Kink for Imp - A Journey Through Poly and BDSM

Circles within circles

2011-07-19T18:01:00.002+01:00

I have been thinking about circles. Concentric circles, full circles, spirals. The patterns we make in our lives. The patterns we repeat, the patterns we see which are not there, the patterns we make which we do not see.

When I went along to my first munch, not knowing what to expect, it all but blew a fuse in my mind. The place where I'd heaped my deepest, darkest, desires - firmly locked away, and then covered over with my most mildest, simplest desires, unfulfilled; the whole pushed into a forgotten room, the door locked, the signposts thrown away...suddenly thrown open to possibility.

So much was suddenly available to me, that had been hidden. I don't think I slept, ate, or made much sense, for two weeks. The munch organiser put me in touch with a potential domme - I lived for nothing but checking my emails, time after time. She showed interest, but then replies dropped off...then nothing.

I wondered if anyone would ever be interested in me. Whether I was not desirable, not wanted.

Jumping back to the present, I realise with something of a shock that those events were two and a half years ago, now. It seems longer, yet shorter. So much has changed, and yet so little.

It's quite rare that I update this blog now. When I am experiencing sadness and confusion, I write to make sense of it. I also write when I've experienced deep highs and need to make sense of what they mean to me. As time has passed, I've grown into my stability, security, and understanding, contentment, has happened without a lengthy gestation process. And sometimes I write to record particularly profound experiences. And sometimes I don't record them, due to a desire to preserve privacy, or simple lack of time.

My whole lifestyle has changed. I've got my vibe back, my mojo. In just over two years I've regained what it means to be ME. I've flourished, I've developed, I've grown. I've been through hell, and I've found my way back. I've survived.

When I first discovered BDSM, and the promise of a reawakened sexuality, I fell in love. I thought I'd fallen in love with a person, but looking back, I think it's more likely that I was in love with pain. In love with sex. In love with being awake inside, again. In love with receiving attention and interest and feeling desired and wanted.

I asked once, on these pages, if I would cut out these dark desires within me, if I were able to. At the time I wasn't sure. Now, I am. I treasure them, even though led me into danger. They've led me into heartbreak; they've led me into despair.

They've also led me home safe again. And now, following the path, my journey has come home. There will be many more journeys, many more circles within circles, but for now, the spiral rests where it started. In safety.

This is a good place, and I'm happy here.

'Come, Let Me Clutch Thee'

2011-01-09T12:17:00.002Z

"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.

2011-01-08T13:36:00.000Z

http://www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/

December 15 – 5 Minutes. Imagine you will completely lose your memory of 2010 in five minutes. Set an alarm for five minutes and capture the things you most want to remember about 2010.

The recipe for chocolate and gold mouse cake is in my family cookbook. (I have a scrapbook which I write recipes in which are outstanding and I want to keep. I call it the family cookbook although christ knows who I'll pass it on to since I never intend to have children!)

Never send two men into the kitchen unsupervised with instructions for doing something which involves setting fire to stuff. (lighting the christmas pudding is really a job for women, I feel).

Work goes better if you don't get stressed. (D'oh.)

The combination lock for the painting box is xxx (I get huge pleasure from my delicious bottles of fruity coloured inks and metallic glass pots, tactile feathery brushes and scumptious thick paint. I don't let my husband steal them because within seconds of him touching them, he's covered them in marmite and fluff, and lost them under the sofa.)

You really don't like beer. No, not even cherry flavoured. (Fact.)

You have been banned from drinking cider ever again by both men in your life. (Oops.)

Appreciate

2011-01-08T13:34:00.003Z

http://www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/

December 14 – Appreciate. What's the one thing you have come to appreciate most in the past year? How do you express gratitude for it?

Honestly? So many things - but this year has brought something new. My boyfriend, lover, dominant, alpha male and pack leader - mon lupe. He makes everything in my life be infinitely better. I tell him how much joy he brings me constantly, but I could no more capture in words, my gratitude to him, than the pages of a dictionary could soak up the sea.

And my beautiful, close, beloved poly family, who give me support, encouragement, care, love, joy, and fun. I treasure my family, it means everything to me. There is nothing I value more.

Action

2011-01-08T13:31:00.002Z

http://www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/

December 13 – Action. When it comes to aspirations, it's not about ideas. It's about making ideas happen. What's your next step?

I'm going to audition to join the Poi Passion School of Poi and Fire Performance. It means two hours of practice once a week with the dance troupe, plus unlimited practicing by myself. It would mean that I could move from the kind of poi I've been doing, to fire poi at performance standard, which would not only be good fun, good exercise, good discipline, and an outlet for my exhibitionist side, but would considerably up my game in terms of what I can achieve with poi as dance, and the better I am at poi, the greater my joy in it.

I think I've got a fairly good chance of getting in. The auditions are in february, and I'll get the info I need and start creating an audition piece over the next few weeks.

When I was just starting classes last year with Poi Passion, they suggested I audition, and a whole year's gone by since then. I didn't feel ready, before, as I was a beginner, and I didn't want to join as a beginner. I feel ready now.

2011-01-08T13:27:00.000Z

http://www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/

December 12 – Body Integration. This year, when did you feel the most integrated with your body? Did you have a moment where there wasn't mind and body, but simply a cohesive YOU, alive and present?

I wrote this on my kink blog back in June - and there is no better description I could write now, of complete cohesiveness.

http://kinkforimp.blogspot.com/2010/06/beauty-in-violence.html

11 Things

2011-01-01T11:03:00.002Z

www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/

December 11 – 11 Things. What are 11 things your life doesn't need in 2011? How will you go about eliminating them? How will getting rid of these 11 things change your life?

I've had to think really hard about this - and I very nearly skipped the question. I checked out other people's answers in the hopes of getting inspiration - but I've come to the conclusion that, fundamentally, I don't have much in my life that I don't need.

So here is my list, stripped down to basics, and only very small things. None of them are very profound, and it's more of an idle toying with ideas, rather than a passionate commitment. Maybe that's something worth knowing in itself though. I don't feel that there's anything very much I want to give up or give away - there are things in my life I value, and could do with more of, but little I need to let go of.

1. Debt.

Having paid off my personal loan this year, I still have about £Too Much of credit card debt and a £Much Too Much overdraft, which I could most definitely do without. My plan is to pay large chunks off it as and when I can afford it, and I'm doing pretty well so far. I managed to change my spending from 'spending more than I earn' to 'spending less than I earn and paying off debt' during last year, so that's a fucking result as far as I'm concerned. And I've stuck to that for the last few months, even over christmas.

2. Perfectionism and the Overly Critical Eye.

I recently heard about a small tribe with a long life span and low stress levels, attributed to their 'good enough' attitude. Rather than living by the maxim 'never put off to tomorrow what you can do today', and 'if a job's worth doing, it's worth doing well', their approach is 'that'll do', and 'I'll do it tomorrow since it's not important'. I could do with some of that, and letting go of my intense perfectionism and the internalised voice inside me of my mother, telling me that unless I've done it right now and to A+++ standards, I'll be letting myself, and everyone around me, down.

3. The Belief that I'm Unattractive.

It's hard to be plus size, let's face it. Previous years' NY resolutions have nearly always included a promise that this year - THIS year - will be the one in which I lose weight. Well, guess what. If I really wanted to that much, I would have done. The internalised voice is again, speaking to me of how inadequate I am, and how much better my life would be if I could just....lose....weight. Well, that's bollocks. The few times in my life I've been a size 10, I've been miserable, because my life sucked, and being thin didn't make it suck any less. Now I'm happy, and I'm damn sure I wouldn't be any more happy if I was thinner. My skin glows, and is soft and beautiful, my hair is thick and touchable, my nails are pretty and perfectly manicured. On a good day I can look in the mirror and like what I see. I'm happy and healthy. I love food, I love eating, and tasting, and smelling good, pleasurable, food - and don't want to give any of it up for a dream of being perfectly slender. My body appears to please those around me - and I've begun to allow it to please me, too.

4. Anxiety and Worrying to Excess

I've not had a brilliant month, I've needed to take time out to just slow the fuck down, calm down, and let my headspace settle. It's been an extraordinary year, a landmark year, a wonderful, amazing year. I've pushed my body, heart, mind and spirit to their limits, and sometimes a little beyond, so it's no surprise that I've crashed a little just this last few weeks. My energy's been low, and I've needed time to recoup, and just be quiet, and still. The old war wound of anxiety disorder has resurrected itself, and I've had a few mild panic attacks and some low level anxiety days. This has knocked my confidence in myself as a 'functioning mentalist and well person', and frightened me. I don't, ever, want to go back to being the way I was years ago where fear ruled me and everything I did was haunted by worry. While I do think that this is just a short dip in strength caused by putting too many demands on myself, my tendency to fret fret fret is most definitely something I could live without.

5. Neglecting My Own Needs

I have a core part of my personality which gains huge satisfaction from giving people something they need. It makes me happy, it makes me feel 'of worth', it makes me feel real. I need to find more of a balance though, between this, and neglecting my own needs to the point of exhaustion and collapse, at which point I can't help anybody, not even myself. To this end, I'm promising myself a 2 hour diarised slot of TLC time, where I will give myself nice things and look after myself, once a week. And to try and be a little more balanced in my approach to other people's needs, and my own.

6. Multitasking to Excess

I'm going to try and take a 'one thing at a time' approach as much as possible, this year.

7. Not Tolerating Intolerable Behaviour

I've made a good start on this in 2010, and in 2011 I want to consolidate.

8. Repressing Rage and Righteous Indignation

See above

9. Being Busy Without Getting Anything Done

This is connected to multitasking. I need to pare down my internal 'to do' lists to essentials, rather than flapping about constantly trying to achieve perfection.

10. Working Through My Lunchbreak

Really. There's just no point. I could be doing poi.

11. Getting up at 7.30am, drinking tea and faffing about, then getting into work late at about 10am.

For heaven's sake, I only work 10 minutes cycle away from where I live! I need to be more disciplined about not getting stuck into stupid tasks in the morning, or deciding on a quick last minute wank and then dozing off for half an hour in a pile of sex toys.

2010-12-31T19:27:00.000Z

http://www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/

December 10 – Wisdom. What was the wisest decision you made this year, and how did it play out?

The long version of events can be found here: http://kinkforimp.blogspot.com/2010/06/integrity.html

But the short version is that, back in June, my beloved husband made himself seriously ill and did himself a mischief, not through misfortune but through willful and reckless lack of care; of himself, his health, and of my devotion to him.

For the first time in our relationship I took a radically different approach, and left him to deal with the repercussions. He was never, at any point, in real danger, but instead of making it easier and more comfortable for him, I withheld my help and support. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done, one of the most necessary, and the wisest.

Since then, he has taken a considerably different approach to his healthcare. We have both worked on decreasing his dependence on me, and at the very least, trying to ensure his laziness and carelessness don't impact me unduly. It is possible to love someone very much, and find them exasperating. I love ALL of him, and don't need or want him to change. However, enabling his poor behaviour wasn't doing either of us any good. Putting into practice the adage 'the only person's behaviour you have control over, is your own', was extraordinarily difficult, but extraordinarily overdue.

2010-12-31T19:25:00.000Z

www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/

December 9 – Party. What social gathering rocked your socks off in 2010? Describe the people, music, food, drink, clothes, shenanigans.

This was a really hard question to answer. Have I been to any parties? I'm not sure as that I have. I've had days and nights out a plenty - pubs, clubs, munches, picnics, barbecues, bonfires, dinner parties and a ball. There's no single event that stands head and shoulders above the others. I've probably had the most fun, just a few days ago with my poly family gathered around me to celebrate christmas. Thoughtfulness, love, care, support, and good humour was evident in everything, from the gifts exchanged to the activities, the story reading and the hysterical screaming 'I'm on fire, I'm on fire, oh my GOD!' which issued from the kitchen.

I would say that the Debutante Ball to celebrate my friend Jessica Coming Out as a cross-dresser and general purpose pervert, was pretty spectacular. There were dozens of people came to show their goodwill, bringing food, drink, and dressed up to the nines, drinking champagne under a canopy in a huge garden, while we listened to speeches, and later, our very own West End professional singer, followed by increasingly drunken karaoke. I was not on good form due to an upsetting incident early that morning, which will be known only as PorridgeGate. Setting that aside, it was a wondrous event. I was nearly in tears - in a good way - with appreciation of just how much effort went into making the day as perfect as it could possibly be, from so many people wishing Jessica well.

The moments I remember are watching him, and his adorable fiance, roll on the grass, wrestling and giggling with puppyish abandon. The kittens belonging to our host, crept out from behind tables to watch. One of them let me pick her up for a cuddle. It was so hot I carried glasses of ice water to all the hard workers, putting up the marquee and setting out the tables and chairs.

Later, when I came back for the party, Jessica was transformed, manifesting that inner glow which fills the person who is comfortable in their own skin. She was radiant, and blonde, and her white dress enhanced the bloom of a young woman on the edge of innocence, just beginning to take her own steps in the world. She had come so far, and my heart filled with such pride I almost couldn't bear it. Her fiance in her incarnation as Master Bez, looked like masculine perfection in miniature, oozing a lusty and piratical sexuality which would become stronger during the course of the evening, under the influence of strong drink.

I loved that people had brought food and drink to contribute, there was a powerful sense of community, of group identity. I have a very strong memory of a very drunken friend, dancing merrily to the karaoke in her steampunk corset and many layered skirt. If anyone could have called the Sidhe back from Faerieland that night, it was she.

Beautifully Different

2010-12-26T10:06:00.000Z

http://www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/

December 8 – Beautifully Different. Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful.

Christ - what about me ISN'T different? I'm not sure how much of it makes me beautiful though! I've always been distinctively unusual, freakish, weird, odd, peculiar...take your pick.

I spent a lot of time when I was young, at school, trying to copy what other people were doing, work out how to just 'blend in'. It really didn't work though, because every now and then, I would just do something considered quite thoroughly odd, and my disguise would fall away, leaving me exposed to ridicule.

That's because kids are little shits though, and by the time I turned fourteen, I'd embraced my inner wierdo. There was a sense of 'might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb'. If people were always going to bust me as a freak, no matter how I tried to hide it, I might as well not bother to hide it and just really fucking go for it. It was a profound shift in thinking towards 'yes, that's right, I am. And your point is?'

And bizarrely, I find most people are drawn to it. It really does light me up - perhaps because I've accepted and welcomed who and what I am. I am so utterly, unashamedly odd, so brazen about my strangeness, that it seems to compel people to look closer. My hair, the way I speak, my singing voice, my dress sense, the strange little stories I tell, my approach to life, not to mention my sexual proclivities...sometimes complete strangers get so fascinated they start asking me the most outrageously personal questions, almost as if, by stepping outside what's considered normal, I've put myself in the public domain. Quite often people will just touch my hair and start looking at it, even if I've never exchanged a word with them!

Sometimes I do get a little sad that I can't just be normal - I'm not, and never will be, a 'joiner'. I will always be on the outside of any group activities, feeling resentful and irritated. And some people find my strangeness repellant, and a little frightening.

But mostly, if my differences don't make me beautiful, they make me what I am. And I value them for that.

Community

2010-12-24T10:19:00.000Z

www.reverb10.com/the-promptsb

December 7 – Community. Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011?

Without a single doubt, it has been the kink community, both online, through Informed Consent and Fetlife, and the support network of friends I've made through these and the 'in person' continuation of that. I've now got a group of people so solid, so strong, that I can go to them with anything, worries about my kink, my husband, my boyfriend, my other friends, my job, house, cats, anything and everything.

It's through these people, that I've begun the ongoing and neverending process of defining my own kink. What makes me hot, what does not. I've also been able to manifest my kink through first, the wrong people, then, the right people. And frame the experiences I've had, give them context. It's made me more 'okay with my kink'. There's no question that I needed the community to help me do that.

Make

2010-12-21T11:37:00.000Z

www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/

December 6 – Make. What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it?

The last thing I made, was a christmas present for my husband. It was a painting, not at all in my usual style, but trying my best to do 'representational art' of a shared little story we created together. It is soft and sweet and loving and, I hope, he will think it's fantastic. I really can't draw or paint in that way, but it's less of a 'look how talented I am, isn't this good?' thing, than a 'I worked really hard on this and even though I'm not very good at this, I'm pleased with the results because I know you'll like how hard I tried to make something for you' thing.

I've painted for quite a long time, abstracts in mixed media usually, increasingly three dimensional, tactile, and multi-sensory. They are usually quite textural and sometimes scented - although not always. It's not been until the last year that I've had the courage to show my work, or give them away as gifts; despite having been asked to make custom work specifically for friends before, I didn't really believe that anyone would value it that highly.

For the first time this year I put a higher value on my work - and it's currently on exhibit at the Caroline of Brunswick in Brighton. Which makes me happy and proud :-)

littleimppainting.fotopic.net/c1906175.html

Let Go

2010-12-16T16:25:00.000Z

www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/

December 5 – Let Go. What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why?

