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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck you".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I kneel to him.

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

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

"Yes, Sir".