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.