a pressing need building in me. I bite your lip. The first flickers of that anger are in your eyes. The anger I so need from you. I bite your neck, tracking teeth down your shoulder. You kiss me, hard - urgent. You bite down tightly on my lip, and I pull away from you, snarling. You lunge for me, sink your teeth into my neck, a growl trickling from your jaws. You snarl as you tear at my skin, eat away at me. I undo the halterneck of my dress, inviting your touch to move to my breasts. You maul me, ripping at the skin with your teeth.
I am standing on a small platform, next to a winch suspension device, with no real certainty in how I got here. You wind the handle which unwraps enough chain to allow lowering of the spreader bar, with attached wrist cuffs, to the height of my head. I glare at you, mutinously. You tap the bar with the 15" bowie knife you've had strapped to your belt all night, and indicate I should put my hands up to be cuffed with a mere glance of your eyes. The ringing sound reverberates throughout the room; for a moment it is all I can hear.
I feel my lip push outward as I set my face towards you. I shake my head - just a little. Underlying my thoughts is a certainty that my expression must reflect my internal state - stubborn low-lying ire, determination not to yield to you, mixed in with the spice of true fear. That fear leaps, coloured with icy rivulets of flame, violet and blue, as your eyes widen at my defiance. You grab me by the throat, smash your fist holding the knife within an inch of my eye, rumbling guttural sounds coming from your throat, grunts, huffs and snarls; I shake my head again, lean back as far as I can, struggling. This baits your temper even more, and I get a huge adrenaline surge as you lunge for me with the knife. You go to stab me in the stomach - there must only be a centimetre of distance between my flesh and your blade, when you halt.
You shake me again by the throat, like a wolf who has downed his prey. Temporarily subdued, I have run out of courage, and slowly, grudgingly, move my hands into position. You sheathe your knife; for now.
I feel your hands on my arse, running over the skin. You spank me - you never spank me lightly, it is always hard, or very hard; sometimes the rain of blows generates a syncopated pain which is easier to enjoy. You know I like it rough. I really like the feel of this, not so much a warm-up as a statement of intent; an introductory paragraph. It often sets the tone of what's to come - how much I struggle, resist, or moan and push into the blows; how hard and where you hit me, and whether you will still me through a hand in my hair, a rough fist, soft words or a knife.
Today your slaps on my behind are fighting talk, a tool to humiliate me in front of all these people. You have turned me around so that you're behind me while I face the mirror, and I turn my head aside - I hate looking at myself. I catch your eye instead, and I feel my whole face quiver, caught on the knifeblade edge between wrath, shame, pain, tears, fear.
You loose one of my wrists completely, and we both know you're taking your life in your hands, partially freeing me when I'm in this mood. You slap me in the face. Not a light blow designed to shame or rebuke, a full hit. You mean it to hurt, to provoke.
This is the moment. The tiger, hidden until now, leaps for your throat. The volcano, smouldering, spews molten lava, showering rocks and thunder into the sky. The match drops slowly, tumbling end over end, into the accelerator fluid, and clouds of smoke, flame like ultraviolet fire, explode behind my eyes with a whoomph.
I'm going to fucking kill you. I'm no longer capable of conscious thought, but some still sane part of me is glad I'm restrained and the damage I'll inflict is limited.
I go for you, with hands and claws. I slap you in the face. You slap me again, and again. I hit you back - or try to. We stalk around each other, less like prey and predator, rather like two gladiators in the arena. The bar is held between us, one wrist of mine cuffed to it, one hand of yours gently resting on it, steadying me, threatening me. Our eyes are locked. Nothing else matters. Nothing else, but being here, like this, with you.
I draw my hand back behind my head and smack you in your sneering mouth as hard as I can. You rock back on your heels - with your right hand you smack me full in the face with your open hand. The blow would have sent me flying, if I had not been held up by the wrist restraint. You take off the leather armour covering your torso, and I see the sweat pouring from your chest. You know what the sight of you in jeans, bare-chested, does to me. And I hate you for it. You know my weakness for you, you use my own lust for you against me. Taking advantage of my distraction, you leap onto the platform with me, mashing your sweaty, muscled body against my own, reminding me how soft, pliant, malleable I am in the face of your strength. You tie my other wrist onto the bar and step back, to begin hitting me.
Lashes from your whip hit my legs; a storm cloud where the rain burns instead of soothing. I spit a curse of violent swearing at you. You whip harder. I spit into your face. You spit into mine. You punch me in the stomach. You pour a torrent of blows over me, a meteor shower of hot, painful impact injuries. I kick out at you - should one of my blows connect, it will be because I want it to, even knowing that my heels will cause you injury. You beat me unceasingly, despite the risk.
Ahh, at last. Oh, thankyou - thankyou. I feel an easing in the pressure, the almost painful pressure built up in me over the last couple of months. A feeling of satisfaction, a need met. I yield to you - you ARE stronger than me, and are able to show me so.
You sense my submission to you and pursue it, forcing your fingers inside me. You tell me to cum, and I do - but for you, not for me.
You have lanced my violent anger and allowed the first surge to come free; as have I for you. I can feel more bubbling deeper inside, but that is for later. For now, both you and I are spent. I feel such gratitude, such humility, to you. The desire in me to show it builds until I cannot NOT act. As you help me over to sit down, recover, my body moves of its own accord to honour you. I kneel before you, and bend to kiss your feet.
You lift me up, and position me on the sofa so I am sitting facing you, while you stand before me. You unbutton your jeans and take my mouth.
Then you hold me, stroke me, calm me. For a little while. Standing, you take me by the hand and lead me, swaying, unsteady, into the men's toilets. You lock us into a cubicle and force me onto my knees. I think that you will fuck me, or take my mouth again. Instead, this time when you unbutton yourself, a stream of hot piss hits me in the face. I jerk away, and your fingers are twisted in my hair, holding me in place over the toilet. Your other hand forces my mouth open, fingers pushing my jaw apart, until the warm, briny taste of you fills my mouth to overflowing. I retch a little, spit out as much as I can, but am unable to prevent some from leaking down my throat into my stomach. My face, neck, chest, is covered in your urine. Your cock is rock hard during this, it must pain you. There is no thought in me to refuse you - I would swallow it if you asked it of me. There is no thought in me at all, just an animalistic, instinctive need to obey you, to please you, to submit to you. I have been marked as yours - debased, as the filthy little whore I am. But with this act you claim me as YOUR filthy, dirty whore. I am marked unmistakeable as such.
