"Nothing says 'I love you' like subcutaneous bruising" Part 1

'I want to hold you close
Skin pressed against me tight
Lie still, and close your eyes girl
So lovely, it feels so right

I want to hold you close
Soft breasts, beating heart
As I whisper in your ear
I want to fucking tear you apart'


Tear You Apart, by She Wants Revenge

I wait for him on the corner - it feels like meeting a boyfriend after school. So exciting. I catch my breath as he rolls up in his big car. I'm a grown woman and I've never cared for cars, but all of a sudden I find myself feeling young and innocent, waiting for this older man to give me a ride, take me somewhere. Knowing he's going to do things to me, and I don't know what they are. Dark things, terrible things, that come from somewhere hidden, buried deep inside him that he unleashes with me - and only me. Because I welcome his sickness, I draw it to me. I want every last nasty, vile, twisted, fucked-up, messy, dirty thing he has to give me, that he has to do to me. I want it, and I need it. Because I'm just as twisted and nasty. Every bit as much. And it makes me happy that I am. I like to feel ashamed, but I'm not ashamed of being like this.

Into his arms he pulls me. We kiss, and he smells of home. It feels so right, and so wrong, in all the best of ways. I cross my legs, knowing he's watching. His eyes travel up my thighs, followed swiftly by his hand. He touches my perfectly shaven skin through the thin satin of my skirt, and finds I've obeyed his instructions. 'Good girl', he says. Warmth spills through me and I can't not smile, shyly.

We can't get through the journey of twenty minutes or so, without touching. I snuggle into him, breathing deep of his scent. He puts my hand onto the stick as he changes gear, moving me effortlessly, with no resistance in my muscles, no tension in my fingers. I slide like silk under him. He puts me where he wants me to go. I flow - I anticipate his movements without even thinking, always wanting to please, always wanting to give him what he needs from me. That is what *I* need - to give him what *he* needs.

When we began, it was just in play. Now it is all the time. And it satisfies something deep in us, something fundamental. It is what we want, choose, need, must have from each other.

We walked through the supermarket, talking over our week, picking up, discussing potential purchases for the weekend's provisioning. He kept a possessive touch on me almost all the time. A hand on my wrist, his arm around my shoulder. He kept me close, safe, his body language shouted 'this is MINE, MINE!'

And my body language shouted, 'I am HIS, HIS!' as I leaned into the arm, stroked his hand with mine, rubbed my head against his shoulder, turned my face up into the sunlight of his kiss.