Wednesday 31 March 2010

Even the Heart Must Pause to Breathe

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

Moments of transition, caught in amber...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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