You push your stiff cock into my mouth and I suck you. You taste of piss but I am not repulsed; but grateful. You take me outside, and lead me to the women's toilet where I can wash my face a little. I look in the mirror and see my eyeliner has run; tear-stains plain to see. I do not consider removing them; they are just as much your marks as the bruises you leave on me, the scent marks you have just covered me with.
Sunday, 12am
I ask to go out on the balcony - the cool breeze will help me recover, I know. Your body curves around me protectively everywhere we go. I feel so safe with you. As I sit, a little shaky still, and floating; you stand in front of me, and let your leather armour fall open, cloaking us from casual view. You take my mouth again, pumping it hard.
Sunday, 12.30am
We make our way towards the inside, when I see a pretty blonde friend of mine. She has already caught your eye, especially dressed as she is in the slutty school uniform of perfection. As you chat with her partner, we flirt, and kiss, and she seduces me with her delicious voice, and soft, soft lips. She sends me on my way with a promise of more to come...
Sunday, 2am
This night will be the last time this club is ever held at this venue. Everyone here hopes it will find a new home - but after tonight, all the equipment will be sold, the fittings stripped, the bar emptied. You strap me onto the St Andrew's Cross, and I realise, as you do so, that this is the same piece of equipment on which I had my first public play a year and a half ago. There is a sense of balance, of rightness, to it. I'm glad my last time on it was with you.
You strike me over and over again - my back, my thighs, and everywhere in between. I rip my arm loose from the straps and flail at you, connecting once or twice. You pin me back down and cuff me much more tightly, then beat me even harder.
There is far less anger this time, but you push me hard, generating so much screaming heat in me that I have to let it loose, and for the first time, I scream. Really scream - not trying to contain it, just letting the sound from my mouth carry the agony I'm enduring.
You slow, and then pause, coming to the front of the cross. You meet my eyes. "Stop", you say. "Stop". I look at you, uncomprehending. "Stop?" you ask me again. Are you...do you want to know if I want to stop? [it is only later than I learn you were asking me if I wanted to safeword] Is it too much? No.
You spit at me. Into my face. I conclude I must stop screaming, that this is what you want me to stop doing...you have made me scream and now I have disgusted you with my weakness...I am nothing, less than nothing. You continue to abuse me, beat me, hurt me, and I, with the last of my will, hold back the screams. I cannot stop the sobs that rack my body, make the whole frame shake, or the tears that pour from me. You come and stand in front of me again, and look into my eyes. You speak a single word, quietly. "Cum", you tell me. And I do. I am humiliated, I hate to cum in public, strapped to equipment like this, losing my dignity in front of people I know.
Again, you beat me. And something snaps inside, and the pain doesn't feel like pain anymore. I am somewhere else, and feel the blows only like pressure, they no longer hurt. You lift me down, gently, and pull me over to one side, where I float, encased by your love.
I adore what you have done to me; what you have reduced me to, and yet I am not diminished, instead I am made *more*.
Sunday, 5am.
You tell me to sleep while you walk the dogs. I am hungry, and exhausted. I refuse food, secretly wanting to be available, should you choose to fuck my mouth on your return. Through a super human effort I remain awake, so that you may take me, should you choose to do so. You choose to let me sleep. I sleep in your arms. Yours.
Sunday, 10am
We wake, slowly, lingeringly. You fist me - almost, you won't quite fit. Next time I will try even harder. As your hand moves inside me I hear you moan, mutter 'oh god, I want to cum on you', and I cum, over and over again. I am so sore now. Then you fuck me. I cum again, as you spill your seed inside me.
Sunday, 6pm
If I am with you, then taking my own pleasure, directly, by my own action, or even by yours, is difficult for me. I want *you* to have the pleasure, *all* of it. You have slowly broken me to the idea that you get direct pleasure from touching me, having your fingers inside me, using toys on me, making me cum. It became a simple thing, understanding that you were using my body to satisfy yourself, however you chose, be it with fingers or cock or tongue. I give you my body, despite my desire to refrain from taking pleasure when I could be giving it to you, as an act of submission. When I cum, it is in submission to you. When I moan, cry out, press my cunt against your hand, it is in your honour that I do so. It took time for you to force me to ride your cock, sitting astride you, without me feeling too ashamed to enjoy it.
But still, making myself cum by my own hand, just the way I would if you weren't there - how difficult was it to get around the sense that I was doing something to be ashamed of? So when I offered this up to you, offered to show you what I do when I make myself cum, alone; I know you treasured it as the gift it was.
You watch, hungry-eyed, as I push the ribbed glass dildo deep into my arse. Hold the vibrator on my clit. I soon overcome my shame and embarrassment, and get lost in the pleasure of it; eventually cumming hard, sweatily and loudly, calling your name. As I collapse into your arms, it is such a delight to be stroked and soothed by you.
Then you come over my face, and I suck what little I am allowed to, down inside me, clean you, and kiss you, then lie in your arms, covered in your sweat, replete.
Monday, 1am
After spending the evening with friends, back at my house you undress slowly in front of me. I shiver. "Is it permitted, to ask for what I want?" I speak to the floor, too shy to meet your eyes.
"Yes", you tell me. "It is always permitted. Although you might not always *get* it."
"Please", I ask you. I lift my head, bravely. "Will you hurt me?"
You leave the room for some time, and when you come back, we begin watching violent porn. I think you will fuck me, but not hurt me. I am a little wistful, but not sad. I like that it is your decision to make.
But I am delighted when you put my wrists and ankles into cuffs, and tie me to two spreader bars. You alternatively violate, and cane me, while forcing my head to one side so I see the porn. My arms are behind my back, and you pull cruelly on the bar, forcing my torso into an upright position so you can plunge more deeply into me from behind.
You cease beating me to torment me with a brutal, huge and abusive dildo. I am so swollen and sore from our weekend, I can't believe you're going to do this to me. But you do. You force it into me - not that far, I am too swollen, but far enough for it to hurt, more than the caning.
Sated, you lift me, limp and sobbing, and wrap me up in the bed while I shiver and whimper. I am so deeply asleep when you come to bed, after shutting the lights off, that you cannot even lift me enough to get your arm around me; but I know you are there. You are with me. You keep me safe.
Monday, 9am
My husband comes home unexpectedly from a music festival, hours earlier than anticipated. The lounge looks like sodom and gomorrah - a giant cock next to some lube, spreader bars, cuffs, whips, floggers, porn, and my underwear, tossed casually around the place. There is another dildo on the bathroom sink, drying. He can't go in the bedroom because you're lying in there naked on his side of the bed; only a few minutes ago, you were clearly accompanied by his wife.