I let go of the last semblance of a normal sexuality, this year. Why? Because I had to.

I couldn't, now, go back to how I was before. I was 100% faithful and monogamous to my much loved husband and partner of 15 years. But I was unfufilled sexually, because I, ladies and gentlemen, am a pervert. Unless someone's smashing me around the place, or violating me in horrible and tawdry ways, or delivering obscene quantities of pain, I'm simply not going to get my rocks off.

Don't get me wrong - I like sex. I LOVE sex. I can enjoy sex, loving, gentle, sensual sex, without a BDSM element. But it won't set off fireworks in my brain. And by that I don't mean simply cumming. I can spend 4 minutes with a magic wand and do THAT. I mean the white hot radiating sense of utter RIGHTNESS that follows in the wake of pain, and submission.

I am in the incredibly fortunate and privileged position of being married, yet free to seek sexual fulfilment outside my marriage, in close and loving relationships, with the full support, understanding, and generous permission, of my husband. Blanket consent, no limits, but a don't ask don't tell policy in the details.

Christmas last year was a bad time for me, and our marriage. I started to wonder whether this poly business was ever going to work out for me, or us. Whether I would have to try and find the way of living without the joy that my newfound sexuality brought me.

Instead, I now find myself within the tight-knit security of an extended poly family, who have brought such comfort, love, pleasure, kindness, support, and open hearted generosity into my life, I at times feel quite overwhelmed, and always grateful.

Ready or not, things pass into our lives, and then leave. You can't always control when this will happen - the only thing you can guarantee, is that change WILL come. I would never have sought this change, I didn't anticipate it, and yet when it came, and I had to let go of being a monogamous, faithful, wife - it was one of the most right decisions I have ever made.

Wonder

2010-12-16T16:23:00.000Z

www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/

December 4 – Wonder. How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year?

cultivate |ˈkəltəˌvāt|
verb [ trans. ]
2 try to acquire or develop (a quality, sentiment, or skill) : he cultivated an air of indifference.
• try to win the friendship or favor of (someone) : it helps if you go out of your way to cultivate the local people.
• [usu. as adj. ] ( cultivated) apply oneself to improving or developing (one's mind or manners) : he was a remarkably cultivated and educated man.

Strictly speaking then - I haven't. Rather, I have had a sense of wonder grow, unaided, within me, this year. It has been thrust upon me, without intent or effort.

I have watched, amazed, while people close to me behaved, thought, spoke, felt, in wondrous ways.

An example: a close friend got 'outed'. Instead of withdrawing from the rural farming community he lives in, ashamed and embarrassed, he made a deliberate choice to nurture his sense of pride and embrace his identity. He told people, 'If you choose to judge me, that is your prerogative. If you choose to laugh at me, again your prerogative, but I may judge you for doing so'. He understood that the only person's behaviour you can control, is your own. Which he did, with extraordinary dignity, and in so doing, filled me with a sense of wonder, and delight, that I hold the honour of considering him a friend.

Moment

2010-12-07T17:57:00.001Z

www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/

December 3 – Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). (Author: Ali Edwards)

There are so very many precious and shining moments this year, that I keep nestled close to my heart, that choosing the one where I felt most alive is impossible. This then, is merely the first one that came into my mind, when thinking about the question.

When I first met my dominant partner, I was like a badly beaten rescue dog - coming to a kind hand, but fearing a blow. Eventually he coaxed me closer and closer, until I started coming to him of my own accord.

I set out so many limits and boundaries, which he encouraged me to do - recognising that unless I felt safe, I would never open to him at all. Acknowledging that I had the right to do so, could and should do so. Gradually as my trust grew, I was able to let down my boundaries, and dissolve my limits, one by one.

We had been in the club, and it took time for us to make our own headspace together, and ignore the talking around us, block out the laughter and other people. Then - bang - he was there, and he took me with him. I was suddenly getting fucked over, he was smashing me with his hands, the world disappeared: he was totally and utterly focused on me, and only me. And I, him.

I screamed into his face, spitting, angry, scratching, and he was sweat oiled muscled rage made manifest. I made him work for it, and he took me down, down with him into the dark, with growls and snarls and violence and rage.

Afterwards, as he wrapped me up, warm and safe in his arms, I told him for the first time that I loved him. He told me, later, that I was a goddess for him, in the club, perfect. Violent and perfect. I was his hard-won prize, his woman - his.

As he drove me home, he slid his fingers inside my messy pussy, warm and wet. He made me cry out for him, never mind the danger of the car just de-railing itself right there and then. He pulled off into a layby, pushed me down into the seat of the car, and chose to get his scent on me and his seed on me. He had beaten me bruised and now he would mark me again - because he could.

He shoved his jeans down, and tossed himself off into my mouth, holding me down on the seat, forcing my mouth open with his fingers. He made me lick his balls while he jerked off into my open mouth, and then forced me to drink his cum - all of it.

I experienced the complete and utter bliss of being made to drink his cum, as he emptied himself into me, emptied everything he had, and I adored it. I loved every moment of it, I loved the taste of him, I loved being made to do it, and I loved the quiet words of adoration that he whispered afterwards, words he wouldn't even remember later, through a haze of brain white-out and bliss of his own. That moment, by itself, was worth living for.

Writing

2010-12-07T11:30:00.002Z

December 2 – Writing. What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it? (Author: Leo Babauta)

I spend enough time doing things that I *have* to do. With work, housework, mundane tasks, there's plenty in my life that I need to get done, even when I don't feel like doing it. More and more recently, I've come to value the times when I can just do, what I feel like doing, when I feel like it.

I never write because I should do, or have to. I'm not a professional author with deadlines to meet. Which means that I have the luxury of letting passion to create, carry me away, as and when it happens, rather than forcing it. And even if I WAS a professional writer, why on earth would I want to eliminate all the pleasures in my life? If I did nothing other than write, I would have nothing to write ABOUT - no inspiration, no richness of experience to bring to my words.

One Word

2010-12-06T12:36:00.000Z

I'm a little late to the party....but...

http://www.reverb10.com/the-prompts/

December 1 – One Word. Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you're choosing that word. Now, imagine it's one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you? (Author: Gwen Bell)

Growth.

Everything in my world - EVERYTHING - has grown and blossomed this year.

Implicit in growth, is restoration and repair. Around this time last year I was in a bad place. Here's a little story - one which I need to tell - which is just a small example but a good one.

Last year, I was in an abusive relationship. I had my husband (R) to love and hold and squeeze me, and I was also in a relationship with two people who assured me of their loving care, that they would protect me and keep me safe, and enjoyed my increasing dependency on them. I was encouraged to lean on them, for support, and help. And I needed quite a lot of support and help. R was ill, I was struggling to come to terms with the direction all my relationships were taking. The abuse was mostly emotional, sometimes subtle, confusing, and utterly cruel.

One play date fell just as I was about to go on holiday. R was happy for me to play on the condition that no marks would show when I was in my bikini. So I set out specific boundaries for this occasion. It was a clear agreement, clearly communicated and understood.

They beat me, and went too far. One person held my breasts, while the other, hit them. The resulting deep tissue bruises were clearly visible over the top of my bikini, and through thin clothing. They took six weeks to show significant signs of healing, and it was months before the skin was completely clear. I slathered on arnica cream day and night, but still the bruises stayed - black and huge. R was angry with me, he felt it showed no respect for him, and he was right. He was repulsed by my naked body, and I took pains to hide it as much as I could. Sex ended in spectacular failure when I took my top off.

The worst thing though - was that I defended them. I tried to laugh it off, even showed my friends the bruises, seeking confirmation that for a dominant, getting carried away and going too far, was normal. I defended them to R. The person who hit me, gloated, boasting about it and telling me how aroused it made them, how they enjoyed it and felt pride in it.

I wasn't able to tell anyone how unhappy, how betrayed I felt. I couldn't even admit it to myself.

When that relationship ended, spectacularly, as could have been predicted - I was so lost, so alone. Over the last year, I've healed, and flowered beyond my expectations. I've come into my power, as a person, as a woman.

The mind heals, but the body remembers. It doesn't make me upset to talk about these things, but when someone beats my breasts, I instantly start to sob. At a play party a few weeks ago, with the Ladies Who Play (an all female space where we can enjoy casual, playful BDSM), I had an extended beating on the breasts, and a hard session with three gorgeous women. The moment I was hit in that place, I immediately began crying, a grief stricken outpouring that I couldn't hold back. The body remembers.

I pushed through, and received the pain, which on my breasts was given mostly by my very old and beloved friend. It was cathartic in the extreme, and afterwards, as I was held and stroked and calmed by women, telling what had happened to me, I felt something deep, deep inside me, relax.

And now, when I'm hit there, in that place which was once such a hotline to my tears, it is the same as when I am hit anywhere else on my body, in mutual pleasure and excitement. And reassurances and support will be given, and it will be done with affection and respect, not motivated by spite and vicious cruelty.

In this small way, among many, many other ways, I am healed.

If I hope anything for next year, it is that I consolidate the things that I have learned, the new relationships I have built, the old ones that are flourishing, and the growth I have felt within me this year.

Little Imp's Guide for Girls with Difficult Mimsys

2010-11-22T07:42:00.000Z

Having been cursed with a Difficult Mimsy, now that the curse has been lifted [insert Magic Wand joke here], I feel it is my duty to make the following public service announcement:

Little Imp's Guide to Having Your First Orgasm, for Girls with Difficult Mimsys.

1) Are all the Bits present and correct?

Far be it from me to medicalise a person's sexuality, but if you've got to middle age and been bashing away at your clit with knife, fork, and lobster hammer for years and nothing's happened, it might be worth going to the doctor to check all is well.

Also, are you a mental? Because whilst chucking the odd Wobbler shouldn't interfere, if you're rigid with anxiety constantly, or stuck in bed sobbing 24/7, it's probably best to get that sorted first before you tackle your Unmentionables.

2) Location, location, location

This is not something you're going to achieve under time constraints, or stress. If you've got a selection of children/ partners/ pets/ work colleagues banging on the door of the lounge/ bedroom/ bathroom/ stationery cupboard, it's going to put you off a wee bit. So find somewhere that you can, at the very least, lie down comfortably, for at least an hour, in peace and quiet. It doesn't have to be a secret, but in my experience there's nothing less likely to lead to an orgasm than pressure. So having your boyfriend doing Hopeful Face afterwards is not going to help. You may want to develop a habit of 'taking long baths with the door locked while listening to the radio', for example.

3) Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither was a Magic Mimsy

You should be prepared to put in the overtime on this one. It's worth it - you're doing something nice for yourself. Think an hour a week, on a regular basis, for the foreseable future. Don't make 'having an orgasm' the goal. Make 'playing with yourself and enjoying the sensations' the goal. And if you think an hour is a long time - for years it used to take me at least an hour to reach orgasm, every time!

4) Tools of the Trade

You're going to need some equipment. Unless you've never so much as touched your ladies front bottom before, get busy browsing the sex shops. Online is okay, but in person is better. Really, you need to be thinking D batteries, not AAA, okay? Go for something you can use on your clit, which vibrates. I wouldn't recommend a hitachi magic wand or equivalent for a beginner. Twenty minutes with one of those and your clit'll go numb, which is NOT what you want.

You could try a rabbit style vibrator (one with clit stimulator and dildo all in one), or a clit stimulator and dildo/ vibrator for insertion as two or more separate things.

Everyone's different so see what appeals to you.

5) Different Strokes for Different Folks

Find out what does it for you, what gets you off. Is it soft or hard? Porn - and if so, what kind? Erotic writing with an emphasis on sensual, or nasty videos? Does it need to have a BDSM element?

Do you like to wank on your front, or on your back? Lying down, or squatting? Music, or none? Do you like to use both hands, or just one? Do you need to feel submissive, or dominant, or neither?

What do you like to fantasise about? Do you need something inside you to cum, or just on your clit? Arse or pussy? Lights on or off? Morning, noon or night? What temperature should the room be? Naked, or semi-naked, or clothed?

You need to get your body, and your mind, to the same place. You need to be physically and emotionally comfortable, and able to explore and let your hands and mind play.

6) Practice, Practice, Practice

It might take you a dozen times, to find the golden combination that sends you over the edge. Or you might go off like a rocket within five minutes of trying. But be prepared to put some time into this. The more you wank the better and easier it will get, to come to orgasm. It's a learning curve.

Then you can teach other people how to do it to you!

7) The Tao of Wanking

Do not let anyone put pressure on you to cum. That's like a cold shower on your mimsy.

8) Schrodinger's Pussy (stretching the metaphor rather)

Don't let your orgasm become the focus or end goal of sex. Orgasms are like a shy cat, hiding under the bed. They may or may not be in there but the moment you lift the sheet up to check, they bolt. They don't like to be looked at directly, it makes them feel self-conscious!

9) Advanced Class

Buy a magic wand. No, really.

10) Go forth and cum!

Orgasm Addict

2010-11-22T07:37:00.002Z

Oh, I am a nasty, slutty whore. I'm going through one of those phases at the moment where I can't keep my mitts off my mimsy. I keep grabbing every spare moment when my husband leaves the house to fit in a quick magic wanding before work.

The irony of it is that orgasms used to be such an area of difficulty for me.

I'm 34 now, and it wasn't until my late 20s that I learned how to have an orgasm. And it *was* a learning process. I felt like such a massive freak, not being able to cum. Every time that orgasms came up during girly chit chat (talking about them that is, I'm not referring to a massive lezz session. Although... ) I would feel like a fraud, and try to find some way to exit the conversation without lying or confessing my inadequacy.

And that *is* how I used to see it. As a flaw in me. As my body not working properly. Or me being too mental. Broken. Stamped with a big 'FAIL' over my aunty mary.

I put such pressure on myself that I gave up. Rather than trying, then constantly failing, I gave up trying altogether. Attempts by myself, or partners, made me feel stressed and miserable. Everyone else seemed to achieve it so naturally...so effortlessly.

Then one day I just snapped. Bought myself a rabbit vibrator and just went for it. Looking back now, I'm not surprised I'd never cum before that day. I'd never allowed myself to fantastise about anyone but my partner. I'd never been at ease with my own body. I'd never owned a clitoral vibrator. I'd had few lovers, all of whom were inexperienced.

It took a few goes. I had to learn not to get uptight about it. I also had to learn not to be scared I'd wee myself. A few towels sorted that out. And then suddenly - one day...oh my god. It was like a bloody cork out of a bottle of champagne. For the next few months I practically wanked my clit off.

Over the next few years I came to think of orgasms as something I had by myself - not something to be shared as part of sex. I could only cum using a vibrator on my clit; and I only knew one way of cumming. I tried a couple of times to introduce it during sex, but we both felt awkward and uncomfortable. Again, I felt like a failure, with bits that didn't work properly, and had to be stimulated mechanically, like some sort of broken doll.

But over the last couple of years I've learnt so much about my own body, and the way my sexuality works. First, I learnt what it was like to let someone else bring me to orgasm. Then I learned what it felt like to cum, not as an end destination, pressured, but just as part of ongoing sex where everybody may or may not get to cum at some point but it doesn't really matter if or when. Then I learned that other things make me cum, too. That it was possible to have more than one kind of orgasm, and that different things could bring it about.

I also learned that having partners who were not worried about it, who would happily enjoy my orgasm if or when it happened, but were not focusing on that as the be-all and end-all of sex, was extremely liberating. And I started having orgasm after orgasm, different kinds, in different ways, during sex. I learned to just....be.....during sex, without thinking - well, anything at all, really! It's taken a lot of experimentation, different people teaching me different things. I had quite a turn when I started gushing for the first time, for example. I thought I'd suddenly become incontinent. I was rather alarmed.

I've also needed to learn not to give a damn about how I look, feel, or sound, during sex. Noises and liquids and god knows what coming out of my body, and I'm just relaxing into that now, really, instead of getting really tense and worried like I used to.

The last few years have been a pretty steep learning curve for me altogether. I used to blog regularly on livejournal, and I was reading through old entries dated back to 2001. I was actually looking for a 'guide to orgasms for girls with difficult mimsys' blog I'd written, after my first orgasm, but sadly couldn't find it.

I was struck by the picture that emerged of my life, just reading through titles of blog entries. For so many years, I was such a sad, scared, lonely girl, just struggling constantly to keep my chin up with the weight of the world on my shoulders. I was carrying so much baggage, so many burdens. And gradually I let them all go, one by one. I used to hate by body and my face, and myself. And now, I wouldn't swap my life, my body, my face, for anybody's at all. Because they are mine. They belong to me. And those I choose to share them with.

Yeah. Things are good. :-)

The Thirteen Gifts

2010-10-20T17:43:00.000+01:00

"Birthstone" - Definition: gift of a precious material, traditionally associated with a month and believed to attract good fortune.

Opal
October's child is born for woe,
And life's vicissitudes must know,
But lay an opal on her breast,
And hope will lull those woes to rest.

