Shadow of the Woods

I am not bound for any public place, but for ground of my own where I have planted vines and orchard trees, and in the heat of the day climbed up into the healing shadow of the woods.
-- Wendell Berry

I have no fear of fear. I am comfortable with fear, as I am comfortable with pain. It is familiar to me, and therefore not terrifying, not like it used to be. Worry and anxiety still have the power to wrap knots around my core, clench fingers cold and white so they lose their power, sicken me and weaken me. But I am not afraid.

Nevertheless.
Sometimes, I should just shut the fuck up, sit back, and enjoy the ride.

Tears and trust. Comfort, of different kinds. He holds me, very close. So close, so warm, so safe. He will make everything better. I've never been the kind of girl who has to try hard to trust. When I give, I give everything. I don't know how to love someone, without trusting them; no reservation, no restraint, no sense of caution or holding back. My heart is without limit or inhibition.

I know he holds back - preventing himself from getting hard on this occasion as I talk about fucking, cock, sex that is right, sex that is wrong. He chooses not to rip my clothes off, stick his dick in my mouth as soon as he comes in the door. This time. Instead, he chooses to soothe me with love, soft words, gentle kindness. I pull him close, strip our clothes away, pull him into bed with me so I can feel skin on skin, words moving air onto flesh, close, closer, closest. Still he exerts his will on me, choosing not to abuse. This time. Only when my tears slow a little, and my heart beats with lust instead of lingering shame, does his will change.

He tells me with his body, where to touch him. How to touch him. In gratitude and joy I eagerly give pleasure. Hand to body, lips to skin. My tongue blissfully gathering the desire that rises from him. It is only moments though, before he takes control of the method I use to please him, forcing my head down, his hands coiled in my hair, twisted, twisting. I cannot get away, I do not want to get away, even though he fucks my mouth like a cunt, fucks it so hard I am bleeding, my tongue and lips are sore, the skin splitting as I ripen for him.

He knows that when he enters me after using me so, I will be poured out like buttery cream on my thighs, he will slide in as big and hard as he is, up to the hilt, deep in me, touching so far inside I would be hurt if I wasn't spread so open for him, my lips fluttering apart to receive him before he even touches me. He plunges inside me and takes his pleasure in me, using me like his fucktoy, even as he burns me with his love. He burns for me. And I give him everything, everything, in return.

"Tell me what you want, what you need", he demands. I know without question, without thought, what he means.

"I...I want..."

"You want cock. You want to be fucked. Say it. SAY IT!" he threatens. He raises his hand as I stammer, looks at me with warning, with violence in him. He looks at me again in threat, and I give him what he demands, he takes it from me. I fear, not the threat, not the violence, not the blow, nor the pain, but his displeasure. For want of his praise, I give him what he takes from me. I speak, and my reward is his smile. "Good girl. Good girl". He drives his dick into me, pistons in and out of me. Pulls out, flips me over, fucks me hard. Stops.

"Do you want me to stop?"
Some other lover might sound gentle, caring, thoughtful, when asking such a thing. He makes it sound like a warning. 'Do what I tell you or I'll fuck you up. You know what I want. Do it.'

"No, don't stop", I whisper.

"You want to be fucked hard. Say it!"

I say it.

Again he drives into me the thought, the belief, the knowledge; the certainty that I am allowed to want sex, I am allowed to want to be fucked, I am allowed to want cock, to want his spunk, to want to be his whore, his slut, his fucktoy.

Used. Oh, the joy in it.

Abused. Ah, the trust.

When he tells me to cum, he makes it sound like 'you fucking bitch!' instead of permission to orgasm.

I beg him, I ask him, I plead with him to let me please him, I tell him I want his cock, need his cum, must be fucked, have to be fucked hard, that I need to be his slut, his fucking whore, his nasty little cum splashed fucktoy.

And I am. Because he makes me. And if I can't, he will force me anyway.

I am a good girl. HIS good girl. His semen spilling like milk into me, marks me so.