I stand in the kitchen, horror, surprise and amusement sharing equal space on my face. I'm naked and covered in bruises. Could this get any worse?
Thank god for polyamory and honesty. Husband was not exactly happy, but sees the funny side and giggles to himself for hours afterwards about it. Poor you - you are persuaded to sit on the sofa and chat to him with me, instead of slinking out and killing yourself, as was your alternate plan.
Monday, 12pm
I kiss you goodbye at the door, wishing I could have yet still more time with you. I mustn't be greedy. But no amount of time could be enough. However, I am content and satiated. And in love. So very in love; with you.
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(Still it’s nice to wish)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(If he understands)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(This could never be)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(Still he’s making plans)
~ She Wants Revenge
Friday, 7pm.
I've been edgy all day, fraught with longing for you. I want you. I'm in a provocative mood. You signal to me that I should suck your cock. With eyes never leaving your face, I catch my breath, shake my head, without a sound. You play with yourself. My heart beats faster. I catch my breath with need. I can't resist for much longer, I have to have you in my mouth. You moan in pleasure as your hands stroke your shaft, pull and stretch out your balls. I am weak for you. I find myself licking the tip of your fat prick, despite myself, and letting saliva seep out of my mouth and drip onto your flesh; swollen, hard.
Angry, playful, I pull back. You have tricked me. I refuse your game of cat and mouse. You see my mood change - seconds later you feel my nails digging into your skin, deliberately trying to cause pain. Testing. Always testing for weakness.
Somehow I am face down on the sofa, my arms behind my back, twisted brutally. I resist, struggle, kick out at you as you press heavily down on me from above. My face is turned, crushed into the cushion, my mouth spiteful, hissing, swearing, snarling. Without hesitation or difficulty you pull my knickers down while I'm still pinned, and get your cock inside me. I writhe, frantic. Bastard. Furious.
"You're not going anywhere, love", you taunt. Cocky, so fucking cocky. I'll wipe that arrogance off your face. Teeth ground together, I go for you, claws outstretched. Against all fairness, I am now face up on the other sofa, my legs spread far too wide for comfort, as you stick your cock in my mouth, using me to get yourself off. You kneel on my hands to give me nowhere to retreat to, as you fuck me mouth almost to the point of being sick. Fucking cunt, I hiss at you. You pull your t-shirt off, wind it like a rag, and jam it into my mouth like a gag. I gurgle, drool into the fabric, narrow my eyes with rage, muffled sounds of violence making their way through the gag. You push my head back with using it, so hard I think the edges of my mouth might tear, and bang my head into the wall behind as you drive your hips against mine, forcing your stiff prick into my unwilling cunt.
You rip the gag out of my mouth, slide me, crying now, onto the floor and mount me spread over the sofa, from behind. You plunge into my tight arsehole. It is agonising. You piston your dick into me, not caring whether I enjoy it or not, not caring that it hurts, just taking what you want, what you need from me. You fill my arse with spunk, cumming so much and so deeply inside me that hours later, I am still leaking from your anal rape.
Saturday, 1am
I hold my breath in apprehension as we drive into the dogging spot. It is crowded tonight, and you pull up in front of a picnic bench set among a few trees. My mind instantly fills with images of what you might do to me.
We kiss, and a couple of men begin to crowd around the car. You hitch up my skirt, run your hands over my fishnet stockings, and work your fingers inside me. I cum, noisily, messily, as a horde of men press in close against the windows. A man furtively jerks himself off - I can hear his hand hitting the door.
"Pull your knickers down", you tell me. I obey. "Take them off". I obey. You get your fingers inside me again.
You unhook my bra, are lifting my heavy breasts out from the cups, holding them in your hands. Two men crawl over the bonnet, leaning on the windscreen.
A frantic knocking on the door - all the men disappear in seconds - "Pull your skirt down" you tell me. I hear the urgency in your voice. I obey. The police send us on our way.
We drive home. You park some way up from the house. One of the men has followed us in his car from the site. He looks intensely into my eyes as he pulls up alongside our car. He drives off. I am glad I don't live here.
Saturday, 2.30am.
You exercise your rights over my body. I am tired, exhausted. You stroke me, draw me closer against your body as you spoon me from behind. I push back against you, tilting my hips. Your touch feels possessive, territorial even; you handle my body as if you own it, own me, and this arouses me. I want you to make use of me, if you should want to do so, before we sleep. You slip into me from behind and I moan, arch my back, grind my cunt into you.
You fill me with your cum. I wake, hours later, in a pool of it, leaking out of me, soaking the mattress underneath me, covering my thighs. I go back to sleep - happy, proud.
Saturday, 10.30am
You force me to watch vile porn while I suck your cock. Sometimes licking, sucking your balls into my mouth, taking you deep into me and feeling you hit the back of my throat. Sometimes you're taking my mouth, fucking my throat. All the time you show me clip after clip of fucking, sucking, cumming, on your phone.
You ruin my cunt with my own favourite glass dildo. It was not designed to be used so brutally. I am sore, swollen, after your assault. I hold my vibrator onto my clit while you use the dildo in me, and I cum very hard. I want to show you, I want to do it for you - I am simultaneously shy, ashamed, aroused, proud.
You jerk yourself off, kneeling over me as I lie back and rub the sweat that falls from you, into my tits. I feel a need for something in my mouth. I begin with my fingers, then when they are not enough, reach over for another, different dildo, and suck it. I run my tongue over the pointed end, slide it between my lips. Lost in the moment I am shocked when you take it from me, and use it in me. It is very big at the base, too big, and I am sore and throbbing. I whimper, "it hurts, it hurts". You moan, toss aside the dildo and blow your load inside me.
I am in love with you.
Saturday, 3pm
We spend the afternoon with another member of our poly family, your little girl. We trail slowly over the heath with the dogs, exchanging stories, kissing, holding hands. Later we drink coffee, eat tiffin, and laugh - far too loudly - making everyone glare at us. We don't care - we are happy and enjoying each other's company. I cuddle her goodbye before you walk her to the train station, while I check on my husband. He is at a music festival this weekend, hence my spending so much time with you.
Saturday, 10pm
We enter the club, and you wait for me while I pause in the toilet to check my make-up, straighten my dress. It is the one I think of as my 'rape dress', completely see-through, and my blue leopard print underwear shows unrelentingly through from beneath it.
This will be the last of this particular club for a while, and the room is heaving. We stop to talk with people we know, catch up a little. We settle on a sofa near the play. Things are hotting up. The play right next to us is spectacular - a young girl in a school uniform is tied with her hands above her head, blindfolded, flogged. It's nothing I haven't seen before, but the connection between them is beautiful, intense, startling.