Halloween parties and bonfire smoke. A year ago today my husband was in hospital, I was tearing myself apart from the inside, and my world seemed to be falling apart, piece by piece. The celtic new year begins on Samhain - 'Summer's End' - and for me, it was not just my summer, nor even just my year that had ended. Black as burnt branches in the fire; silver as the shimmer of frost, red as my heart was raw. Opals are fire and ice - too much trouble caused by heat in my cunt, too little warmth returned to my heart in love, burnt from passion and lack of grace.

Yet because of you, October and all its woe was a gift, a new year's gift. A burning out of old wood to make room for the new growth to come. And somewhere in the world, although as yet unknown to me, you were waiting. Waiting for me, as I was waiting all my life, for you. Although it would be some time still before we both knew that.

Topaz

Who first comes to this world below
In dreary November's fog and snow,
Should prize the topaz amber hue,
Emblem of friends and lovers true.

I threw my last ember of hope into the wet mist and watched for fire. Eleven months ago I huddled in my cave, grey outside and inside, damp misery clinging to every moment. But something in the fog was shining. I braved making contact with you, in desperation for the relief of pain, and the desire to be fucked like I needed to be fucked. From the first we talked of everything and nothing - rape play, hosing me down with your piss, the contradiction of a whore who'd never been fucked, and the delicate joy of words. I feared a false dawn, that your fire would be nothing more than illusion, lights in a gas fire rather than true flame. But Topaz is constancy, loyalty, friendship, the balance of emotions, and the strength of the shoulder to lean on. And you showed me all of this.

I wasn't ready to believe that you could be a friend and lover true, but you lent your strength to me despite my fear. This was your gift to me in the first month I knew you.

Turquoise

If cold December gave you birth
The month of snow and ice and mirth
Place on your hand a turquoise blue;
Success will bless whate'er you do.

A splash of bright colour in the ice. Ten months ago I met you in person. I saw the way you moved, the sensual, coiled violence living inside you, and realised I needed you to fuck me, rough and hard. You were funny and kind and clever, and I laughed for the first time since October on the night I met you.

You made it easy to be me, I didn't have to hide anything as I slutted around, flirted, kissed pretty women tasting of mulled wine bent over the table in front of you. I taunted you, begged you to fuck me in an alleyway, but you were gentle with me, seeing the fear underneath my brashness. From that first night, you protected me - even against myself. I begged you to beat me and fuck me - you stroked my hand. I opened myself to your kiss - instead you bit my lip as you looked into my eyes. Every bit as sensual, leaving me wanting you, leaving me wanting so much more.

Turquoise is for honesty, healing, regeneration and protection. You waited for me to come to you, knowing that if you moved too fast I would disappear. Again and again I pushed you away, tearful even as I did so, icy streets and frost inside the car. I wouldn't let you inside my heart or my body.

You wanted to beat me until I bled, fuck me until I was raw, bugger me until I was stretched open on your cock. You wanted to fucking ruin me - and yet all this month you held yourself back. We kissed, stroked, held; you pinched and bit me - but nothing more. You let me heal and lick my wounds while your arms held me safe, gently steered me away from self-destruction, and waited, waited, waited until I was ready to let you enter. This was your gift to me in the month we first kissed.

Garnet

By her who in January was born
No gem save garnets shall be worn
They will ensure her constancy
True friendship and fidelity.

Blood spatters in the snow. Ten months ago we played for the first time. Unsure, hesitant, scared still, I invited you into my house. "Are you afraid?", you asked me.

My eyes pupil-blackened and wide with fear, I nodded yes, my mouth slipping open in terror.

"Well crawl over there to the phone and call someone who gives a fuck."

Spit flew into my face from the violence of your words. You opened your fist and slapped me, first one cheek then the other. My breasts, shoulder and wrists were left bruise-dappled, ripe from your taking. I was swollen for you, bare and open, waiting, breathless, waiting...and and...

You pushed me - pushed my mind, opened me to embracing possibilities and unfamiliar play, but you did not push the fat head of your cock into my unwilling pussy, you did not open my cunt on the thick shaft of your dick - because I had told you no, and you listened. Garnet enhances sexuality, sensuality - red gems shimmering in the jewel chest of my memory.

You gave me back a little of the power which had been taken from me. You gave me pain and you gave me fear. These were your gifts to me in the first month we played together.

Amethyst

The February born shall find
Sincerity and peace of mind,
Freedom from passion and from care,
If they, the amethyst will wear.

Corridors and alleyways, all mixed up. At last, an outlet for my passion. You made me cum everywhere, anywhere, however you chose, wherever, whenever you chose. Your cock was only ever out of my mouth so that you could get your fingers in my slutty pussy. You ripped my orgasms from me, tearing, mauling, dragging them out of me - until I was shuddering, unable to walk, staggering, ruined with lust. Down alleyways against a lamppost, on sofas in pubs, in public toilets, in my hallway before I'd barely closed the front door, you took me. On my bed, on the floor, on the sofa, in your car, in nightclubs - your fingers always on, or in, me.

You learned how much I love to please, how much I adore giving for the sake of giving. Amethyst is for stability, peace, contentment and calm, and these things became mine, as I learned to trust you, and to trust myself again. We spoke words of love, whispered and exchanged; heart's balm, heart's peace.

You gave me sexual contentment for the first time in all of my life. You fell in love with me, and I with you. These were your gifts to me, in the second month of our life together.

Bloodstone

By her who in March was born
No gem save bloodstone shall be worn
They will ensure her constancy
True friendship and fidelity.

Dark dens and musky animals scents, rumpled furs making a nest, stinking of sweat and cum. Safety, warmth, happiness. "Fuck me anywhere, any time, in any way, that pleases you", I said. And you did.

So many years since I'd welcomed a new lover into my body. I was remade, like a young girl losing her maidenhead. You spilled my blood on the sheets, made your mark on my body. Knives, leather, fluid bonds that do not constrain yet are unbreakable. Bloodstone opens all doors for its owner, breaks down the walls of prisons and brings the possessor that which he desires. And we do desire each other so much that we cannot stave off our skin hunger for long.

You beat me until I bled, fucked me until I was raw, buggered me until I was stretched open on your cock. You fucking ruined me. You pushed the fat head of your cock into my willing pussy, and you opened my cunt on the thick shaft of your dick. These were your gifts to me, in the third month of our life together.

Diamond

She who from April dates her years,
diamonds shall wear,
lest bitter tears
For vain repentance flow.

Spring sunshine, new growth and the earth heating up. As I started to lean into you, my life became suffused with your presence. I started to trust you were not going anywhere. Little things meant so much. A walk by the riverside, dragging me through the undergrowth, a quick rape. Borrowing our friend's flat and dungeon, exploring the limits of what my body can stand.

Beginning to understand what it means for you to be my dominant partner, and what it means when I submit to you. A blurring of the lines between play and everyday life. You are always dominant to me, always. Sometimes I will submit easily, fluidly, contentedly - and sometimes you'll force me. But I always submit. You give me no other option. You rip away my defenses, leave me nowhere to hide. The diamond stands for abundance, enhancing relationships and increasing inner strength. You give me an abundance of love, of pain, of fucking, of care, of support. You shower me with it so that I no longer feel starved, scratching around in the poor dry earth. Instead you soak me in warm summer rain.

I no longer fear constantly that what has been given, will be taken away. This is your gift to me, in the fourth month of our life together.

Emerald

Who first beholds the light of day
In spring's sweet, flower month of May
And wears an emerald all her life
Shall be a loved and a loving wife.

Burning kindling, firewood, sparks and embers in the air, drifting down like tiny comets. You asked me to jump over the fire with you, and I did, becoming your wife in all ways that matter. You asked me for forever - and I smeared your sweat on my body as I told you, 'yes'.

You left a bruise on my cheekbone which lasted for weeks, turning emerald green then royal purple. I wore it with more pride than a ring. You abused me with your fists, punched me, spat on me, pissed on me, raped me, choked me with your hands around my throat, with your cock closing my airways, and then wrapped me in your love, your tenderness - slept beside me content, knowing your baby was safe in your arms, and in love with you. Emeralds mean eternity, fertility, the stone of wisdom, and of love from the pure of heart. You purify me, you scald my soul clean with pain.

You give me the peace that lies in the heart of violence. That is your gift to me, in the fifth month of our life together.

Pearl

By her who in June was born
No gem save pearls shall be worn
They will ensure her constancy
True friendship and fidelity.

Moonlight tears, dry by dawn. A month which tested my strength. Tired from long hours of work, I struggle to cope when my husband is ill again, brought on by his own foolishness. It hurts me so, and I question my integrity, when my patience begins to run out. Soothed by you and your generous heart, I begin to place boundaries, carve out a space of my own, create a refuge for myself which I will not give away. I learn to turn the responsibility, the duty of care, back to where it should be. I am not a nursemaid or a drudge for my husband, you help me to see that. Pearls are for purity, integrity. I can be a slut and be pure of heart. I can be a whore and have integrity.

You teach me how to be both the girl who can't say no, and the woman who can. That is your gift to me, in the sixth month of our life together.

Ruby

The gleaming ruby should adorn,
All those who in July are born,
For thus they'll be exempt and free,
From lover's doubts and anxiety.

Sundrenched fields of hay, a puppy pile of dogs to sleep under, all of life glimmering with a brilliant allure, ripe for the taking. We revel in the joy of each other's bodies. Touching is still precious, and necessary, no less so as time passes. Parties, clubs, meals, food, drink, sleep, all are expendable in the search for more time in each other's arms. I call you Sir, or Master, when sunk deeply into submission. You call me your baby, your fucktoy, your slut, your whore.

I begin to lay down, one by one, the heavy burden of armouring my soul against attack. I allow you liberties I've never before given away. I let you see my pride, my eagerness, in pleasing you. I arm you with a thousand ways to hurt me and trust you not to use them for harm. Ruby is for devotion, courage, and happiness. I find the courage to be happy in my devotion to you.

You use my mouth until I retch bile over your cock. You use my cunt until it's swollen and sore. You tell me I'm yours, and I belong to you. And you teach me to believe it, with fist, cock, and cum. These are your gifts to me, in the seventh month of our life together.

Peridot

Wear a peridot or for thee,
No conjugal fidelity,
The August born without this stone,
`Tis said, must live unloved; alone.

Cum stained fishnet stockings, ripped by knife blades. You show me off in a dogging spot, glorying in the crowd of men who surround the car, kneeling on the bonnet to get a better look at me. You show me off in a club, before ruining me with fist, knife, and your piss, splashing steaming hot and strong-smelling, onto my face, into my mouth. You rape my mouth, and then later, territorially fill my knickers with your cum again.

You watch as my friend kisses me, and fantasise about her fisting my slutty little pussy before you fill me with your spunk. You take me to the edge, over and over again. You violate me with brutal dildos, with fingers, your hand. There is no degradation you will not subject me to. The peridot enhances fidelity, love, trust and openness. And I am open to you, body, heart and soul. I eagerly lap up the terrible treatment you abuse me with.

I embrace the dark, sick and twisted side of my sexuality. With each way you use me badly, my soul flowers, night-blooming petals opening under the moonlight. This is your gift to me, in our eighth month together.

Sapphire

A maiden born when autumn leaves

Are rustling in September's breeze,

A sapphire on her brow should bind;

To bring her joy and peace of mind.

Black leather and blacklight. In amidst a tangle of limbs and fucking, we exist in our own space, your dominance of me unquestioned as you force me to cum on your fingers, lying across your lap in a room full of strangers. You take me out to dinner - late at night because your priority is to feed me with cum before other food.

You abuse me with cock. You tell me how to take it, where to take it, and when to take it - and I am eager to please. Our edge play takes us a little too far, I suffer temporary damage from it. Frightened, I retreat, but you come after me. Delving deep into the trust I have for you, you find me, and bring me home. I am becoming someone new. Not impervious to damage, but able to recover from it. Sapphire brings peace, watches over long journeys, and opens the mind towards understanding. Sapphire stones are thought to maintain the hope needed in order that our deepest desires and dreams will be fulfilled one day.

You watched over me, you brought me peace, and you opened my mind to understanding. You fulfil my deepest desires, my darkest dreams, and give me grace. These are your gifts to me, in the ninth month of our life together.

Black Opal

One year ago, I was broken, and now I'm whole. I dance, paint, write, laugh, live and love in the sunlight, and under the liquid moon you make my best nightmares come true.

Your thirteenth gift: you help me to forget, by helping me to remember.

"We are healed of a suffering only by experiencing it to the full." -Marcel Proust.

As the world turns, and we come close to another summer's end, a new year's beginning, I hope for a year of chances to show you how grateful I am for these thirteen gifts.

Thankyou, my Wolf.

Shadow of the Woods

2010-10-13T15:13:00.000+01:00

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.

Three

2010-10-05T16:42:00.000+01:00

"What she had begun to learn was the weight of liberty. Freedom is a heavy load, a great and strange burden for the spirit to undertake. It is not easy. It is not a gift given, but a choice made, and the choice may be a hard one. The road goes upward towards the light; but the laden traveller may never reach the end of it."
The Tombs of Atuan, Ursula Le Guin

The Sunday

The body as metaphor for soul.

This is not what happened.

Some secrets I. Keep. Still.

I listen, drenched in submission. I choose the wrong route, but I don't regret.

I fall down on the path and hurt myself I am covered in dirt from the muddy earth, I dig my fingers into it, claw frantically, scoop up palmfuls of it, smear it over me, drink it down, splash my lips and face, with fractured bones I crawl at snail's pace. Running is a distant dream and I'm good at forgetting, erase the knowledge I have ever played in the mud and danced in the dirt. The path seems too hard, my limbs too sore, I hurt, I hurt. I hurt, I hurt.

I call for you please come and help me, I can't stand by myself. You can't see the fracture, the bones aren't sticking out. I hush myself, rock quietly back and forth, my voice is steady. You call out to me the best path, point the way, tell me I'm ready. I am in pain and I cannot follow you.

I retreat, but you follow me. See, aghast, my hurts. You pick me up, take me home, bathe and splint my broken bones. You take my pain away and replace it with yours. You clean the dirt from me and replace it with your own, then make me brand new again with your softness, your love, your possession. You carry my burdens for a little while so I can begin to walk again. Months of healing condensed into hours of fucking. You force new joie de vivre inside me with your hands, with your cock.

A Saturday

A victorian, cast-iron bed. Suede lining, dark purple, in patent black leather cuffs. They hold my wrists against the metal, black-painted. Matching ankle cuffs and a spreader bar, lashed with his old and fraying belt, to the foot of the bedstead.

The rain pours down outside. He would toss me into a pit of muddy, rain washed broken glass and fuck me, uncaring of my pain or discomfort. The knowledge of this is my heart's balm, bringing me peace.

He beats me and I scream. I scream the way animals scream - unselfconscious, desperate, terrified. A gurgling sound travelling the spectrum of pitch and tone.

He climbs between my stretched wrists, and fucks my mouth. I hear the rain, and a roaring sound that is inside my own head. I'll be sick, I know I will be sick. My head is tilted back, at this angle I don't know what will happen. Will I breathe it in, will I choke? Could I die from this? My fear is stronger than my submission, I close my mouth, pull away. He forces my mouth open with his fingers, fucks me anyway.

I am grateful.

He beats me again. Defeated, broken, I sob and swear at him. I know how pitiful I am. He makes me feel ashamed, dirty. Again, I am grateful.

The rain has become a thunderstorm, I can hear thunder, see bright flashes of light, but I don't know if they're outside the window, or inside. He makes me sorry for the screaming and the insults. I am warned not to make a sound, or move. I'm terrified. He works me over until I'm screaming more and more and again in my head, but I'm too afraid, far too afraid. Tiny, hushed sobs escape my lips, I feel saliva pour from my mouth, but I can't speak. He parts my legs, I don't resist. He fucks me until he releases a flood of cum deep inside my cunt.

He uncuffs my wrists, removes the bar, rubs my skin, draws me close, tenderly. He whispers words of love to me, cherishes me. I look at him with glassy eyes, touch my lips tentatively. He understands. "Yes baby, you can speak now, and move".

I am grateful.

A Friday

It isn't until late at night, that we eat. Food, drink, sleep, basic needs, all ignored while he slakes his thirst in me. And I, equally thirsty, drink down his lust.

Each and every day I have had him in my life, I have become...more. More confident, more at peace, more creative, more balanced. I have the confidence now to make a special effort with my dress and appearance to please him - and to tell him so. Months in the making, I am now someone who can do this without fear - fear of trying but failing, to please.

Tiny pieces of my soul, healed, flowering. Withered, forgotten, parched - parts of me I thought had died, parts of me I never knew existed; thriving now in the abundance of care and love, lavished on me. Learning to trust in this plentitude, learning not to fear that it is a finite amount to be used up, or that it will soon be taken away.

Waking, finding him not in the bed with me - hating it. As he walks in the door again my heart binds to his. He is part of me, without him, there is something missing from my own soul.

