'Come, Let Me Clutch Thee'

"I am really, really up for fucking you my darling - I really badly need to. I hope you get here soon my love so I can just get my cock out and put it in your mouth and then your cunt. You are a fucking whore my love - a really nasty slutty one. Come soon baby, I need to fuck badly - I am going to have to have a wank soon if I don't stick my cock in you."

New Year's Day, and I'm on the train, traveling towards you, my beloved, for a weekend of debauchery. It's been a year since we first played together. I treasure the texts you're sending me, reeking with lust, as much as the anniversary gift you will give me later, when I climb into your Landrover. My submission is a capricious thing, you can never turn your back on it, but nothing coaxes it into the open more than my need to be desired. To be taken by force, is to be wanted so powerfully that need overcomes reason. And that is how I need to be needed - as part of our consensual, violent, caring, abusive, loving, relationship. The slaps, punches, kicks you throw at me, the words you scream into my face, the rage that seethes through you like your blood has been replaced with a boiling red fury - the need in you to defile me, humiliate me, stain me - it is by these things I know I am loved. The bruises you leave are your love sonnets to me; the pain as your lash pounds into my thigh, leaving it raw, a dozen red roses. Instead of a trip to Paris, you piss in my mouth and make me swallow it. You hurt me, abuse me, torment me, leave your semen leaking sticky and spent, down my thighs; and because of this I know how much you love me. Because I am a sick, sick, fucked up girl. And you are a sick, nasty man. And this is how we fit together so perfectly - a magic of spirit, body and mind as your key opens the locked doors of my anger, fear, and devotion, as if it were made to do so, as if I were made for you, and you for I.

You can barely wait until we get inside our hotel room, before you tear into me. Standing waiting to check in, you whisper into my ear that if there are any more delays, you'll fuck me right there and then. You're concentrating so hard on wanting me, you fail to notice the check-in assistant has been beckoning us for some time. I am in a haze of lust, and cannot think for wanting you. I travelled light - a heavy bag filled with sex toys, a light bag filled with underwear. I'm not planning on wearing many clothes this weekend. I'm wearing what I think of as my 'rape dress' - black, frilled, see through - barely covered by my thin leopard fur coat. Immaculately made up, shaved, scented, fishnet stockings and high heels - I wouldn't dream of presenting myself to you any other way.

Your need is so overwhelming you just push my knickers aside and get your cock into me. You strip me of some of my clothes during the hours of pleasuring yourself in me - bed, floor, couch, desk, bathroom - and finally you cum deep inside my arsehole once you've violated me so deeply and painfully I've ceased to find physical pleasure in it. It is for you, not for me, that you use me. The knowledge makes me cum, hard, as you're blowing your load deep, deep in my puckered hole.

The next day, a playfight turns serious. You slap me in the face - I am enraged. You hit me again and again, stinging blows to my cheeks which infuriate me. I warn you, you see the humour drain instantly from my face, to be replaced with righteous anger. How fucking dare you hit me? I go for you - naked and unafraid I'll scratch your fucking skin if I can get my fingernails in, you nasty cunt. Fuck, you're SO much stronger than me - it's only when we're doing this, that I remember. You drag me across to the bed and throw me on it, holding me down. I twist and turn, trying not to let you get a grip. You push your advantage, and spank me, and my fury and indignation make the pain feel worse than it is. Furious, I writhe, and you reach for the cuffs to secure me. This means letting me go, and I huddle on the bed, spitting with temper, resolved not to let this happen. I. Will. Not. Yield.

You use your superior strength to force me into positions where I can't escape, and having got half way there with the cuffs, inflict so much pain that I grudgingly accede to a truce to allow you to put the other two on. How did this happen? How did I not see this coming? I should never have let you get the cuffs on me - now I'm fucked. At some point I dig my nails into your hands and forearms, little half moon shapes filling with red and white. Serves you right, cunt. You try and stick your dick in my mouth. I refuse you. You hit me, with a leather strap. You hit me, and keep on hitting me, until the room swims and taking your stiff and swollen prick in my mouth seems the lesser of two evils. I cry out around a mouthful of you. You warn me. You're still hitting me - but every time I try and move you out of my mouth, you hit me really fucking hard, white pain instead of red. You fucking, fucking, cunt. I'm so fucking angry, I want to bite your dick off. I try and keep my expression blank, keep my rage out of my eyes, but I can't. I tell you to go fuck yourself. I spit in your face. The smile you make as you wipe saliva off your cheek, makes me feel a little sick.

I'm on my back. I can't remember how I got here. There are spreader bars underneath me, and they hurt, digging in, uncomfortably. You punch me in the stomach, very hard, and unexpected. A warm, orgasmic fear pain radiates outward from your blow. You have the knife. It's 18 inches long, and you're talking about it, to me. I'm trying to concentrate on your words, but the expression on your face, the liquid meltdown in your eyes, is what I'm watching. I'm poised, adrenaline pumping, pumping, pumping through me as my focus narrows down to one thing - you, and whether you are going to kill me. I know, with absolute certainty, that I am safe. I know, with absolute certainty, that you could kill me. You run the knife over my thighs, pausing it, and telling me in great detail how, should you choose to cut the femoral artery, no ambulance could possibly reach me in time to save my life. Five minutes ago I was anger, incarnate. Now, I am fear.

You twist up my nipples and hold the knife against them. You threaten me. You threaten me again. And again. I try to close my eyes but you won't let me. I whisper 'I'm sorry', over and over again. I'm crying, although you've told me to shut up, told me not to fucking dare make a noise. You've told me to look at you. I can't look away, so weep silently, watching your face and waiting until it's over. I'm such a slut that I always wear lashes of mascara, never waterproof - we both love how I look when you've made me sob. You make a sudden movement to stand on the bed - the last of my courage fails me and I close my eyes as an assault of tears sweeps over my cheeks from underneath my eyelashes. The surprise of feeling something drop onto my face shocks me open again - I think for a moment that you are cumming, but then realise you are dripping your piss into my face, onto my eyelids, my cheekbones, my chin, the mound of my breasts, onto my lips. You groan the way you do when you're cumming, but this is an altogether different experience from that of being spattered in your seed, although equally an act of declaration, of possession. But this is not delicious to me, this is disgusting. Absolutely and utterly disgusting. I stop crying from the shock of it, and not for one moment do I think to protest; once submission has taken me, I am yours. "Swallow it". My mouth curdles in disgust. "SWALLOW IT!". You finish exerting your ownership of me, with this complete and utter degradation, and leave me rigid in horror while you finish relieving yourself.

You come back from the bathroom. You lift me, and move me onto the couch. You hold me close to you - I don't want you to, I'm dirty, and I'll make you dirty, too. But your will is mine. You whisper sweet things to me, of love, and need. You stroke my face and tell me that I'm yours, and that you can put your cock in me whenever and wherever you damn well please, and that this is what happens when I try and stop you. Your face changes completely as you say these words, but your hands and arms are still soft, stroking.

You carry me into the bathroom and lay me down, washing me. I watch your face, waiting for a sign that it might change again. I wonder whether you will push me under the water to see if I'll struggle. I won't struggle.

You bathe me, and yourself. You lay me down in a nest of soft things and rock me, telling me you love me more than life itself. I can barely speak.

I feel loved, and loving.

For the first time in a month that has been stressful, my mind is still, and calm.

It is impossible to find time to have all the sex we need to have together, let alone do other things, such as sleep, eat, drink, piss. And I am grateful, more grateful than I can show, even now, with my body soft, yielding, yours.

I am in love with you, always and forever.