Looking from left to right the scene is like something from the fall of the roman empire. Everywhere people are bent over benches, stalking in high heeled thigh boots, or suspended upside down, naked. I lean into your lap and kiss you, a pressing need building in me. I bite your lip. The first flickers of that anger are in your eyes. The anger I so need from you. I bite your neck, tracking teeth down your shoulder. You kiss me, hard - urgent. You bite down tightly on my lip, and I pull away from you, snarling. You lunge for me, sink your teeth into my neck, a growl trickling from your jaws. You snarl as you tear at my skin, eat away at me. I undo the halterneck of my dress, inviting your touch to move to my breasts. You maul me, ripping at the skin with your teeth.
I am standing on a small platform, next to a winch suspension device, with no real certainty in how I got here. You wind the handle which unwraps enough chain to allow lowering of the spreader bar, with attached wrist cuffs, to the height of my head. I glare at you, mutinously. You tap the bar with the 15" bowie knife you've had strapped to your belt all night, and indicate I should put my hands up to be cuffed with a mere glance of your eyes. The ringing sound reverberates throughout the room; for a moment it is all I can hear.
I feel my lip push outward as I set my face towards you. I shake my head - just a little. Underlying my thoughts is a certainty that my expression must reflect my internal state - stubborn low-lying ire, determination not to yield to you, mixed in with the spice of true fear. That fear leaps, coloured with icy rivulets of flame, violet and blue, as your eyes widen at my defiance. You grab me by the throat, smash your fist holding the knife within an inch of my eye, rumbling guttural sounds coming from your throat, grunts, huffs and snarls; I shake my head again, lean back as far as I can, struggling. This baits your temper even more, and I get a huge adrenaline surge as you lunge for me with the knife. You go to stab me in the stomach - there must only be a centimetre of distance between my flesh and your blade, when you halt.
You shake me again by the throat, like a wolf who has downed his prey. Temporarily subdued, I have run out of courage, and slowly, grudgingly, move my hands into position. You sheathe your knife; for now.
I feel your hands on my arse, running over the skin. You spank me - you never spank me lightly, it is always hard, or very hard; sometimes the rain of blows generates a syncopated pain which is easier to enjoy. You know I like it rough. I really like the feel of this, not so much a warm-up as a statement of intent; an introductory paragraph. It often sets the tone of what's to come - how much I struggle, resist, or moan and push into the blows; how hard and where you hit me, and whether you will still me through a hand in my hair, a rough fist, soft words or a knife.
Today your slaps on my behind are fighting talk, a tool to humiliate me in front of all these people. You have turned me around so that you're behind me while I face the mirror, and I turn my head aside - I hate looking at myself. I catch your eye instead, and I feel my whole face quiver, caught on the knifeblade edge between wrath, shame, pain, tears, fear.
You loose one of my wrists completely, and we both know you're taking your life in your hands, partially freeing me when I'm in this mood. You slap me in the face. Not a light blow designed to shame or rebuke, a full hit. You mean it to hurt, to provoke.
This is the moment. The tiger, hidden until now, leaps for your throat. The volcano, smouldering, spews molten lava, showering rocks and thunder into the sky. The match drops slowly, tumbling end over end, into the accelerator fluid, and clouds of smoke, flame like ultraviolet fire, explode behind my eyes with a whoomph.
I'm going to fucking kill you. I'm no longer capable of conscious thought, but some still sane part of me is glad I'm restrained and the damage I'll inflict is limited.
I go for you, with hands and claws. I slap you in the face. You slap me again, and again. I hit you back - or try to. We stalk around each other, less like prey and predator, rather like two gladiators in the arena. The bar is held between us, one wrist of mine cuffed to it, one hand of yours gently resting on it, steadying me, threatening me. Our eyes are locked. Nothing else matters. Nothing else, but being here, like this, with you.
I draw my hand back behind my head and smack you in your sneering mouth as hard as I can. You rock back on your heels - with your right hand you smack me full in the face with your open hand. The blow would have sent me flying, if I had not been held up by the wrist restraint. You take off the leather armour covering your torso, and I see the sweat pouring from your chest. You know what the sight of you in jeans, bare-chested, does to me. And I hate you for it. You know my weakness for you, you use my own lust for you against me. Taking advantage of my distraction, you leap onto the platform with me, mashing your sweaty, muscled body against my own, reminding me how soft, pliant, malleable I am in the face of your strength. You tie my other wrist onto the bar and step back, to begin hitting me.
Lashes from your whip hit my legs; a storm cloud where the rain burns instead of soothing. I spit a curse of violent swearing at you. You whip harder. I spit into your face. You spit into mine. You punch me in the stomach. You pour a torrent of blows over me, a meteor shower of hot, painful impact injuries. I kick out at you - should one of my blows connect, it will be because I want it to, even knowing that my heels will cause you injury. You beat me unceasingly, despite the risk.
Ahh, at last. Oh, thankyou - thankyou. I feel an easing in the pressure, the almost painful pressure built up in me over the last couple of months. A feeling of satisfaction, a need met. I yield to you - you ARE stronger than me, and are able to show me so.
You sense my submission to you and pursue it, forcing your fingers inside me. You tell me to cum, and I do - but for you, not for me.
You have lanced my violent anger and allowed the first surge to come free; as have I for you. I can feel more bubbling deeper inside, but that is for later. For now, both you and I are spent. I feel such gratitude, such humility, to you. The desire in me to show it builds until I cannot NOT act. As you help me over to sit down, recover, my body moves of its own accord to honour you. I kneel before you, and bend to kiss your feet.
You lift me up, and position me on the sofa so I am sitting facing you, while you stand before me. You unbutton your jeans and take my mouth.
Then you hold me, stroke me, calm me. For a little while. Standing, you take me by the hand and lead me, swaying, unsteady, into the men's toilets. You lock us into a cubicle and force me onto my knees. I think that you will fuck me, or take my mouth again. Instead, this time when you unbutton yourself, a stream of hot piss hits me in the face. I jerk away, and your fingers are twisted in my hair, holding me in place over the toilet. Your other hand forces my mouth open, fingers pushing my jaw apart, until the warm, briny taste of you fills my mouth to overflowing. I retch a little, spit out as much as I can, but am unable to prevent some from leaking down my throat into my stomach. My face, neck, chest, is covered in your urine. Your cock is rock hard during this, it must pain you. There is no thought in me to refuse you - I would swallow it if you asked it of me. There is no thought in me at all, just an animalistic, instinctive need to obey you, to please you, to submit to you. I have been marked as yours - debased, as the filthy little whore I am. But with this act you claim me as YOUR filthy, dirty whore. I am marked unmistakeable as such.