Finding the confidence to truly understand - he never does anything he doesn't want to do. I can ask - I have permission to ask, to request, to state a desire - and I can believe, trust in him to always take exactly what he wants from me, regardless.

Asking gives him more power, not less. Gives him the power to grant my desire, or not. I ask on this day - ask for the cane - and he grants it.

Different, but equal. Our pain play before has taken a different shape. This time I moaned, thrust my hips against the ground, begged for more. Sometimes, overcome, he had to stop to fuck me. Sometimes he built up the pain and took me further than I would have chosen. He fucked me until I was exhausted and dry, and then as I whimpered little tiny hopeless pain noises for him, he blew his load inside me. I am always, always, so very grateful, so very astonished, to find myself His.

Three times he fucked my cunt, came inside me.

Three times he made me his.

Body, heart and soul, I belong to him.

And I am grateful.

Learning to say "No"

2010-10-05T15:23:00.000+01:00

This week, I have learned to say, "No".

I have learned to say, "No, it was not my fault".

For the first decade together, my husband and I struggled to cope with the fits he had, caused by diabetic hypoglycaemia. There was then a gap of 5 glorious fit-free years before he began having semi-regular seizures again.

I wrote about it at the time, here

and here

The very first time he had a convulsion, I blamed myself. I hadn't spotted the signs of hypoglycaemia in time, even though I knew he was diabetic, and I didn't take the correct action. I even got angry with him because he was acting so strangely.

I was told by a doctor at one stage that a first fit often paves the way for others. I felt that if only I could have stopped this first fit from happening, then he never would have had any. If only I had noticed in time, been more intuitive, been less suspicious, been more alert, been a better person...

But that's bullshit. Even if it hadn't happened sooner or later, I didn't cause his fits, because I didn't cause his diabetes. I did the best I could at the time.

Neither was it my fault that he continued to have them, and continued to not manage his diabetes as well as he could have. I wasn't a failure as a wife, it wasn't because I was a bad person, and not loving enough, supportive enough, caring enough. It was, and is, his own responsibility to manage his condition. I've always poured out my love, my support, my care, onto him. That's got nothing to do with why he has seizures. It is HIS job to take care of himself, first and foremost.

When he began having fits again, I was away over in Hastings with my partners of the time. I felt guilty for not being present when it happened, and I believed I might have prevented it if I had been. One of the partners in question was angry with me, unreasonably, on a matter unrelated to my husband's illness. She cut off communication with me for a while, and this compounded the feeling that I'd done something terrible and wrong, which I was being punished for. Somewhere along the line I connected the two things and deep in my heart, I felt I had caused my husband's fits to re-occur.

But that's bullshit. It was not, and is not, my fault. I had done nothing wrong, now or then.

I knew all this intellectually, but on sunday night I woke up at 4am, knowing it, unquestionably to be true, in my heart.

And so in such small ways are we healed.

The last year of my life.

Becoming

2010-09-10T08:32:00.000+01:00

I'm going through a very productive, creative phase at the moment. I'm making paintings at a rapid rate, and for the first time, having the confidence to try and sell them to the public. I'm exhibiting some of my work in my local kink-friendly alt pub, over the next few months.

I've been modelling, and creating a portfolio I'm really happy with. This has changed my perception of my own face and body. I'm not sure if I've actually got better looking as I've got older, or if it's just taken until my mid-thirties to believe I'm not actually unattractive. There was a time when I hated my face, thinking only that I looked like a victim. And I've always had a tempestuous relationship with my own body. But right now, I feel; if not beautiful all the time, at least; beautiful every now and then.

I'm taking care of myself, with a good time balance for loved ones, friends, boring stuff, work, 'me' time.

I'm writing, which comes and goes, sometimes I'm hugely prolific in a THIS HAS TO COME OUT! NOOOOWWWW!! way, and sometimes waiting until I feel inspired again.

I'm learning poi, and finding myself drawn more to the poi dance and flow side than tricks. I know I'm pretty good at it, and people seem to like watching me, but it's the way it makes me feel that I love, and I've learned to just zone out from any unintentional audience so I can sink into the dance.

I'm fulfilled sexually, probably for the first time in my life. I've developed a strong, and much-appreciated network of friends. I feel comfortable in myself - in my integrity, in my polyamorous lifestyle in a way I never thought would be possible.

People who've got to know me over the last couple of years might find this hard to believe, but before I discovered BDSM, I spent a couple of years in what I like to call my 'Brown Period'. So-called because my mood at the time was mostly brown. I was quite content, but not what I'd call happy. I spent a few years really doing nothing much more than sitting on the sofa knitting, playing with the cats, reading prolifically, working hard, snuggling up with my husband, and going on vigorous bike rides and walks. Like I say - all good, but not...me!

I'm quite experienced with being a massive headmental, and this wasn't extreme like some of the depressive or anxious episodes I've experienced. It was just...brown.

Okay, so I went on a sponsored hike through New Zealand and raised a few grand for the RSPCA during that period, so I wasn't completely dead! But I'd lost my spark - my mojo - and I started to drop out of contact with all the things I love that make my life so happy. I stopped looking after my appearance, I stopped going out and having fun, I stopped seeing a lot of my friends. I stopped listening to music, or dancing, or making music or art or writing. I stopped living. I was just existing.

And now I'm flowering. Savouring the world. Opening petals outward to the sunshine. People who I see who I haven't bumped into for a few months, keep telling me I look 'radiant'. So either I've developed a massive tummy (lol) or I genuinely am blossoming. I love my life. I love my poly family. I love the fun things, and the important things, and the precious things, that are in my life. And there are a lot of them.

Thankyou world. I'm so glad to be here.

Happy

2010-08-09T08:32:00.000+01:00

I am happy. Really, really happy. Not just content. My life is full of joy.

It's all been worth it.

Black Liner Run

2010-08-04T17:33:00.001+01:00

[Disclaimer: this journal entry contains strong violence, punch play, rape play, abuse play, and knife play. If these themes make you uncomfortable, I strongly advise you not to read. This journal entry is not fiction.]

Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(Still it’s nice to wish)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(If he understands)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(This could never be)
Run run run would you wear that black liner baby
(Still he’s making plans)
~ She Wants Revenge

Friday, 7pm.

I've been edgy all day, fraught with longing for you. I want you. I'm in a provocative mood. You signal to me that I should suck your cock. With eyes never leaving your face, I catch my breath, shake my head, without a sound. You play with yourself. My heart beats faster. I catch my breath with need. I can't resist for much longer, I have to have you in my mouth. You moan in pleasure as your hands stroke your shaft, pull and stretch out your balls. I am weak for you. I find myself licking the tip of your fat prick, despite myself, and letting saliva seep out of my mouth and drip onto your flesh; swollen, hard.

Angry, playful, I pull back. You have tricked me. I refuse your game of cat and mouse. You see my mood change - seconds later you feel my nails digging into your skin, deliberately trying to cause pain. Testing. Always testing for weakness.

Somehow I am face down on the sofa, my arms behind my back, twisted brutally. I resist, struggle, kick out at you as you press heavily down on me from above. My face is turned, crushed into the cushion, my mouth spiteful, hissing, swearing, snarling. Without hesitation or difficulty you pull my knickers down while I'm still pinned, and get your cock inside me. I writhe, frantic. Bastard. Furious.

"You're not going anywhere, love", you taunt. Cocky, so fucking cocky. I'll wipe that arrogance off your face. Teeth ground together, I go for you, claws outstretched. Against all fairness, I am now face up on the other sofa, my legs spread far too wide for comfort, as you stick your cock in my mouth, using me to get yourself off. You kneel on my hands to give me nowhere to retreat to, as you fuck me mouth almost to the point of being sick. Fucking cunt, I hiss at you. You pull your t-shirt off, wind it like a rag, and jam it into my mouth like a gag. I gurgle, drool into the fabric, narrow my eyes with rage, muffled sounds of violence making their way through the gag. You push my head back with using it, so hard I think the edges of my mouth might tear, and bang my head into the wall behind as you drive your hips against mine, forcing your stiff prick into my unwilling cunt.

You rip the gag out of my mouth, slide me, crying now, onto the floor and mount me spread over the sofa, from behind. You plunge into my tight arsehole. It is agonising. You piston your dick into me, not caring whether I enjoy it or not, not caring that it hurts, just taking what you want, what you need from me. You fill my arse with spunk, cumming so much and so deeply inside me that hours later, I am still leaking from your anal rape.

Saturday, 1am

I hold my breath in apprehension as we drive into the dogging spot. It is crowded tonight, and you pull up in front of a picnic bench set among a few trees. My mind instantly fills with images of what you might do to me.

We kiss, and a couple of men begin to crowd around the car. You hitch up my skirt, run your hands over my fishnet stockings, and work your fingers inside me. I cum, noisily, messily, as a horde of men press in close against the windows. A man furtively jerks himself off - I can hear his hand hitting the door.

"Pull your knickers down", you tell me. I obey. "Take them off". I obey. You get your fingers inside me again.

You unhook my bra, are lifting my heavy breasts out from the cups, holding them in your hands. Two men crawl over the bonnet, leaning on the windscreen.

A frantic knocking on the door - all the men disappear in seconds - "Pull your skirt down" you tell me. I hear the urgency in your voice. I obey. The police send us on our way.

We drive home. You park some way up from the house. One of the men has followed us in his car from the site. He looks intensely into my eyes as he pulls up alongside our car. He drives off. I am glad I don't live here.

Saturday, 2.30am.

You exercise your rights over my body. I am tired, exhausted. You stroke me, draw me closer against your body as you spoon me from behind. I push back against you, tilting my hips. Your touch feels possessive, territorial even; you handle my body as if you own it, own me, and this arouses me. I want you to make use of me, if you should want to do so, before we sleep. You slip into me from behind and I moan, arch my back, grind my cunt into you.

You fill me with your cum. I wake, hours later, in a pool of it, leaking out of me, soaking the mattress underneath me, covering my thighs. I go back to sleep - happy, proud.

Saturday, 10.30am

You force me to watch vile porn while I suck your cock. Sometimes licking, sucking your balls into my mouth, taking you deep into me and feeling you hit the back of my throat. Sometimes you're taking my mouth, fucking my throat. All the time you show me clip after clip of fucking, sucking, cumming, on your phone.

You ruin my cunt with my own favourite glass dildo. It was not designed to be used so brutally. I am sore, swollen, after your assault. I hold my vibrator onto my clit while you use the dildo in me, and I cum very hard. I want to show you, I want to do it for you - I am simultaneously shy, ashamed, aroused, proud.

You jerk yourself off, kneeling over me as I lie back and rub the sweat that falls from you, into my tits. I feel a need for something in my mouth. I begin with my fingers, then when they are not enough, reach over for another, different dildo, and suck it. I run my tongue over the pointed end, slide it between my lips. Lost in the moment I am shocked when you take it from me, and use it in me. It is very big at the base, too big, and I am sore and throbbing. I whimper, "it hurts, it hurts". You moan, toss aside the dildo and blow your load inside me.

I am in love with you.

Saturday, 3pm

We spend the afternoon with another member of our poly family, your little girl. We trail slowly over the heath with the dogs, exchanging stories, kissing, holding hands. Later we drink coffee, eat tiffin, and laugh - far too loudly - making everyone glare at us. We don't care - we are happy and enjoying each other's company. I cuddle her goodbye before you walk her to the train station, while I check on my husband. He is at a music festival this weekend, hence my spending so much time with you.

Saturday, 10pm

We enter the club, and you wait for me while I pause in the toilet to check my make-up, straighten my dress. It is the one I think of as my 'rape dress', completely see-through, and my blue leopard print underwear shows unrelentingly through from beneath it.

This will be the last of this particular club for a while, and the room is heaving. We stop to talk with people we know, catch up a little. We settle on a sofa near the play. Things are hotting up. The play right next to us is spectacular - a young girl in a school uniform is tied with her hands above her head, blindfolded, flogged. It's nothing I haven't seen before, but the connection between them is beautiful, intense, startling.

Looking from left to right the scene is like something from the fall of the roman empire. Everywhere people are bent over benches, stalking in high heeled thigh boots, or suspended upside down, naked. I lean into your lap and kiss you, a pressing need building in me. I bite your lip. The first flickers of that anger are in your eyes. The anger I so need from you. I bite your neck, tracking teeth down your shoulder. You kiss me, hard - urgent. You bite down tightly on my lip, and I pull away from you, snarling. You lunge for me, sink your teeth into my neck, a growl trickling from your jaws. You snarl as you tear at my skin, eat away at me. I undo the halterneck of my dress, inviting your touch to move to my breasts. You maul me, ripping at the skin with your teeth.

I am standing on a small platform, next to a winch suspension device, with no real certainty in how I got here. You wind the handle which unwraps enough chain to allow lowering of the spreader bar, with attached wrist cuffs, to the height of my head. I glare at you, mutinously. You tap the bar with the 15" bowie knife you've had strapped to your belt all night, and indicate I should put my hands up to be cuffed with a mere glance of your eyes. The ringing sound reverberates throughout the room; for a moment it is all I can hear.

I feel my lip push outward as I set my face towards you. I shake my head - just a little. Underlying my thoughts is a certainty that my expression must reflect my internal state - stubborn low-lying ire, determination not to yield to you, mixed in with the spice of true fear. That fear leaps, coloured with icy rivulets of flame, violet and blue, as your eyes widen at my defiance. You grab me by the throat, smash your fist holding the knife within an inch of my eye, rumbling guttural sounds coming from your throat, grunts, huffs and snarls; I shake my head again, lean back as far as I can, struggling. This baits your temper even more, and I get a huge adrenaline surge as you lunge for me with the knife. You go to stab me in the stomach - there must only be a centimetre of distance between my flesh and your blade, when you halt.

You shake me again by the throat, like a wolf who has downed his prey. Temporarily subdued, I have run out of courage, and slowly, grudgingly, move my hands into position. You sheathe your knife; for now.

I feel your hands on my arse, running over the skin. You spank me - you never spank me lightly, it is always hard, or very hard; sometimes the rain of blows generates a syncopated pain which is easier to enjoy. You know I like it rough. I really like the feel of this, not so much a warm-up as a statement of intent; an introductory paragraph. It often sets the tone of what's to come - how much I struggle, resist, or moan and push into the blows; how hard and where you hit me, and whether you will still me through a hand in my hair, a rough fist, soft words or a knife.

Today your slaps on my behind are fighting talk, a tool to humiliate me in front of all these people. You have turned me around so that you're behind me while I face the mirror, and I turn my head aside - I hate looking at myself. I catch your eye instead, and I feel my whole face quiver, caught on the knifeblade edge between wrath, shame, pain, tears, fear.

You loose one of my wrists completely, and we both know you're taking your life in your hands, partially freeing me when I'm in this mood. You slap me in the face. Not a light blow designed to shame or rebuke, a full hit. You mean it to hurt, to provoke.

This is the moment. The tiger, hidden until now, leaps for your throat. The volcano, smouldering, spews molten lava, showering rocks and thunder into the sky. The match drops slowly, tumbling end over end, into the accelerator fluid, and clouds of smoke, flame like ultraviolet fire, explode behind my eyes with a whoomph.

I'm going to fucking kill you. I'm no longer capable of conscious thought, but some still sane part of me is glad I'm restrained and the damage I'll inflict is limited.

I go for you, with hands and claws. I slap you in the face. You slap me again, and again. I hit you back - or try to. We stalk around each other, less like prey and predator, rather like two gladiators in the arena. The bar is held between us, one wrist of mine cuffed to it, one hand of yours gently resting on it, steadying me, threatening me. Our eyes are locked. Nothing else matters. Nothing else, but being here, like this, with you.

I draw my hand back behind my head and smack you in your sneering mouth as hard as I can. You rock back on your heels - with your right hand you smack me full in the face with your open hand. The blow would have sent me flying, if I had not been held up by the wrist restraint. You take off the leather armour covering your torso, and I see the sweat pouring from your chest. You know what the sight of you in jeans, bare-chested, does to me. And I hate you for it. You know my weakness for you, you use my own lust for you against me. Taking advantage of my distraction, you leap onto the platform with me, mashing your sweaty, muscled body against my own, reminding me how soft, pliant, malleable I am in the face of your strength. You tie my other wrist onto the bar and step back, to begin hitting me.

Lashes from your whip hit my legs; a storm cloud where the rain burns instead of soothing. I spit a curse of violent swearing at you. You whip harder. I spit into your face. You spit into mine. You punch me in the stomach. You pour a torrent of blows over me, a meteor shower of hot, painful impact injuries. I kick out at you - should one of my blows connect, it will be because I want it to, even knowing that my heels will cause you injury. You beat me unceasingly, despite the risk.

Ahh, at last. Oh, thankyou - thankyou. I feel an easing in the pressure, the almost painful pressure built up in me over the last couple of months. A feeling of satisfaction, a need met. I yield to you - you ARE stronger than me, and are able to show me so.

You sense my submission to you and pursue it, forcing your fingers inside me. You tell me to cum, and I do - but for you, not for me.

You have lanced my violent anger and allowed the first surge to come free; as have I for you. I can feel more bubbling deeper inside, but that is for later. For now, both you and I are spent. I feel such gratitude, such humility, to you. The desire in me to show it builds until I cannot NOT act. As you help me over to sit down, recover, my body moves of its own accord to honour you. I kneel before you, and bend to kiss your feet.

You lift me up, and position me on the sofa so I am sitting facing you, while you stand before me. You unbutton your jeans and take my mouth.

Then you hold me, stroke me, calm me. For a little while. Standing, you take me by the hand and lead me, swaying, unsteady, into the men's toilets. You lock us into a cubicle and force me onto my knees. I think that you will fuck me, or take my mouth again. Instead, this time when you unbutton yourself, a stream of hot piss hits me in the face. I jerk away, and your fingers are twisted in my hair, holding me in place over the toilet. Your other hand forces my mouth open, fingers pushing my jaw apart, until the warm, briny taste of you fills my mouth to overflowing. I retch a little, spit out as much as I can, but am unable to prevent some from leaking down my throat into my stomach. My face, neck, chest, is covered in your urine. Your cock is rock hard during this, it must pain you. There is no thought in me to refuse you - I would swallow it if you asked it of me. There is no thought in me at all, just an animalistic, instinctive need to obey you, to please you, to submit to you. I have been marked as yours - debased, as the filthy little whore I am. But with this act you claim me as YOUR filthy, dirty whore. I am marked unmistakeable as such.

You push your stiff cock into my mouth and I suck you. You taste of piss but I am not repulsed; but grateful. You take me outside, and lead me to the women's toilet where I can wash my face a little. I look in the mirror and see my eyeliner has run; tear-stains plain to see. I do not consider removing them; they are just as much your marks as the bruises you leave on me, the scent marks you have just covered me with.

Sunday, 12am

I ask to go out on the balcony - the cool breeze will help me recover, I know. Your body curves around me protectively everywhere we go. I feel so safe with you. As I sit, a little shaky still, and floating; you stand in front of me, and let your leather armour fall open, cloaking us from casual view. You take my mouth again, pumping it hard.

Sunday, 12.30am

We make our way towards the inside, when I see a pretty blonde friend of mine. She has already caught your eye, especially dressed as she is in the slutty school uniform of perfection. As you chat with her partner, we flirt, and kiss, and she seduces me with her delicious voice, and soft, soft lips. She sends me on my way with a promise of more to come...

Sunday, 2am

This night will be the last time this club is ever held at this venue. Everyone here hopes it will find a new home - but after tonight, all the equipment will be sold, the fittings stripped, the bar emptied. You strap me onto the St Andrew's Cross, and I realise, as you do so, that this is the same piece of equipment on which I had my first public play a year and a half ago. There is a sense of balance, of rightness, to it. I'm glad my last time on it was with you.

You strike me over and over again - my back, my thighs, and everywhere in between. I rip my arm loose from the straps and flail at you, connecting once or twice. You pin me back down and cuff me much more tightly, then beat me even harder.

There is far less anger this time, but you push me hard, generating so much screaming heat in me that I have to let it loose, and for the first time, I scream. Really scream - not trying to contain it, just letting the sound from my mouth carry the agony I'm enduring.

You slow, and then pause, coming to the front of the cross. You meet my eyes. "Stop", you say. "Stop". I look at you, uncomprehending. "Stop?" you ask me again. Are you...do you want to know if I want to stop? [it is only later than I learn you were asking me if I wanted to safeword] Is it too much? No.

You spit at me. Into my face. I conclude I must stop screaming, that this is what you want me to stop doing...you have made me scream and now I have disgusted you with my weakness...I am nothing, less than nothing. You continue to abuse me, beat me, hurt me, and I, with the last of my will, hold back the screams. I cannot stop the sobs that rack my body, make the whole frame shake, or the tears that pour from me. You come and stand in front of me again, and look into my eyes. You speak a single word, quietly. "Cum", you tell me. And I do. I am humiliated, I hate to cum in public, strapped to equipment like this, losing my dignity in front of people I know.

Again, you beat me. And something snaps inside, and the pain doesn't feel like pain anymore. I am somewhere else, and feel the blows only like pressure, they no longer hurt. You lift me down, gently, and pull me over to one side, where I float, encased by your love.

I adore what you have done to me; what you have reduced me to, and yet I am not diminished, instead I am made *more*.

Sunday, 5am.

You tell me to sleep while you walk the dogs. I am hungry, and exhausted. I refuse food, secretly wanting to be available, should you choose to fuck my mouth on your return. Through a super human effort I remain awake, so that you may take me, should you choose to do so. You choose to let me sleep. I sleep in your arms. Yours.

Sunday, 10am

We wake, slowly, lingeringly. You fist me - almost, you won't quite fit. Next time I will try even harder. As your hand moves inside me I hear you moan, mutter 'oh god, I want to cum on you', and I cum, over and over again. I am so sore now. Then you fuck me. I cum again, as you spill your seed inside me.

Sunday, 6pm

If I am with you, then taking my own pleasure, directly, by my own action, or even by yours, is difficult for me. I want *you* to have the pleasure, *all* of it. You have slowly broken me to the idea that you get direct pleasure from touching me, having your fingers inside me, using toys on me, making me cum. It became a simple thing, understanding that you were using my body to satisfy yourself, however you chose, be it with fingers or cock or tongue. I give you my body, despite my desire to refrain from taking pleasure when I could be giving it to you, as an act of submission. When I cum, it is in submission to you. When I moan, cry out, press my cunt against your hand, it is in your honour that I do so. It took time for you to force me to ride your cock, sitting astride you, without me feeling too ashamed to enjoy it.

But still, making myself cum by my own hand, just the way I would if you weren't there - how difficult was it to get around the sense that I was doing something to be ashamed of? So when I offered this up to you, offered to show you what I do when I make myself cum, alone; I know you treasured it as the gift it was.

You watch, hungry-eyed, as I push the ribbed glass dildo deep into my arse. Hold the vibrator on my clit. I soon overcome my shame and embarrassment, and get lost in the pleasure of it; eventually cumming hard, sweatily and loudly, calling your name. As I collapse into your arms, it is such a delight to be stroked and soothed by you.

Then you come over my face, and I suck what little I am allowed to, down inside me, clean you, and kiss you, then lie in your arms, covered in your sweat, replete.

Monday, 1am

After spending the evening with friends, back at my house you undress slowly in front of me. I shiver. "Is it permitted, to ask for what I want?" I speak to the floor, too shy to meet your eyes.

"Yes", you tell me. "It is always permitted. Although you might not always *get* it."

"Please", I ask you. I lift my head, bravely. "Will you hurt me?"

You leave the room for some time, and when you come back, we begin watching violent porn. I think you will fuck me, but not hurt me. I am a little wistful, but not sad. I like that it is your decision to make.

But I am delighted when you put my wrists and ankles into cuffs, and tie me to two spreader bars. You alternatively violate, and cane me, while forcing my head to one side so I see the porn. My arms are behind my back, and you pull cruelly on the bar, forcing my torso into an upright position so you can plunge more deeply into me from behind.

You cease beating me to torment me with a brutal, huge and abusive dildo. I am so swollen and sore from our weekend, I can't believe you're going to do this to me. But you do. You force it into me - not that far, I am too swollen, but far enough for it to hurt, more than the caning.

Sated, you lift me, limp and sobbing, and wrap me up in the bed while I shiver and whimper. I am so deeply asleep when you come to bed, after shutting the lights off, that you cannot even lift me enough to get your arm around me; but I know you are there. You are with me. You keep me safe.

Monday, 9am

My husband comes home unexpectedly from a music festival, hours earlier than anticipated. The lounge looks like sodom and gomorrah - a giant cock next to some lube, spreader bars, cuffs, whips, floggers, porn, and my underwear, tossed casually around the place. There is another dildo on the bathroom sink, drying. He can't go in the bedroom because you're lying in there naked on his side of the bed; only a few minutes ago, you were clearly accompanied by his wife.

I stand in the kitchen, horror, surprise and amusement sharing equal space on my face. I'm naked and covered in bruises. Could this get any worse?

Thank god for polyamory and honesty. Husband was not exactly happy, but sees the funny side and giggles to himself for hours afterwards about it. Poor you - you are persuaded to sit on the sofa and chat to him with me, instead of slinking out and killing yourself, as was your alternate plan.

Monday, 12pm

I kiss you goodbye at the door, wishing I could have yet still more time with you. I mustn't be greedy. But no amount of time could be enough. However, I am content and satiated. And in love. So very in love; with you.

Liquid [story]

2010-08-03T16:40:00.003+01:00

"The liquid state of a material has a definite volume, but it does not have a definite shape and takes the shape of the container, unlike that of the solid state."

My body is liquid, neither one thing, nor another. I move seamlessly, both ephemeral, floating, flowing; yet also animalistic, rooted, sure-footed as if my body grows from the floor, unable to fall, unable to trip or falter. There is nothing which can induce viscosity in me, take my ability to flow from me; I feel resonance in every cell of my beautiful, strong, graceful body. I am perfect. I am free. It feels as if I am remembering and re-enacting the dance, rather than improvising, each movement made without conscious decision in the knowledge it is perfect and exactly right.

The swollen, rich bass drives my feet, hips, wrists, fingers. Forward, back, centre, forward, back, centre. My arm rises, my wrist tilts, fingers arch delicately in rhythm with the coloratura; I am made of particles which are constantly moving. I am at the center, connected by invisible spokes to the spiral of dancers around me.

I am glad I insisted on air-conditioning for the club. The summer heat is kept out slightly of this basement property, but the huge mass of sweaty bodies brings its own temperature rise. The cool breeze freshens my skin and lifts away the heat which comes from inside, as I grind my hips to the song.

The EBM finishes and leads into the industrial section of the night. I leave the floor, sated for now, and lean up against the cool black marble of the bar. I look around me, happy and proud. The arched alcoves are low lit in darklight, padded with black leather seats, finished with glass topped tables, green recessed lighting; in the DJ booth, my friend, headphones worn sideways to accommodate her mass of hair, moves slickly to the beat as she flicks through for the next track. The dull metal screens act as room-dividers. They lend a faintly sinister air to the industrial-styled decor. I drink in the reward of the hard work, the loving toil of the last few weeks getting the club ready for its first night.

*tick tock*

Everyone has gone, now. I have the music on low. I've switched some of the lights off. The recessed lights shimmer off the metal poles, frames, marble. I shiver a little. The room is cooling rapidly now the only body in it is my own. I close my eyes and allow myself time to enjoy the shiver - pleasurable after so much movement. I have finished cleaning the floor, collecting the detritus of the night.

*tick tock*

I pause. There is something so wrong that for a moment my eyes can't make sense of it.

"Who the fuck are *YOU*??!! And what are you doing in *MY CLUB*?"

*tick tock*

You're in the doorway. I can see only half of your body, your face. The club is dark, I'm standing in the lit space, and there are no lights on in the stairwell.

"What do you want? How did you even get *IN* here?"

*tick tock*

You move forward slightly. Your eyes meet mine. I've never seen your face before this moment, but you look menacingly familiar. Black jeans, black top, plain, simple. Your expression is complex. Anger, surprise, desire. Fear? I must have imagined that. The overwhelming impression is of someone who *inspires* fear, not one who *feels* it.

*tick tock*

You walk forward towards me. There is a moment where I am reminded of the dancers earlier; we meet in the centre of the floor, eyes locked, bodies oh so aware of each others. Will we begin to dance? It will be Latin, I think, full of vitality and constrained tension, movements slow then sudden, soft then hard.

And here is the audience. Black-clad clothes, washed in tears. Rain blue highlights. Almost a uniform. Your friends? Back-up? Gang? Entourage? They move inside the room in a way which brings the word 'slinking' into my mind. They seat themselves in the alcoves, hunched forward, tense, anticipatory. Predatory - but not on their own behalf. On yours.

You are so self-contained. When your arm moves, there is nothing to signal the violence, the explosion to come. The impact transfers energy in one huge blow to my face. I am lifted off the floor, into the air.

*tick*

Weightless.

Breathless.

Gestalt.

*tock*

Collision.

Confusion.

I hit the floor.

*tick tock, tick tock*

My body compresses under the force of the blow. The impact judders up my body, causing ripples of agony to swell within the initial numbness. It's too early to tell if anything's broken. You are on me. Above me. Your hands on my shoulders, fingers curling into my clothes, nails breaking my skin. You are shouting but I can't make sense of the words, because my mind is still processing the shock of connecting with the floor.

Your rage is a waterfall, drowning me. I tumble and struggle to the surface, pulled down by the current. So much anger, so much. Who would think liquid could strike as hard as this?

*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*

Your words fall into place. Suddenly I am hearing them as language, full with meaning - rather than random fury-filled sounds. "Cunt. Stupid little broken cunt on the floor. Think you're fucking better than me? Fucking bitch. Nasty little fucking bitch".

I hear myself speak, stammer. "What....what...I don't understand...please, PLEASE?"

"You don't fucking UNDERSTAND?! Are you fucking STUPID or something?! Well? Well? Bitch!"

You haul me up onto my knees, a frenzy of movement.

"THIS! THIS is what I'm fucking talking about!" You shove a flyer for the opening night of the club into my hands. A corner of my mind notes the blood pouring from his knuckles onto the paper, and wonders dispassionately if my cheekbone is broken.

"You open a club on the same night as MINE?! How fucking DARE you?! Are you setting yourself up to be in competition - with ME? We'll see how much fucking competition you are when you're in spreader bars, you little cunt".

Your fingers snap. Instant response - four of your group are kneeling on the floor surrounding us. My mind unlocks, allows entry to the little facts it has been struggling so hard to keep out. A sudden and unnerving attention to detail; fingernails and teeth - a little too long and pointed; eyes like traffic lights - red, amber, or green. Gutteral vocalisations - a hiss in some, in others, a snarl, or rumbling growl. An impression of wildness, speed, untamed sense of Other.

*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*

My limbs are seized and spread, pulled and laid out. I struggle pointlessly, pitifully, in the grasp of cold hands, metallic in strength, and warm hands, heavy with hair but no less strong. Dirty, leather cuffs are strapped onto my wrists, my ankles. They stink of years. My movement is stilled. The cuffs attached to bars, short for my arms, a longer one to hold my legs apart.

*tick*

You cry out a word that more like a howl than any human language. There are ripples and eddies in your skin. A rumble gushes out of your mouth which begins in your belly, vibrating up through your torso until it spills from you. You sway, but it is not weakness, but strength which rocks you gently. Fur cascades down your body, a thickening black and silver mist, the touch of foam upon your lip.

*tock*

I am abruptly aware of my own helplessness. This is a monstrous thing; they are monsters. This is a dreadful thing; I dread my own destruction. I cannot save myself, I am unable to change my fate; it will be whatever you choose.

*tick*

I lie on my back, my legs spread open between the bars. My arms spread equally, the bar lying beneath my body. My back, sore and bruised, lies pressed painfully into it. You are quiet now. Moving slowly. Your voice like ripping pieces of meat falls gutturally, horrifically, onto me, with your stringy saliva. I flinch at the slightest touch of your fur, my skin creeping away, raising bumps.

*tock*

"Biii-tchhhhhh." I can barely make sense of the long, damaged vowels as they leave your throat from deep inside.

"Need to be fuuu-cked like a biii-tcchhhhh. Seeeee if this teeeacc-hes yo-uuu. Ruuu-in you. Ruuu-ut with yo-uuu. Like a do-ogg. Biii-tchhhhhh."

All the while, slowly, slowly moving. The music, and the dance, slowed to a single beat, pulsing between us. Disgusted, terrified of you, humiliated by you as I am, we share something, you and I. Your eyes stare into mine. That same complex mix of emotions present in them. My eyes lock to yours. I AM yours; to debase, abuse, save, on your whim. You are crouching now between my legs. I feel the head of your prick touch softly against my soft inner thigh, then my pussy lips, brushing against the shaven skin. We both breathe in, sharply. Our connection deepens.

*tick tock*

Unexpectedly you are inside me, a yawning chasm of pain opening me almost to the womb. You are big - very - and your too-hard cock stretches me unbearably. I scream. You stay unmoving, waiting. My body clenches and thrashes, but I can't get away. Your hips press down on mine, waiting.

You slowly begin to move, easing out, then back in. Again.
Again.

*tick tock, tick tock*

Against all reason my cunt is wet. With relentless speed you pull out and turn my body, with the help of your monstrous chosen few, so that I am on all fours in front of you. As you enter me, you pull towards you the spreader bar between my wrist, so that my upper body is lifted, painfully, and no matter how I lean forward there is no escaping you. You bang into me with eager haste, and at my entrance I feel a widening at the base of your thick cock, a bulging mass seeking to enter me also, which I resist, twisting and turning, screaming out, no more, no more!