You push your stiff cock into my mouth and I suck you. You taste of piss but I am not repulsed; but grateful. You take me outside, and lead me to the women's toilet where I can wash my face a little. I look in the mirror and see my eyeliner has run; tear-stains plain to see. I do not consider removing them; they are just as much your marks as the bruises you leave on me, the scent marks you have just covered me with.
Sunday, 12am
I ask to go out on the balcony - the cool breeze will help me recover, I know. Your body curves around me protectively everywhere we go. I feel so safe with you. As I sit, a little shaky still, and floating; you stand in front of me, and let your leather armour fall open, cloaking us from casual view. You take my mouth again, pumping it hard.
Sunday, 12.30am
We make our way towards the inside, when I see a pretty blonde friend of mine. She has already caught your eye, especially dressed as she is in the slutty school uniform of perfection. As you chat with her partner, we flirt, and kiss, and she seduces me with her delicious voice, and soft, soft lips. She sends me on my way with a promise of more to come...
Sunday, 2am
This night will be the last time this club is ever held at this venue. Everyone here hopes it will find a new home - but after tonight, all the equipment will be sold, the fittings stripped, the bar emptied. You strap me onto the St Andrew's Cross, and I realise, as you do so, that this is the same piece of equipment on which I had my first public play a year and a half ago. There is a sense of balance, of rightness, to it. I'm glad my last time on it was with you.
You strike me over and over again - my back, my thighs, and everywhere in between. I rip my arm loose from the straps and flail at you, connecting once or twice. You pin me back down and cuff me much more tightly, then beat me even harder.
There is far less anger this time, but you push me hard, generating so much screaming heat in me that I have to let it loose, and for the first time, I scream. Really scream - not trying to contain it, just letting the sound from my mouth carry the agony I'm enduring.
You slow, and then pause, coming to the front of the cross. You meet my eyes. "Stop", you say. "Stop". I look at you, uncomprehending. "Stop?" you ask me again. Are you...do you want to know if I want to stop? [it is only later than I learn you were asking me if I wanted to safeword] Is it too much? No.
You spit at me. Into my face. I conclude I must stop screaming, that this is what you want me to stop doing...you have made me scream and now I have disgusted you with my weakness...I am nothing, less than nothing. You continue to abuse me, beat me, hurt me, and I, with the last of my will, hold back the screams. I cannot stop the sobs that rack my body, make the whole frame shake, or the tears that pour from me. You come and stand in front of me again, and look into my eyes. You speak a single word, quietly. "Cum", you tell me. And I do. I am humiliated, I hate to cum in public, strapped to equipment like this, losing my dignity in front of people I know.
Again, you beat me. And something snaps inside, and the pain doesn't feel like pain anymore. I am somewhere else, and feel the blows only like pressure, they no longer hurt. You lift me down, gently, and pull me over to one side, where I float, encased by your love.
I adore what you have done to me; what you have reduced me to, and yet I am not diminished, instead I am made *more*.
Sunday, 5am.
You tell me to sleep while you walk the dogs. I am hungry, and exhausted. I refuse food, secretly wanting to be available, should you choose to fuck my mouth on your return. Through a super human effort I remain awake, so that you may take me, should you choose to do so. You choose to let me sleep. I sleep in your arms. Yours.
Sunday, 10am
We wake, slowly, lingeringly. You fist me - almost, you won't quite fit. Next time I will try even harder. As your hand moves inside me I hear you moan, mutter 'oh god, I want to cum on you', and I cum, over and over again. I am so sore now. Then you fuck me. I cum again, as you spill your seed inside me.
Sunday, 6pm
If I am with you, then taking my own pleasure, directly, by my own action, or even by yours, is difficult for me. I want *you* to have the pleasure, *all* of it. You have slowly broken me to the idea that you get direct pleasure from touching me, having your fingers inside me, using toys on me, making me cum. It became a simple thing, understanding that you were using my body to satisfy yourself, however you chose, be it with fingers or cock or tongue. I give you my body, despite my desire to refrain from taking pleasure when I could be giving it to you, as an act of submission. When I cum, it is in submission to you. When I moan, cry out, press my cunt against your hand, it is in your honour that I do so. It took time for you to force me to ride your cock, sitting astride you, without me feeling too ashamed to enjoy it.
But still, making myself cum by my own hand, just the way I would if you weren't there - how difficult was it to get around the sense that I was doing something to be ashamed of? So when I offered this up to you, offered to show you what I do when I make myself cum, alone; I know you treasured it as the gift it was.
You watch, hungry-eyed, as I push the ribbed glass dildo deep into my arse. Hold the vibrator on my clit. I soon overcome my shame and embarrassment, and get lost in the pleasure of it; eventually cumming hard, sweatily and loudly, calling your name. As I collapse into your arms, it is such a delight to be stroked and soothed by you.
Then you come over my face, and I suck what little I am allowed to, down inside me, clean you, and kiss you, then lie in your arms, covered in your sweat, replete.
Monday, 1am
After spending the evening with friends, back at my house you undress slowly in front of me. I shiver. "Is it permitted, to ask for what I want?" I speak to the floor, too shy to meet your eyes.
"Yes", you tell me. "It is always permitted. Although you might not always *get* it."
"Please", I ask you. I lift my head, bravely. "Will you hurt me?"
You leave the room for some time, and when you come back, we begin watching violent porn. I think you will fuck me, but not hurt me. I am a little wistful, but not sad. I like that it is your decision to make.
But I am delighted when you put my wrists and ankles into cuffs, and tie me to two spreader bars. You alternatively violate, and cane me, while forcing my head to one side so I see the porn. My arms are behind my back, and you pull cruelly on the bar, forcing my torso into an upright position so you can plunge more deeply into me from behind.
You cease beating me to torment me with a brutal, huge and abusive dildo. I am so swollen and sore from our weekend, I can't believe you're going to do this to me. But you do. You force it into me - not that far, I am too swollen, but far enough for it to hurt, more than the caning.
Sated, you lift me, limp and sobbing, and wrap me up in the bed while I shiver and whimper. I am so deeply asleep when you come to bed, after shutting the lights off, that you cannot even lift me enough to get your arm around me; but I know you are there. You are with me. You keep me safe.