But I am too slick and liquid to refuse you entry, welcoming you in despite myself, every huge knotted inch of you, and you take me with such violence, so complete is my violation, that I think you mean to kill me.

*tick tock*

You complete my degradation. You unleash the contents of your heavy, full balls inside me, a torrent of spunk, mixed animal and human, savagely slamming into me to leave it as deep inside as you can, but still it leaks from my ravaged pussy as you withdraw, and stick your dick into my mouth, forcing me to lick it clean as two of your servants feed deeply on me, burying their fangs into my neck and sucking, drinking, taking my fluid just as you have dumped your load in me, and forced me to take yours.

*tick tock, tick tock*

*tick tock, tick tock*

When I wake you are gone, and all your group gone with you. Cum, blood, sweat, tears, are hours cold on my skin. My wrist are free now, my ankles uncuffed.

A letter waits on the table, the writing calligraphic in style. "Until next month, mon loup".

2010-07-28T21:38:00.000+01:00

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".

"Streams full of stars, like skies at night"

2010-07-22T00:23:00.008+01:00

For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
- XXIX, Shakespeare

A weekend of oh so very much needed calm; recharging, relaxing, rejuvenating, restorative.

He met me at the station. Travel, transition, transmutation. Physical; my territory - to his. Metaphysical; alert to the world, sited within my own space - to a shared locus of being. Home is this place, in which I am free from fear of attack, this clearing in the woods where I flourish; drinking in the light, warmth, nourishment of his love and care.

I'm a highly sexed girl. A husband, a boyfriend, and I STILL need to sort myself out on most days. To this end he dumped a substantial load of porn from his phone to mine. Thank god for the gift of bluetooth. My favourite at the moment, a nasty little scene: pretty girl gets eaten out by one of the men, while the other man fucks her throat. They tell her to bend over the table. She lies down. Re-applies her lipstick. She hasn't even finished when he enters her from behind, while the other one takes her mouth. Occasional slaps to her arse, sometimes he pulls out, rubs his cockhead against her pussy lips, before getting his meat in her slit again. They start fucking her roughly, but before very long at all, they're banging her full-on hard from both ends. I've usually cum by the time the 2.14 minutes clip rolls around twice.

I mention this to him, as he gets out of the bath. He pulls his phone out, flicks through. "Is this the one?", he says. I nod, watch eagerly as he plays it for us both. He holds the phone at my eye level as he slots his dick into my mouth. Pushes it harder down my throat until I retch. He follows the action - pulling back, then pushing in harder, in rhythm with the film.

He plays it again - stands the phone up on the side, angled so I can see it. Headfucks me while he cuntfucks me. Slaps my arse, pulls out, grinds in hard. I moan, cry out, cum - I don't even make it through the whole clip. He forces me through it again, then takes my mouth until he stops. I look at him, trying to anticipate what he wants from me next. He takes me into the bathroom. The phone playing through the porn once again, sitting up on the shelf. I watch it as his prick slides down my throat. I retch less as I begin to relax into the abuse. He stands in the bath, places me so I am on my knees in front of him, leaning over the side of the panel.

He pistons his shaft into me, I retch - more and more and more, I lean back despite my good intentions, twisting and pulling to escape. Oh god, I'm going to be sick. Please, please don't - but a little voice at the back of my mind; you knew, you knew this was going to happen. That's why he stood in the bath. It's okay, you can go ahead and be sick, he wants you to, he won't be mad.

Another, contrary voice - oh please no, it's disgusting, dirty. He can't want this, I'm disgusting. I'm ashamed, embarrassed, please, please, please don't.

He does. He clamps the back of my head so tight to his groin I think I will suffocate. Then finally releases me. A thin stream of vomit pours out of my throat, pure bile. I couldn't breathe around him, his cock cut off my air supply completely. I was totally filled with him. He would not let me escape until he was done, until he had had enough. Surely he will let me go now, let me rest? To my joy and pain, instead he continues to use me, until he's had his pleasure, his fill. Starburst shine, close to cracking, closing in now, closing in on me.

He lets me go. I sink to the ground. I've been sobbing for some time, but now there is nothing in my mouth obstructing my cries; they are loud and plentiful. Tears wreck chaos with my pretty make-up; my face is hot, red, ruined. His voice is soft now. "There, there, baby. Let's splash some water on your face. Put a little cool water in your mouth. There my darling, there, my baby girl".

It's all worth it.

He takes me to bed. I can't stop cumming - it's painful with how fierceful my pussy clamps down on his cock. I am raw afterwards from the sheer grinding friction of it. He blows his load inside me as I scream for the last time.

I lie, limbs spread with abandonment, across the covers. Flushed, satiated. He leaves me drifting while he cooks me dinner. I am his. I am cherished.

Later, in the dark, he pushes me down onto the floor. Lifts my skirt, pulls my knickers down. Whispers things...shhhh, don't tell. No-one must know, no-one must hear you. Quiet, baby. I am like a child again, helpless. Shhhh. Do not speak of it, lest it burn your mouth with more acid than bile.

Shaking. Is this sickness?

Held. Comfort. Light. Warmth. Home.

Before I travel back, transitioning to my own territory and once more alert to the world and its needs, he marks his possession of me. Spills his seed all over and inside me. Spatters my face with it, allowing me to catch a little, leaving my throat slick with his semen.

Yes.

Metamorphosis

2010-07-05T17:45:00.001+01:00

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.

Beauty in Violence

2010-06-30T18:00:00.001+01:00

'Never bring a knife to a fistfight', they say. I'm so glad that my dominant plays by his own rules, so to speak. It wasn't much of a fight anyway. More, the terrifying, brutal, mother of all rape scenes...

It was late May when this happened. I always need a while to process play which is very hard or close to the edge. Like opalescent bubbles coming to the surface, my thoughts and feelings rise out of the water in their own time. The more profound the events, the longer that process takes. Writing helps. I wrote about it privately at first, feeling that to write publicly of such intensely personal matters would be an exercise in over-sharing. But now I want to - I want to share it, and re-affirm it for myself as something that was good and right to happen; something which brought me healing, not harm. And perhaps, too, I write for the others who experience and take pleasure in such things, in the hope that they might also take pleasure from my joy.

The nature of the things I am writing about, requires some warning and attention to detail in the explanation. These things were done to me because I wanted them. My life is enhanced because of them. I am fulfilled, I am made more, because of them. They were beautiful. I speak of them as others might describe their wedding night, their first kiss, the birth of their child. I am speaking of fists, striking my face and stomach. I speak of the glint of moonlight on knifeblade; the terror of oral rape, the humiliation and pain of torture. And I speak of it with love. If you cannot read this without it stirring painful thoughts and feelings in you, then please, I urge you not to read it.

The story begins before that night itself. Imagine a club in a dirty, sweat-filled basement. Striking women - owning their style, regardless of whether it shocks - in black and red and chains. Pretty boys, gauche and innocent, with their long hair combed and conditioned, their ears stretched out with piercings, hands soft and pliant. I love this music, and I've been waiting all month to dance. I am in my element, I feel perfectly and completely at home here. I dance freely, joyfully, uninhibitedly. I drink, I dance, I sweat, I talk.

My lover comes. I don't see him arrive, blissful as I am in the movement of my body, the vibration of the music travelling my skin. Suddenly he is in front of me. He holds me, kisses me. The heat and the dark: we are sharing it together. It turns me on so badly; I want to go to the beach to fuck. I had asked him to hit me, we had been talking about fists, about punching, about violence. We began playing - I felt wrong, I safeworded, we stopped. It scared us, both. We had opened up to the deepest level of trust; and it had gone wrong - how could we open up that deeply to each other again? Should we?

I wanted to. I needed to. Did he? And more importantly - would he?

That night in late May, it was not just the cool breeze that made me shiver through the slutty dress I wore to meet him. He had spent the day bringing me to the edge in anticipation. Texts to each other, mine full of uncertainty and questions, arousal and excitement. His, firmly showing me his control, then easing off just before I panicked and fought back. Playing with my emotions just like he plays with my cunt - skilfully and exactly as he chooses to.

I was dressed in see-through black fabric, ruffles, lace, fishnet, very high heels - underwear and body on display for everyone to see. I dressed that way for him. We were at a burlesque circus cabaret show, the majority of the audience middle aged and middle class. I was unaware of anything my friends said to me that night, I can barely remember the show itself.

He came to me late in the evening, he had rushed to be there. He was sweaty, dirty, wore blue jeans and a white football top, and stank of a vile aftershave; that is not his normal flavour. Had he not had time to change or bathe? I would not comment, it might be hurtful.

Then he told me all these things were deliberate choices; which gave me permission to enjoy my repugnance at them. I have shared my fantasies with him of being raped by dirty, vile, ugly chavs, shared the fantasy of being used by people who revolt me - used for their pleasure, not mine.

He didn't touch me or look at me more than absolutely necessary, during the show. Again, this was a deliberate choice. He told me afterwards what a struggle it had been. His actions, or lack of them, created a confusing storm of emotions. I wanted to be held and stroked, yet I felt a distance between us, a separation. He had peeled us apart, we who are usually so fused together in body and soul.

On the journey home, we were silent. I struggled to make light of the atmosphere, with jokes, anecdotes, which petered out into silence at his lack of response. We walked to our friend's house and dungeon, lent to us for the night, as my nervousness and anticipation grew. I turned the light on in the hallway. He switched it off. I was alone in the dark with him. For the first time, I didn't feel safe with him. I was scared.

I opened the door. He pushed past me and went into the bedroom. I hovered uncertainly in the lounge, not sure what to do. I put my bag down. I followed him into the bedroom. He ignored me, re-arranging furniture, opening up the space, setting out the room as he wanted it to be. I sat down on the bed, huddled over myself, cuddled my knees to my chest. I felt awkward, unsure, small. I felt like a victim.

He turned the light in the bedroom off. I could see one side of his face lit from the hallway. The rest was in shadow. We've stayed at this friend's house before, several times. I've always felt very comfortable there. I didn't feel comfortable anymore. He had made it into his own space, his territory. And I was suddenly, uncomfortably aware that he was not himself. I didn't know this man, this stranger, in his clothes so unlike the ones that me and mine chose to wear. He was not of my group, my tribe - he was 'Other'. His smell even, was foreign to me. His stance, thuggish. Even his hair was shaved, unusually. And his eyes, his eyes looked different. There was someone there I did not know. Someone I feared. I'm afraid of him.

I didn't know what would happen - but I knew that something would. I was not in control - he was. Whatever happened next, it would be his choice, his actions, his decisions, ruling events.

He strutted towards me, exuding a dirty kind of sexuality, a broad, thick, arrogant kind. Swollen pride. Then I saw the knife in his hand. My stomach turned, roiled with the shock of it. He played with the long, solid, sharp hunting knife. Showed it to me. The light shone, reflected, sparked. Ripples in reality as part of me said - he won't harm me. And yet, this man is not my lover. This man is a thug. A rapist. What else might he be?

He tells me to stand up. His legs are spread apart, centre of gravity in his stomach where the hair coils thick. Dense muscles in his arms. He seems more meaty than normal, stocky. He has a knife. I stand - slowly and carefully.

He punches me in the stomach.

Shock. I fall on the bed, the fear like a pinwheel on my skin; the joy like warm clay; the fury and outrage burning, burning bright. No-one has EVER hit me before. I've never been hit in the stomach. How fucking DARE HE???!!! Satisfaction. Yes, yes, it's happening at last. This is what I've been waiting for. Pain, pain, pain, dull cramping, my whole stomach aching.

Before it stops hurting, he punches me again.

But it hasn't stopped hurting yet! And now it really, really hurts, my god, what if he's damaged something inside me? How could he?

He hits me again, in the face, on my cheekbone.

He doesn't just threaten me with the knife. He uses it on me. Drags it over my skin, lightly. Then cuts me. On my arm, on my thigh. I bleed. I will be marked, from this.

He shakes me, like a rag doll. I am limp and flinching. He throws me down.

I lie on the floor in a puddle, fabric spilling around me like black water. My hands cling to the edge of the bed, clutching, drowning. He shouts at me. I am supposed to reply, my mind is not working, I can't speak. 'Are you a fucking idiot!?', he shouts at me. His anger channels not just through his fists, but through his voice. It's the only time I ever hear his voice like that. It flips switches in my brain, terrifies me, turns me on beyond anything. I am incoherent, stunned.

I have never felt so feminine. He is so powerful, so strong.

He hits me again, in the mouth. Over and over. My lip splits. There is blood on his hands.

He throws me down onto the bed, forcing me beneath him. Oh god, he's going to rape me.

He tells me to get my mouth open. It is not enough. He wants me open wider. He rages at me, pulling at my face with his hands. He sticks his fingers in my mouth, opening it up to his satisfaction. He drools a fat ball of spit and slowly lets it drop, from his open mouth into mine.

I am appalled, humiliated beyond anything I've ever known before. But too afraid to be angry. Just too scared. My emotions are no longer under my control, they have been taken from me, by him. He decides that I will be terrorised, and so I feel terror. I hate him for it. I love him for it. I will treasure this memory.

He hits me in the face again. And again.

I'm scared my teeth will break. I can feel my lips, puffed up and swollen, splitting. Bleeding. He forces me onto the whipping bench, cuffs me to it - not with our cuffs, that we bought together - the ones that belong with the dungeon, anonymous and strange to me.

Eagerly, I hold out my wrists to him. I hope that by pleasing him, being quick and anticipating his demands, I might avoid some of the violence which will pour over me. I am close to right. He rapes my mouth, instead of beating me.

He forces his cock down my throat. Not my mouth - my throat. I am very near vomiting. I retch so much it hurts. I can't breathe, he's replaced my air with his meat. I am suffocating on his swollen prick. He uses my mouth like a hole. I hear him whispering, viciously. 'Don't you fucking dare suck my cock, just open your fucking mouth so I can use it'. He holds my head still with his hands. He thrusts violently, using his hips to slam himself into my gaping mouth, over and over again. He hasn't even undone his flies, he's just pulled his dick out of his jeans. The buttons hit me every time he crushes his hips against my face. They grate and knock against the bridge of my nose, between my eyes, on my sore and swollen lips. It hurts, and I'm scared. Will it tear the skin on my nose, or even break the bone? But I'm too scared to even offer a whimper of complaint. My wrists are agony, numb, pulling on the cuffs, they take the weight of my body and his. As he pushes forward, each thrust of his is pleasure for him, pain for me. He shows me the blood from my split lip, on his cock. I don't remember - the memory is blocked, I only know because he tells me, afterwards, that he did.

There is only fear. There is only pain. There is only him. Nothing else in the world exists any more. He tells me, 'Don't you fucking dare look at me with disgust. Don't you fucking dare look at me with anything but love in your eyes'.

I hide my eyes as much as I can - not because there is disgust in them, but because there is no room for anything except terror.

He speaks to me. 'Don't you like it? You fucking whore. Sound like you're enjoying it, you little bitch'. I am completely bewildered - I cannot even think of what sounds I normally make, and fake them. Normally I am very noisy, but I make sounds because I can't NOT make them, and I have no idea how to sound like I'm enjoying myself, when I'm not. But he demands these sounds of pleasure from me, he doesn't stop demanding them, while he hurts me, and so out of desperation I search for a noise which will please him, and settle for making a noise, any noise, even this muffled groan, around his dick. Now he tells me I'm a good girl, and I respond. Despite everything, despite the rape and the violence and the hurt - warmth is spreading out from my chest as he says over and over again, that I'm a good girl, HIS good girl.

Then he spanks me, even though I was good. I am in agony already, just from his hand. I cannot bear the pain without screaming, and so he moves on to something worse. I am in hell. I panic then, and want to get out out OUT OUT of the cuffs, I writhe and nearly tear muscles, frantic.

He kneels down in front of me. He is speaking, he is asking me something. I should respond but I don't, can't, hear, understand. He keeps talking, slowing down, repeating, his voice getting softer, gentler, more like his own, filled with his love for me.

I here him then. He asks me, 'have you had enough?' He is asking me if I want to safeword. 'Tell me. Tell me, baby. Have you had enough?'

Part of me screams, YES, YES I FUCKING HAVE! Please just stop hurting me?

But then... I know I can do this. For him. I don't just WANT to. I NEED to. I need him to continue, until HE decides to stop.

I. Need. This.

And suddenly I know that I can make my love for him tangible, and pour it over his heart like honey, by continuing. I want him to know, how very much I love and trust him. I need him to see - I need to be able to show him. My choice is not a choice at all. I am held fast not by the cuffs, or his hands pinning me down; but by our love for each other.

Then, he rapes me. While he fucks my broken body, he tells me, 'this is your fault, what did you expect to happen when you wore a dress like that? This is your fault. It's not my fault, it's yours, because you're so fucking beautiful'. He illustrates his words with fists and more, forces his desire into me with his dick.