Monday, 9am
My husband comes home unexpectedly from a music festival, hours earlier than anticipated. The lounge looks like sodom and gomorrah - a giant cock next to some lube, spreader bars, cuffs, whips, floggers, porn, and my underwear, tossed casually around the place. There is another dildo on the bathroom sink, drying. He can't go in the bedroom because you're lying in there naked on his side of the bed; only a few minutes ago, you were clearly accompanied by his wife.
I stand in the kitchen, horror, surprise and amusement sharing equal space on my face. I'm naked and covered in bruises. Could this get any worse?
Thank god for polyamory and honesty. Husband was not exactly happy, but sees the funny side and giggles to himself for hours afterwards about it. Poor you - you are persuaded to sit on the sofa and chat to him with me, instead of slinking out and killing yourself, as was your alternate plan.
Monday, 12pm
I kiss you goodbye at the door, wishing I could have yet still more time with you. I mustn't be greedy. But no amount of time could be enough. However, I am content and satiated. And in love. So very in love; with you.
Tuesday 3 August 2010
Liquid [story]
"The liquid state of a material has a definite volume, but it does not have a definite shape and takes the shape of the container, unlike that of the solid state."
My body is liquid, neither one thing, nor another. I move seamlessly, both ephemeral, floating, flowing; yet also animalistic, rooted, sure-footed as if my body grows from the floor, unable to fall, unable to trip or falter. There is nothing which can induce viscosity in me, take my ability to flow from me; I feel resonance in every cell of my beautiful, strong, graceful body. I am perfect. I am free. It feels as if I am remembering and re-enacting the dance, rather than improvising, each movement made without conscious decision in the knowledge it is perfect and exactly right.
The swollen, rich bass drives my feet, hips, wrists, fingers. Forward, back, centre, forward, back, centre. My arm rises, my wrist tilts, fingers arch delicately in rhythm with the coloratura; I am made of particles which are constantly moving. I am at the center, connected by invisible spokes to the spiral of dancers around me.
I am glad I insisted on air-conditioning for the club. The summer heat is kept out slightly of this basement property, but the huge mass of sweaty bodies brings its own temperature rise. The cool breeze freshens my skin and lifts away the heat which comes from inside, as I grind my hips to the song.
The EBM finishes and leads into the industrial section of the night. I leave the floor, sated for now, and lean up against the cool black marble of the bar. I look around me, happy and proud. The arched alcoves are low lit in darklight, padded with black leather seats, finished with glass topped tables, green recessed lighting; in the DJ booth, my friend, headphones worn sideways to accommodate her mass of hair, moves slickly to the beat as she flicks through for the next track. The dull metal screens act as room-dividers. They lend a faintly sinister air to the industrial-styled decor. I drink in the reward of the hard work, the loving toil of the last few weeks getting the club ready for its first night.
*tick tock*
Everyone has gone, now. I have the music on low. I've switched some of the lights off. The recessed lights shimmer off the metal poles, frames, marble. I shiver a little. The room is cooling rapidly now the only body in it is my own. I close my eyes and allow myself time to enjoy the shiver - pleasurable after so much movement. I have finished cleaning the floor, collecting the detritus of the night.
*tick tock*
I pause. There is something so wrong that for a moment my eyes can't make sense of it.
"Who the fuck are *YOU*??!! And what are you doing in *MY CLUB*?"
*tick tock*
You're in the doorway. I can see only half of your body, your face. The club is dark, I'm standing in the lit space, and there are no lights on in the stairwell.
"What do you want? How did you even get *IN* here?"
*tick tock*
You move forward slightly. Your eyes meet mine. I've never seen your face before this moment, but you look menacingly familiar. Black jeans, black top, plain, simple. Your expression is complex. Anger, surprise, desire. Fear? I must have imagined that. The overwhelming impression is of someone who *inspires* fear, not one who *feels* it.
*tick tock*
You walk forward towards me. There is a moment where I am reminded of the dancers earlier; we meet in the centre of the floor, eyes locked, bodies oh so aware of each others. Will we begin to dance? It will be Latin, I think, full of vitality and constrained tension, movements slow then sudden, soft then hard.
And here is the audience. Black-clad clothes, washed in tears. Rain blue highlights. Almost a uniform. Your friends? Back-up? Gang? Entourage? They move inside the room in a way which brings the word 'slinking' into my mind. They seat themselves in the alcoves, hunched forward, tense, anticipatory. Predatory - but not on their own behalf. On yours.
You are so self-contained. When your arm moves, there is nothing to signal the violence, the explosion to come. The impact transfers energy in one huge blow to my face. I am lifted off the floor, into the air.
*tick*
Weightless.
Breathless.
Gestalt.
*tock*
Collision.
Confusion.
I hit the floor.
*tick tock, tick tock*
My body compresses under the force of the blow. The impact judders up my body, causing ripples of agony to swell within the initial numbness. It's too early to tell if anything's broken. You are on me. Above me. Your hands on my shoulders, fingers curling into my clothes, nails breaking my skin. You are shouting but I can't make sense of the words, because my mind is still processing the shock of connecting with the floor.
Your rage is a waterfall, drowning me. I tumble and struggle to the surface, pulled down by the current. So much anger, so much. Who would think liquid could strike as hard as this?
*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*
Your words fall into place. Suddenly I am hearing them as language, full with meaning - rather than random fury-filled sounds. "Cunt. Stupid little broken cunt on the floor. Think you're fucking better than me? Fucking bitch. Nasty little fucking bitch".
I hear myself speak, stammer. "What....what...I don't understand...please, PLEASE?"
"You don't fucking UNDERSTAND?! Are you fucking STUPID or something?! Well? Well? Bitch!"
You haul me up onto my knees, a frenzy of movement.
"THIS! THIS is what I'm fucking talking about!" You shove a flyer for the opening night of the club into my hands. A corner of my mind notes the blood pouring from his knuckles onto the paper, and wonders dispassionately if my cheekbone is broken.
"You open a club on the same night as MINE?! How fucking DARE you?! Are you setting yourself up to be in competition - with ME? We'll see how much fucking competition you are when you're in spreader bars, you little cunt".
Your fingers snap. Instant response - four of your group are kneeling on the floor surrounding us. My mind unlocks, allows entry to the little facts it has been struggling so hard to keep out. A sudden and unnerving attention to detail; fingernails and teeth - a little too long and pointed; eyes like traffic lights - red, amber, or green. Gutteral vocalisations - a hiss in some, in others, a snarl, or rumbling growl. An impression of wildness, speed, untamed sense of Other.
*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*
My limbs are seized and spread, pulled and laid out. I struggle pointlessly, pitifully, in the grasp of cold hands, metallic in strength, and warm hands, heavy with hair but no less strong. Dirty, leather cuffs are strapped onto my wrists, my ankles. They stink of years. My movement is stilled. The cuffs attached to bars, short for my arms, a longer one to hold my legs apart.
*tick*
You cry out a word that more like a howl than any human language. There are ripples and eddies in your skin. A rumble gushes out of your mouth which begins in your belly, vibrating up through your torso until it spills from you. You sway, but it is not weakness, but strength which rocks you gently. Fur cascades down your body, a thickening black and silver mist, the touch of foam upon your lip.
*tock*
I am abruptly aware of my own helplessness. This is a monstrous thing; they are monsters. This is a dreadful thing; I dread my own destruction. I cannot save myself, I am unable to change my fate; it will be whatever you choose.
*tick*
I lie on my back, my legs spread open between the bars. My arms spread equally, the bar lying beneath my body. My back, sore and bruised, lies pressed painfully into it. You are quiet now. Moving slowly. Your voice like ripping pieces of meat falls gutturally, horrifically, onto me, with your stringy saliva. I flinch at the slightest touch of your fur, my skin creeping away, raising bumps.
*tock*
"Biii-tchhhhhh." I can barely make sense of the long, damaged vowels as they leave your throat from deep inside.
"Need to be fuuu-cked like a biii-tcchhhhh. Seeeee if this teeeacc-hes yo-uuu. Ruuu-in you. Ruuu-ut with yo-uuu. Like a do-ogg. Biii-tchhhhhh."
All the while, slowly, slowly moving. The music, and the dance, slowed to a single beat, pulsing between us. Disgusted, terrified of you, humiliated by you as I am, we share something, you and I. Your eyes stare into mine. That same complex mix of emotions present in them. My eyes lock to yours. I AM yours; to debase, abuse, save, on your whim. You are crouching now between my legs. I feel the head of your prick touch softly against my soft inner thigh, then my pussy lips, brushing against the shaven skin. We both breathe in, sharply. Our connection deepens.
*tick tock*
Unexpectedly you are inside me, a yawning chasm of pain opening me almost to the womb. You are big - very - and your too-hard cock stretches me unbearably. I scream. You stay unmoving, waiting. My body clenches and thrashes, but I can't get away. Your hips press down on mine, waiting.
You slowly begin to move, easing out, then back in. Again.
Again.
*tick tock, tick tock*
Against all reason my cunt is wet. With relentless speed you pull out and turn my body, with the help of your monstrous chosen few, so that I am on all fours in front of you. As you enter me, you pull towards you the spreader bar between my wrist, so that my upper body is lifted, painfully, and no matter how I lean forward there is no escaping you. You bang into me with eager haste, and at my entrance I feel a widening at the base of your thick cock, a bulging mass seeking to enter me also, which I resist, twisting and turning, screaming out, no more, no more!
But I am too slick and liquid to refuse you entry, welcoming you in despite myself, every huge knotted inch of you, and you take me with such violence, so complete is my violation, that I think you mean to kill me.
*tick tock*
You complete my degradation. You unleash the contents of your heavy, full balls inside me, a torrent of spunk, mixed animal and human, savagely slamming into me to leave it as deep inside as you can, but still it leaks from my ravaged pussy as you withdraw, and stick your dick into my mouth, forcing me to lick it clean as two of your servants feed deeply on me, burying their fangs into my neck and sucking, drinking, taking my fluid just as you have dumped your load in me, and forced me to take yours.
*tick tock, tick tock*
*tick tock, tick tock*
When I wake you are gone, and all your group gone with you. Cum, blood, sweat, tears, are hours cold on my skin. My wrist are free now, my ankles uncuffed.
A letter waits on the table, the writing calligraphic in style. "Until next month, mon loup".
My body is liquid, neither one thing, nor another. I move seamlessly, both ephemeral, floating, flowing; yet also animalistic, rooted, sure-footed as if my body grows from the floor, unable to fall, unable to trip or falter. There is nothing which can induce viscosity in me, take my ability to flow from me; I feel resonance in every cell of my beautiful, strong, graceful body. I am perfect. I am free. It feels as if I am remembering and re-enacting the dance, rather than improvising, each movement made without conscious decision in the knowledge it is perfect and exactly right.
The swollen, rich bass drives my feet, hips, wrists, fingers. Forward, back, centre, forward, back, centre. My arm rises, my wrist tilts, fingers arch delicately in rhythm with the coloratura; I am made of particles which are constantly moving. I am at the center, connected by invisible spokes to the spiral of dancers around me.
I am glad I insisted on air-conditioning for the club. The summer heat is kept out slightly of this basement property, but the huge mass of sweaty bodies brings its own temperature rise. The cool breeze freshens my skin and lifts away the heat which comes from inside, as I grind my hips to the song.
The EBM finishes and leads into the industrial section of the night. I leave the floor, sated for now, and lean up against the cool black marble of the bar. I look around me, happy and proud. The arched alcoves are low lit in darklight, padded with black leather seats, finished with glass topped tables, green recessed lighting; in the DJ booth, my friend, headphones worn sideways to accommodate her mass of hair, moves slickly to the beat as she flicks through for the next track. The dull metal screens act as room-dividers. They lend a faintly sinister air to the industrial-styled decor. I drink in the reward of the hard work, the loving toil of the last few weeks getting the club ready for its first night.
*tick tock*
Everyone has gone, now. I have the music on low. I've switched some of the lights off. The recessed lights shimmer off the metal poles, frames, marble. I shiver a little. The room is cooling rapidly now the only body in it is my own. I close my eyes and allow myself time to enjoy the shiver - pleasurable after so much movement. I have finished cleaning the floor, collecting the detritus of the night.
*tick tock*
I pause. There is something so wrong that for a moment my eyes can't make sense of it.
"Who the fuck are *YOU*??!! And what are you doing in *MY CLUB*?"
*tick tock*
You're in the doorway. I can see only half of your body, your face. The club is dark, I'm standing in the lit space, and there are no lights on in the stairwell.
"What do you want? How did you even get *IN* here?"
*tick tock*
You move forward slightly. Your eyes meet mine. I've never seen your face before this moment, but you look menacingly familiar. Black jeans, black top, plain, simple. Your expression is complex. Anger, surprise, desire. Fear? I must have imagined that. The overwhelming impression is of someone who *inspires* fear, not one who *feels* it.