When he cums, he forces me to cum, too. What is seen, is not always what is. With this gift, all meaning was inverted. It is no longer something done to me. I was no longer the innocent victim, with unasked for acts of sexual violence forced upon her. I'd asked for it by dressing like a whore. Which made it my choice. Which meant I could have said no, and it wouldn't have happened. And I could have stopped it. At any moment, I could have told him to stop. And he would have stopped, instantly, like he did on the beach. I never doubt that. Such a thing is hugely, transcendently empowering. For someone like me - who so many times has been done to, without choice - this is a profoundly healing experience.

My memories of afterwards are blurry. I was cold - and then there was warmth. I was scared of being alone - and then he was with me, holding me. I was tired, exhausted - and then he was stroking me to sleep.

We woke in a tangle of limbs together. He was my lover again, my boyfriend, my dominant. And I was his. Completely. Truly. Madly. Deeply. His.

He always treats me as if I am the most precious and cherished woman in the world. That day he showed a depth of care which exceeded even his normal standards. We fucked again, and again and again. I always cum hard, and often, when I'm with him. But this day I came so very hard, so very much - I needed to show my love for him with my body - I needed my pussy to replicate the huge, enveloping and powerful pressure of my love.

The things he did that night - they changed something inside of me. I looked at myself in the mirror the next day, shocked. Along with the purpling bruise spreading along my cheek, and the bloodied mess of my lips, I saw something I had never seen, ever. Something so surprising, I almost couldn't believe in it. A truly beautiful woman, staring back at me, from the mirror. I met my own eyes in confusion and touched my hand to my cheek. This beauty, this stranger in the mirror, followed my movements - yes, it really was my own reflection.

Shocked, I turned to him, and asked him why I felt like this. 'Is it because of what you did to me, have you given me more confidence?', I asked him. 'No, the reason you look like a beautiful woman, is because you ARE a beautiful woman', he replies.

In the days afterwards, without a shadow of a doubt, I knew that he would keep me safe. He extended his care like a soft blanket, wrapping me in his love as he always does, catching me each time I fall, picking me up, soothing my small troubles.

I am ashamed only by the things people might think of me, not by the truth. The bruise on my face eventually fades. I hide it from work colleagues, but look at it whenever I can in the mirror, secretive, smiling shyly to myself.

He honoured me, with the trust he showed in me. The depth of my submission to him, my joy and pleasure in him, my gratitude and amazement that he loves me, my respect for who he is, and how he is, his bravery, courage and strength, how powerful and strong, how protectively nurturing he is, have reached a new level. Which I honestly didn't think was possible. I adore him. I simply adore him.

I am so very lucky.

Integrity

2010-06-30T11:56:00.003+01:00

I have been thinking about choice.

My husband had another convulsion last night. He has a history of fits due to low blood sugar (he is diabetic). The doctor has told him that lack of sleep affects his blood sugar, and so does exercise, and the heat in the summer. He has all the information to make an informed choice.

He chose to go out to a party on friday night, come home at 4am after drinking (only 4 beers it must be said), get only a tiny bit of sleep before getting up at 7am to go to work, in a job where he walks approximately 8 miles a day, in the sunshine, on a day which was fairly likely to be very hot. In the past, he has had fits under very similar circumstances.

I chose to spend friday night at a party with my boyfriend, and then stayed away overnight, only coming back late sunday evening. I came in and found him covered in sick and blood, realised he had fitted, and called an ambulance, as his eye was hurting him and I was worried he had hurt it when he fitted. They checked it, and said it was fine, gave him a bag of fluid, and we decided it was best if he stay home rather than be admitted, as he needed to rest and recover and he did not need any immediate treatment.

Normally I would set my alarm to wake throughout the night, and do regular blood tests, quietly on him, so as not to disturb his sleep any more than necessary. I couldn't do that this time, as I came home to find he had broken one blood test kit and lost the other (he is a very careless person). In the past, I would have gone out as soon as the shops opened, and bought him another one. I did not do that today. His eye is hurting him this morning, he thinks it got scratched quite badly when he fitted. The ambulance people checked it out, but pronounced it fine. In the past, I would have taken him to the hospital in a taxi and got them to check it out, or taken him to the dr, or rung nhs direct for him. I have left him to sort it out himself, this morning. There is no working landline in our house, as I came back to find he had broken the phone. I have gone to work this morning, and his mobile is going straight to answerphone - he often breaks it or runs it out of charge. In the past I would have gone home to see if he was okay. I have chosen not to today.

We have been together for 15 years. The fits started 15 years ago, and he has had them regularly for 11 of those years. He sees his diabetic specialist regularly, and we have just had the results back from referral to neurological specialists, which pronounced him clear on that front. The medical conclusion is - not epilepsy, nothing to do with his brain, just full blown convulsions resulting from low blood sugar. To manage the convulsions, he needs to manage his diabetes. The convulsions leave him physically and emotionally drained, with a severe headache, light sensitivity, dehydrated, pain in limbs, vomiting, and reduced consciousness for up to 36 hours afterwards.

He has always chosen to manage his diabetes badly. With constant supervision and encouragement from me, he has improved over the 15 years we have been together. It has been an exhausting, dispiriting task. I have felt trapped and without choices. I have become his carer, as well as his wife. I have mopped up the sick, fed him headache tablets, spooned soup into him, sat in endless a&e and hospital ward chairs by his bedside, soothed him as he is carried kicking and screaming into the ambulance, or had blood taken, or catheterised, whilst in the agitated and aggressive post fit state.

In the past, he has made bad choices, and I have always cleared up the resultant mess. Last year he had a fit after a gap of about 4 years. I was devastated, and because I was staying away with other partners at the time (with of course, his full knowledge and consent), I carried a burden of guilt for a long time afterwards - sickening guilt.

This time I was with my other partner, while he made himself ill. I do not feel guilty this time. He can choose not to manage his diabetes correctly. And I can choose not to be his carer. It does not mean I love, care, and have compassion and sympathy for how ill he feels today, any less. I am making a choice not to those feelings dictate my behaviour.

He went to cuddle me this morning, and I told him I didn't want him to, because I was angry with him. I am allowed to do that. I do not have to endure cuddles from him, just because it will make him sad if I do not, when I don't feel like cuddling.

Over the years I have enabled him to abdicate responsibility for his illness. He quite often engages in risky behaviour, particularly when I am away. This is partly a passive aggressive 'well, see what happens when you're not here to look after me', thing. And partly a 'ha! no-one is making me behave myself! I can go crazy, brilliant!' thing. He has done things like cooked and eaten a fish which the cats have dragged home, through the catflap, which they presumably caught out of someone's pond. Drink until he falls unconscious on the way home. Go to parties and behave crazily, coming home covered in bruises and scratches. Walk around in the street, in the snow, barefoot (diabetics have to be particularly careful of their feet). He is a very careless, childlike person. He has chosen to be that way. And I can choose not to clean up his messes.

An enduring complaint of his is, 'I feel so old, so boring, I have nothing exciting in my own life, I hate my job, I don't have a girlfriend, no-one wants me, I am dull and grey'. I have chosen to try and fix all his woes, in various ways. They have had partial success, but then failed, as he has returned time after time to the complaint of feeling old and boring. He was particularly complaining about this, last week. At such times it is common for him to attempt to recapture his youth by going out partying and having a wild night out. However, he takes no action (none, zero, zilch, literally does nothing at all despite me putting lots of opportunities in his way), to make his life better, bring excitement into his life, do things he enjoys, get a different job.

I have tried to hard to bring him fulfilment. I have tried so hard to make him happy. I always thought of myself as a pure person, someone with absolute integrity. When we began to explore poly, I struggled for a long time with this. My sense of 'self', my identity as a good person, was threatened. I have come to terms with that now. I am still a good person, even if I choose to have more than one partner. I have integrity, my moral and ethical values are sound and I abide by them. I do not need to apologise to, explain to, or even get understanding of how I am, from other people. I can choose to love more than one person, and have sex with them. And my husband can choose whether he is okay with that or not, and what to do about it if he isn't.

He can choose to take no positive action to improve his life. And I can choose to stop pouring my energy into trying to improve his life, and save a little bit for myself. I can choose to stop behaving like his mother, and his carer, rather than his wife.

He can choose to abdicate responsibility for his health, and I can choose not to step in to carry that responsibility.

Softly, Slowly, Speaks the Soul

2010-05-24T07:38:00.002+01:00

Sometimes I expect too much of myself.

I get frustrated and angry sometimes, because there are moments when I am affected by things which happened in the past - bad things, which hurt me, but which I've healed from, completely, or am healing from, now. Transient moments of feeling unsettled - fleeting, an evanescent glitch in the system.

My mind, my heart - the very layers of personality which make me, *me* - my soul - has suffered injury, in the past. I've been burnt, broken; cut, crushed.

I've worked hard, endured, repaired. The work was long and painful, exhausting.

So when these moments come, when for a little while, I feel damaged still - I have to remember quite how damaged I once was, and give myself permission to not be 100% healed and baggage free. I am allowed to not be perfect. I am allowed to still be healing.

It does not mean that the work was all for nothing. Just because an old injury flairs up like a long-forgotten weakness in a limb during a cold winter, it does not mean the wound is still open and ragged. It's a twinge in the scar tissue. A momentary ache in a bone once broken.

The soul takes time to recover. Nothing can hurry the process, save soft kindness at the right time. And I am wrapped in that, from all the people that I love. I am lucky.

So today, I am celebrating the road journeyed so far. I am celebrating how far I've come - the distance I've travelled, the success I've made of my life. I'm celebrating the person that I am - because I wouldn't be me; interesting, unusual, strange, fucked up and dirty, and all those wonderful things - if my soul wasn't twisted into strange shapes and scarred.

I look at what I have, who I am. And I smile. And nothing and no-one can take that away from me.

Today - I am proud of myself.

"Something wicked this way comes"

2010-05-11T15:38:00.001+01:00

Reading back over the last year's blogs, it's hard to recognise some of the urgent longing, the unfulfilled yearning contained within them, as mine. It's fascinating, and enlightening, for me to look back and see the crushing loneliness, need, compulsion and impulsion which was ruling me. No wonder some of my friends were concerned about me - I was going off the rails a little. Being who I am, it was in a slow and fairly constrained fashion, but I know myself; my thoughts, emotions, and eventually behaviour often spiral quite quickly downwards once they pick up speed. I was still holding onto the wheel, so to speak, but increasingly having trouble keeping control and finding it slipping more and more often out of my grip, as I went into an uncontrolled skid which may well have ended in a metaphorical ditch.

All my life, I have felt like the black sheep that didn't belong. I often feel a sense of 'waiting to get caught out', that it's only a matter of time before someone will notice, and realise I don't belong here. I'm mostly okay with that, I've found other black sheep to huddle with against the cold, and we've taken delight in living a different kind of life from the one which those in the centre of the flock must have. But it does mean my sense of loneliness is finely honed and lives close to the surface.

For many years, my husband (R), was my defence against that loneliness. Him and me together against the world - a team, that's how I felt. But it's difficult to maintain that feeling of team spirit in the face of something huge and unspoken which is missing from your life. A yawning gap so wide that you can't even name it, for fear it will swallow you whole.

I am a deeply sexual, sensual, submissive person. It is fundamental to my personality, my core. And yet for almost all my life I've had no real outlet for it. I NEEDED, on a level so profound, so achingly wracking, and yet I did not get. There's a relief that I sense from R recently - a relief that I'm no longer trying to claw satisfaction from him of a need which he simply cannot fulfil.

I am unmistakeably, unquestionably, unrelentingly, in charge, in the relationship I have with R. I make the decisions. It's as simple as that. R gets to veto, yes, but I come up the plans, I arrange the details, I do what needs to be done to put the plans in action. I am the driving force - the ambition - the focus; in a way that is much more traditionally the preserve of the male partner. It is natural for me to do this, and I need an expression for this side of my character, which R has always allowed me to be completely fulfilled in.

And yet, equally, I need expression for the soft side of me, the half which is always warm, malleable, very very feminine, hopelessly sexual, which is not hard and controlled but moulds itself around something that is, which is allowed to lose that so very iron control, drop the barriers, disintegrate into something untidy and primal, unorganised, chaotic, implusive, spontaneous, free. It's soft as velvet, inky black, and lies puddled on the floor, not laid flat, straight. It's complex, dark, shadowed in the folds, and smells of musky, messy fluids, honey, vanilla and violets. And it's had no place to go, to be. Until now.

R is a little black sheep too, but his darkness is all on the outside. He's a merry fellow, pure, and an innocent; he doesn't like to play in the dirt like I do. I need R, I need his sweetness, his light. But I also need someone who can get down and dirty in the dark places with me. Someone who can pour their dominance over me like treacle, who speaks to that bottomless depth of yearning in me and answers the call that my loneliness screams out into the night. Someone like M.

It's almost as if that desperate calling, my aching hunger, drew him to me. And I know that I ease his own thirst, too; that he was searching for me, as I was searching for him, is clear. We were drawn to each other, we must have been, even before we met. How else could two so impossibly complicated pieces of a puzzle fit so exactly, so perfectly together, as if the molecules we are made from slide minutely aside to make it possible for us to occupy the same space in time, even while we move.

I needed to be fucked. I needed dominance. I needed nurturing. I needed love. I needed pain. He gives me all these things, and so much more besides. I never even imagined someone like me could hope for so much to be given. He violates me, he abuses me, he tears me apart - and then he makes me whole again. Not just glueing the pieces back together, but creating something which is better than it was before. It's like re-breaking a broken limb that has healed crooked, in order for it to set straight again. My tears are the molten steel which he folds in the forge of his rage; creating something with greater flexibility but not sacrificing the hardness of the cutting edge.

If my neural pathways are an overgrown forest; the habits of thought, well-trodden paths; then the force of his passion smashes me away from the rutted ground I'm stuck in. My bare feet turn the ground underneath me, walking along paths which hurt my feet. The soles are tender, they bleed from deep scratches, and still I can't seem to stop hurting myself, can't stop walking through this dream landscape which takes me further and further away from where I want to be, and yet is also looping back on itself so that I can't break away. I am used to being hurt, then neglected, then abandoned. I am used to fixing myself. He hurts me, abuses me, and my feet find this familiar path. But then he soothes away the hurts, wraps me in his love, his care, dries my tears, and with his solid, continued presence in my life, the knowledge that I can rely on him, lean on him, he gives me the tools I need to cut myself a new path. I can journey somewhere new, somewhere else, somewhere 'other'; somewhere I'm just beginning to explore.

Last Weekend
It's friday night. I'm waiting for him to come for me - I'm standing at the bar chatting to aquaintances. I'm completely comfortable here, I feel happy and excited to be waiting in my favourite local for him to arrive. I just happen to be wearing a school uniform. And not just any school uniform. Fishnet tights, with knee high white socks over them. The highest of mary jane patent black platform heels. Little ruffled white knickers (which, let me just establish here, are the ONLY item of white underwear I own). Short (obscenely so) black wool skirt. Lacy black bra showing clearly through the tight white tailored shirt with only one button done up. Skull and crossbones tie. My dreadlocks extra blonde, in bunches. Little fence net gloves to match my tights. Innocent, nasty.

He walks in the door, I greet him. We laugh, talk, kiss. Shortly he asks, 'Are you wearing a tie?!'

'Happy birthday', I say, and open my coat. It's only one of his birthday presents, but he likes it. A lot. A girl always likes to be appreciated. He made me feel like the sexiest woman on the planet. Such things are balm to the soul. Soul noms. Nom nom nom.

We saw a comedy show - I sat with my cotton-clad legs in his lap, while he finger fucked me. I came all over his hand - fortunately during a bout of laughter, as I cried out quite loudly.

He took me to a deserted carpark in the countryside. He terrorised me - threatened to let the next man who pulled up, fuck me over the bonnet of his car. Pushed me onto the back seat while he stood outside, yanked down my white knickers and fucked his prick into me like a maniac, shoved my legs as far apart as they would go so they were painfully wide while he slammed into me, passion-ridden, spreading me on his cock as far as he was able. But the angle meant he couldn't get that deep into me, and he wanted more. He ripped aside more of my clothing, yanked me along the seat so my little school skirt rode up, my white shirt open, torn, my socks around my ankles, dishevelled and dirty. He forced piss out of his hard cock and urgently, painfully, hosed me down with it. As his hot piss splashed onto my smooth, hairless cunt, we met each other's eyes - shocked, bare, open, raw with emotion. An act of trust, and of love. He marked me as his, claimed my pussy as belonging to him, his territory. He stuck his dick inside and pissed IN me, before finally spraying the last few drops over my thighs.

He fucked me then, urgently, as if, should he not do so, the stars would fall from the sky. Slapped me, again and again. Spat in my mouth. I fell, unsteady, to the floor, and stained my clothes with dust made into mud by his piss. On all fours, my hands and knees grazed by the rocky ground, he violently buggered me. My anal violation only ceased when I collapsed, and clambered, dizzy and faint, back into the car. He covered me in blankets, drew me onto his lap, but could not even speak clearly, he was so shaken with ardor. Still, he continued to fuck me in the arse, until I was ragged.