*tick tock*
You walk forward towards me. There is a moment where I am reminded of the dancers earlier; we meet in the centre of the floor, eyes locked, bodies oh so aware of each others. Will we begin to dance? It will be Latin, I think, full of vitality and constrained tension, movements slow then sudden, soft then hard.
And here is the audience. Black-clad clothes, washed in tears. Rain blue highlights. Almost a uniform. Your friends? Back-up? Gang? Entourage? They move inside the room in a way which brings the word 'slinking' into my mind. They seat themselves in the alcoves, hunched forward, tense, anticipatory. Predatory - but not on their own behalf. On yours.
You are so self-contained. When your arm moves, there is nothing to signal the violence, the explosion to come. The impact transfers energy in one huge blow to my face. I am lifted off the floor, into the air.
*tick*
Weightless.
Breathless.
Gestalt.
*tock*
Collision.
Confusion.
I hit the floor.
*tick tock, tick tock*
My body compresses under the force of the blow. The impact judders up my body, causing ripples of agony to swell within the initial numbness. It's too early to tell if anything's broken. You are on me. Above me. Your hands on my shoulders, fingers curling into my clothes, nails breaking my skin. You are shouting but I can't make sense of the words, because my mind is still processing the shock of connecting with the floor.
Your rage is a waterfall, drowning me. I tumble and struggle to the surface, pulled down by the current. So much anger, so much. Who would think liquid could strike as hard as this?
*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*
Your words fall into place. Suddenly I am hearing them as language, full with meaning - rather than random fury-filled sounds. "Cunt. Stupid little broken cunt on the floor. Think you're fucking better than me? Fucking bitch. Nasty little fucking bitch".
I hear myself speak, stammer. "What....what...I don't understand...please, PLEASE?"
"You don't fucking UNDERSTAND?! Are you fucking STUPID or something?! Well? Well? Bitch!"
You haul me up onto my knees, a frenzy of movement.
"THIS! THIS is what I'm fucking talking about!" You shove a flyer for the opening night of the club into my hands. A corner of my mind notes the blood pouring from his knuckles onto the paper, and wonders dispassionately if my cheekbone is broken.
"You open a club on the same night as MINE?! How fucking DARE you?! Are you setting yourself up to be in competition - with ME? We'll see how much fucking competition you are when you're in spreader bars, you little cunt".
Your fingers snap. Instant response - four of your group are kneeling on the floor surrounding us. My mind unlocks, allows entry to the little facts it has been struggling so hard to keep out. A sudden and unnerving attention to detail; fingernails and teeth - a little too long and pointed; eyes like traffic lights - red, amber, or green. Gutteral vocalisations - a hiss in some, in others, a snarl, or rumbling growl. An impression of wildness, speed, untamed sense of Other.
*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*
My limbs are seized and spread, pulled and laid out. I struggle pointlessly, pitifully, in the grasp of cold hands, metallic in strength, and warm hands, heavy with hair but no less strong. Dirty, leather cuffs are strapped onto my wrists, my ankles. They stink of years. My movement is stilled. The cuffs attached to bars, short for my arms, a longer one to hold my legs apart.
*tick*
You cry out a word that more like a howl than any human language. There are ripples and eddies in your skin. A rumble gushes out of your mouth which begins in your belly, vibrating up through your torso until it spills from you. You sway, but it is not weakness, but strength which rocks you gently. Fur cascades down your body, a thickening black and silver mist, the touch of foam upon your lip.
*tock*
I am abruptly aware of my own helplessness. This is a monstrous thing; they are monsters. This is a dreadful thing; I dread my own destruction. I cannot save myself, I am unable to change my fate; it will be whatever you choose.
*tick*
I lie on my back, my legs spread open between the bars. My arms spread equally, the bar lying beneath my body. My back, sore and bruised, lies pressed painfully into it. You are quiet now. Moving slowly. Your voice like ripping pieces of meat falls gutturally, horrifically, onto me, with your stringy saliva. I flinch at the slightest touch of your fur, my skin creeping away, raising bumps.
*tock*
"Biii-tchhhhhh." I can barely make sense of the long, damaged vowels as they leave your throat from deep inside.
"Need to be fuuu-cked like a biii-tcchhhhh. Seeeee if this teeeacc-hes yo-uuu. Ruuu-in you. Ruuu-ut with yo-uuu. Like a do-ogg. Biii-tchhhhhh."
All the while, slowly, slowly moving. The music, and the dance, slowed to a single beat, pulsing between us. Disgusted, terrified of you, humiliated by you as I am, we share something, you and I. Your eyes stare into mine. That same complex mix of emotions present in them. My eyes lock to yours. I AM yours; to debase, abuse, save, on your whim. You are crouching now between my legs. I feel the head of your prick touch softly against my soft inner thigh, then my pussy lips, brushing against the shaven skin. We both breathe in, sharply. Our connection deepens.
*tick tock*
Unexpectedly you are inside me, a yawning chasm of pain opening me almost to the womb. You are big - very - and your too-hard cock stretches me unbearably. I scream. You stay unmoving, waiting. My body clenches and thrashes, but I can't get away. Your hips press down on mine, waiting.
You slowly begin to move, easing out, then back in. Again.
Again.
*tick tock, tick tock*
Against all reason my cunt is wet. With relentless speed you pull out and turn my body, with the help of your monstrous chosen few, so that I am on all fours in front of you. As you enter me, you pull towards you the spreader bar between my wrist, so that my upper body is lifted, painfully, and no matter how I lean forward there is no escaping you. You bang into me with eager haste, and at my entrance I feel a widening at the base of your thick cock, a bulging mass seeking to enter me also, which I resist, twisting and turning, screaming out, no more, no more!
But I am too slick and liquid to refuse you entry, welcoming you in despite myself, every huge knotted inch of you, and you take me with such violence, so complete is my violation, that I think you mean to kill me.
*tick tock*
You complete my degradation. You unleash the contents of your heavy, full balls inside me, a torrent of spunk, mixed animal and human, savagely slamming into me to leave it as deep inside as you can, but still it leaks from my ravaged pussy as you withdraw, and stick your dick into my mouth, forcing me to lick it clean as two of your servants feed deeply on me, burying their fangs into my neck and sucking, drinking, taking my fluid just as you have dumped your load in me, and forced me to take yours.
*tick tock, tick tock*
*tick tock, tick tock*
When I wake you are gone, and all your group gone with you. Cum, blood, sweat, tears, are hours cold on my skin. My wrist are free now, my ankles uncuffed.
A letter waits on the table, the writing calligraphic in style. "Until next month, mon loup".
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