We were staying at our friend's house, who has a dungeon in his bedroom. We only used one piece of equipment that whole weekend - the doctor's table, and even that, only for him to get a greater angle of penetration so he could get his dick even deeper into my arsehole. Only when he had finished ruining me, did we finally collapse in sleep.

The whole of the next day, we barely paused for eating, drinking, going to the toilet, sleeping. We didn't even stop to shower, we weren't willing to give any more time up than was actually necessary for us to keep going. We spent all the remaining time, fucking - cunt, arse and mouth. He buggered me harder than I've ever taken before - he tried to drive his hips through my body and into the bed. He's powerfully built - his hindquarters thrust downwards, skewering me on his dick. I had no way to escape, I was crushed underneath him, mewling with pain, trying to scrabble away, but with no possibility of escape.

He put me so thoroughly, so completely, into submission, that when he lay on top of me, stroking my face, allowing his weight to press heavily downwards, whispering soft pride in me and then a command, I came for him, I came without his touch between my legs. For him - always for him. When I cum, I cum for him. My orgasm is his, my pain is his. And he does give me so much of both.

He takes great pleasure in wrapping me up warm and tight in layers of soft blankets, and then gifting me with food, drink, or whatever else I need. He is the most generous of lovers, in many ways.

And I, who so always loves to please, take an astonished delight in being pleased. And in this new kind of family, in which we are all black sheep either inside or out. In which I feel so safe.

"Nothing says 'I love you' like subcutaneous bruising" Part 3

2010-05-06T18:59:00.000+01:00

I woke in the morning so sore, stiff, softened by his arms still wrapped around me. Little murmured, muted sounds without words, just as sometimes we tell each other words without sounds. Like oriental lacquer, love is built of moments like this, built up over much time with many layers, to create something both strong, and beautiful.

His fingers played over my body, re-shaping me, re-making me.

We still lay there when our friends dropped in to collect something from their flat. As I lay nearly naked in their bed, I showed off my bruises with pride. "Nothing says 'I love you' like subcutaneous bruising", said one of them.
'Too right' I thought.

After they left, we lay in bed for a long time - stroking, feeling each other's skin, sharing thoughts, memories, feelings. We talked about the way we had played the night before - deep things clenched inside my flesh as I remembered. My heartrate picked up as I thought of him, on top of me, holding me down, his hands on my arms, leaving fingermark bruises, purple and perfectly round. His eyes stare so intently into mine, so open, so unguarded, so full of things normally hidden - fear, anger, intense love, need, yearning, and also hope - 'You are mine', he says. 'Tell me who you belong to. Tell me you love me'. The joy in me, the simple, uncomplicated joy in me as I can bring pleasure, just by pulling forward the truth and tasting it on my tongue, letting it roll into my mouth and become words. 'Yes, I am yours. I am in love with you. I belong to you'.

As thoughts became expression, I needed to express my thoughts in ways other than with my mouth...I needed to use all of me, so my movement could mirror my mind. He is so powerfully present in his body, his muscles swell and fall with his breath, his light dusting of silver and black coarse fur inviting more intimate touch. As he moves above me he feels so intoxicatingly forceful, compelling. He is muscular without seeming brawny, deliciously hard without being stiff. He is so full of life, so vivid, that I feel fragile and overpowered, beneath him. As he fucks me, I moan, gasp, sob his name, plead. I feel like paper wrapped in stone. His voice is rock hard - the cliff that I plummet off, vibrations wreathed with energy as he tells me, over and over again, that I belong to him. 'I fucking OWN you', he says, as he slams his dick into me. I cry out, cum, again and again. 'You are my property. You belong to ME. You. Are. MINE'. I can't stop cumming. I just cannot stop.

He puts me on top of him, he forces me to ride his cock. He tells me to pour my love over him. I soak him - I soak his cock in my cum, my juices flow over his balls, down his thighs, they make the bed wet. And still I cum. My voice is hoarse from screaming.

Taking pity on me he allows me to slide off and take him in my mouth. I suck happily, greedily, like the slutty whore I am. In my heightened state of arousal, he tells me one last time to cum. 'Cum for me baby, cum for me. I OWN you. Cum for me, now. NOW'. And I do. I cum without a touch, from sucking his cock, and hearing his ownership of me poured out in words like cream. Like song.

Later, much later, we played again. I was bruised and sore to begin with. I was his toy, his plaything. He possessed me - inside and out. He could do anything, anything to me. He could tell me to do anything, and I would do it. He could do anything with me, and I would not only comply, not only be malleable in his will, but seek to go one step further. Whatever pleasure he wanted to take from me I would, without even consciously trying, desire to enhance. If he wanted me scared, I would be not just afraid, but terrified. If he wanted to hurt me, I would be first in agony, then beyond pain. If he wanted my anger, I would show him fury, then rage. If he needed my submission, I would not just give in, I would give up. If he wanted to stick his prick down my throat, I would make sure my head was angled so I could take in as much as he wanted to give me, and suck well, without grazing him with my teeth. And all without even knowing I sought to do that. I just do it that way. It's what I am, what I need to be. It gives me something which I cannot - I CANNOT - live without. To be perfect. To be his perfect whore. To be - to exist - to be real - to be a thing of pleasure, treasured. To wholly offer up myself, to give ALL of me, holding nothing back. Without barriers, without walls. To become a purity of one single way of being. To give, to yield, to bend, to follow his will. To be the willow which bends in the wind, not the oak which snaps under it's own strength.

This is what I need.

And more than this - I need to give this to someone who I love, adore, respect, desire, hold in such high esteem yet also consider my equal.

I lay quietly when he started beating me. He placed me on the medical table, padded leather and chrome. I breathed deeply as the pain began. Soon the sharp stings wrung harsh intakes of breath from me, becoming cries, my fists clenching, flickers of ember fire flash through me, quickly doused in the tide of rage lapping close to shore behind his eyes. I knelt up, I writhed, I lay on my side, choking, I pulled my own hair - the only relief was when he turned me on my back, my head hanging down at just the right angle for him to pump his cock in my throat, fucking my mouth, hard and so deep he stopped my breathing with his dick, only allowing me to gasp in when he chose to.

He turned me over again, my body, and my mind too, as the blows started up so fast and intensely I couldn't breathe through this, either. I sucked in air, drowning in pain. My suffering spilled out of my body, through my mouth as I wailed, my hands as they clawed the bench, my eyes, streaming with tears, my back as I struggled to endure his torturous abuse of my body. The skin on my back throbbed long after each blow had stopped, merging into the next stroke of the whip, or cane. My desolate cries of distress slowed, then stopped, as I gave him all I had to give - he wanted to hurt me, I had endured the hurt, and now I was beyond pain.

Everything seemed distant, so far away - emotions, sound, sensation. I lay, knowing but not caring that my mouth was open and drool fell in thin lines of spittle down my face to the leather of the table. I knew that my eyes must appear vacant, because I knew I wasn't there, not truly seated within my body. A thought travelled through my mind - he must be worried, I ought to tell him I'm okay - but no action followed. I couldn't seem to motivate myself to speak, or move, or react in any way. There was no longer any feeling of pain, only pressure, or extreme sensation. I don't know how long I lay like that for, it seemed only moments, before one ultimately hard stroke brought a bubbling, fizzing sensation in my hands and head, I heard myself cry out, and although there was still no pain, I was more truly present. He finished with me then, and the light hurt my eyes. There was a bed, there was warmth against my bitingly cold limbs, there was a safety, a smell, touch, sound which soothed me, and there was sleep.

When I woke, it was dark outside. I ached - but I could feel that I ached. I was still wrapped in the warmth of his scent, his touch, but I needed more, chilled as I was. I had been somewhere very dark, and I was ice-cold to the touch. He brought me back to life by wrapping me in his darkness, which is burning hot, passionate and scalding, and forced it into me with his cum.

Later now. Dressed and woozy still, we sit in a pub that once would have been heavy with smoke, and is full of life and itinerants. Our corner is heavily guarded and close around us, he pulls me into him deeper, we whisper exchanges of memory - 'I loved it when you did that', 'I came because you did this'.

Stolen moments in his car, wary of the thief of time. We speak of small things, heavily laden, and I want him to be inside me again. He let me take him in my mouth once more, then he possesses me, cunt and mouth. I am held and he breathes me in. 'I love you baby, sleep now'. I slip, drunk with sleep and bodily harm, away from him but heart warm and wrapped up tight, into my house, climb into bed with my husband, kiss him goodnight, see him stir, warm and sleepy, as I nestle into him and sleep, dreaming of my blessings, my two loves, dreaming and thinking and more, of my dominant, my alpha male, of family, and of pack.

I am in love. And I am loved.

I am happy.

"Nothing says 'I love you' like subcutaneous bruising" Part 2

2010-05-05T18:38:00.001+01:00

We were staying at a friend's house, they'd lent us the place for the weekend, knowing how much it would mean to us to be able to spend the night together in someplace other than a hotel. Even better - they have their own dungeon, which for the price of our eternal gratitude, was ours to use exclusively for 24 hours. It gave us the space, and time, and freedom, to unleash and explore as fully as we wanted to.

I imagined we would drown in each other's skin as soon as we got through the door. We didn't - we were too awestruck. We explored the dungeon, the other rooms, with amazement and delight and slight trepidation. Some of it was so beautifully arranged and perfect we were afraid to touch it. He does like to slam me around the place rather, and we do get so carried away...I was a little scared we might end up trashing the room and oweing my friend a little more than just our gratitude...

I started making dinner - he stood behind me, slid his arms around me, mauled my tits, fingers squeezing on each half covered breast, digging in, crushing...his hands moved to my buttocks, rubbing against the satin, slipping and sliding the paper-thin fabric over my skin, soft and scented with vanilla as it always is when I prepare myself for him - but unlike normal, this time there were no knickers to interfere with his exploration of my body. Last week, I let him tell me what to wear on a date with him - something I have never let anyone, work, society, friend, family, lover or husband do. I even told him once, that this was a hard limit! And yet when he instructed me the other day that I must absolutely not wear any knickers for our mid-week date, and then told me he liked my outfit so much that he wanted me to wear the exact same thing, with the exact same lack of underwear, then I found myself not only wanting to do it for him, but delighted at an opportunity to show how well I could obey him, what a good girl I was.

He hitched up my skirt, which was tight and short, and left it around my waist, knicker-less, with only stockings and my heels, and my top with cut-out hole to show off my cleavage. All in black of course, except for my hair, which was blonde, purple, black and red, this time. He threw me in the bedroom and fucked me, until he was done, and I had my own cum dripping hot and sticky down my thighs.

We settled down on armchairs with a meal we could eat with fingers, tearing bread apart, feeling the little plum tomatoes slip, silky and plump, luscious, inside our mouths, while we watched a dvd from the more violent end of my porn collection. Finished with our food, it seemed natural to move closer and closer to each other as I pointed out my favourite bits, and explained the abusively incestuous plots I had grafted on in my head, to the relatively innocent vignettes.

During my all-time favourite scene in the porn, I was unable to resist for any longer and slipped to my knees to take him in my mouth. I love the texture and the taste of him, the scent of his balls - soap, with an underlying maleness, a musky fragrance of arousal. I love the way his cock caresses the inside of my mouth, the texture of his silky skin, and how he feels so huge against my tongue, my lips. I love the sense of safety I find in burying my lips against the base of his cock where it meets his balls, and in sucking and licking at the very tip, as if it were a sweetie given to me as a treat for being such a good girl.

We both resisted for as long as possible, but at some point we were overcome - suddenly I was half-way up the corridor being jerked along by my hair, thrown onto the bed, cuffed, and attached to the whipping bench with my arms spread almost painfully wide along the front.

It had been a while since he'd smashed me up with such intensity. He rained blows down on me like a fucking tropical thunderstorm. His energy seared me, his rage boiling over my body, the door opens, the blackness inside spills out, washes everything away in a flood of pure emotion, unspeakable, given voice in my cries and screams, something inky dark and stained, depraved and hidden, showing itself at last, made manifest by the sound of my begging and pleading.

I poured my sorrow out, tears and spit and drool soaking the bench in front of my mouth. I howled with pain, I screamed, I writhed. He hit me - over, and over, and over, and over again. My skin discoloured in front of his eyes, blemished, damaged, spoiled.

He ordered me to suck him, over and over again. I refused, I was so angry, furious. Even though the pain was ruining me, I. Would. Not. Submit.

The last torrent of blows cracked my will, cracked open my mind, and brought me into the place I needed to be, so very much. I wanted to say yes - I wanted to, but I couldn't, held back as I was by anger, pride, all the hundreds of layers of barriers I wrap around myself to keep myself safe. With those last strokes of the cane, he ripped a hole through those final defences, and, sobbing brokenly, crying so hard I could barely breath, I sucked him, choking with tears though I was, drooling as I breathed through my mouth; my face, nose, puffed up and reddened with crying.

He stepped away in disgust and angrily strode over to the door, turned the light off, and slammed the door behind him. The blackout curtains in the room meant I could see - ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. I'm terrified of the dark - I used to sleep with a nightlight on in my room for years (he didn't know that - I'd never told him). It was pitch black, and I lasted seconds, which seemed like forever, before I panicked, and screamed. Just screamed - fucking WAILED - and then cut off abruptly as his hands lovingly wrapped around me from behind, where he'd been all along. He'd never left the room.

I thought I was alone in the dark. But I wasn't. I wasn't alone. I was safe all along. He was with me.

He untied me, stroked me softly, held me close, carried me to the bed and drew me in tight to him, where I was safe. He whispered soft things, rocked me and shushed me as my sobs tailed off. Then he fucked me, very deep, very hard, and I came, and came, and came. I was his prize, he had won me - I gave up everything to him. And he took me. He sprayed me with his cum, marking me as his. It dripped heavily into my open mouth, on my shoulders, my bruised tits, my hair, my neck...

It soaked my face.

I slept covered in him, and tucked in close to his body, safe inside his arms. I am always safe with him, even when he ruins me.

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

2010-05-04T18:07:00.001+01:00

'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.

Loving it in my mouth..

2010-04-28T15:31:00.002+01:00

I'm a real logophile. Words have a 'mouthfeel' to me, even when read, that affects how I feel about them emotionally. I find this very difficult to seperate from my intellectual understanding of them.

Some words are just trigger words for me getting very fucking horny. 'Abuse' seems to be a favourite at the moment. You can't go wrong with a good 'rape' either. 'Nasty', I'm also becoming acclimatised to.

'Subbie', I hate. DESPISE, actually. It makes me cringe. Also, 'pleasure', when used in a certain bad porn/ mills and boon way - "I'm going to PLEASURE you". Ugh. Doms who refer to someone as 'my sub' really give me the heebiejeebies. It's a very personal thing, but it just rubs me up the wrong way. It just feeds into that whole vibe that some doms have of 'I am the great blah blah blah and this is not a person who is submissive to me, they are 'my sub', like 'my whip' or 'my spreader bars'.

Bad grammar and spelling make my hackles rise anyway. My husband's dyslexic, and his spelling and grammar are better than most - because he makes an effort to overcome it. I can't bear people who say 'I'm dyslexic, so therefore ignore any spelling mistakes. I couldn't be bothered to use the spell checker or practice making an effort and improving, because I am quite frankly, a lazy cunt'. Text speak repulses me. Even worse when it's out of context, in memo or email.

I don't expect everyone to have the same joy in language that I do, but at least some sense of respect for the words that come out of your mouth is reasonable, surely? No-one is perfect, but - really, can you not at least make an effort?

'Whore' is always good. 'Good girl' just melts me. Possessive words when used with respect for me in the mind behind them, turn me into a buttery-cunted little slut. 'Mine', 'you belong to me', 'I own you'.

I really like 'baby', or 'my baby'.

Words with a humorous or disrespectful colour, make me prickle up immediately, if used in a play or sexual context. You might as well laugh in my face. Words that should never be used during anal sex - 'bunghole', 'shitter', 'love portal', 'poo'. Just no. And whilst being quite comfortable with 'cunt', and 'pussy', the word fanny makes me feel quite disgusted. In fact I can actually feel the corner of my mouth turning up in prim maiden aunt fashion, just at the thought of it. 'Vagina' should stay in medical contexts. 'Mimsy' is fine for amusing discussions but not during sex. 'fuckhole' - mmm, depends, makes me a bit uncomfortable. Anything overly flouncy 'your butterfly' or overly rough and ready, 'kebab' just horrifies me.

'Prick' is lovely, 'dick' is fine, 'cock' is my favourite. 'Willy' is okay for strictly silly conversations. That goes for 'Nob' too, really. 'Wank' is a basic standard, you can't really call it anything else that doesn't sound bloody idiotic. 'Fuck' - what's not to like? I've come around to the idea of 'tits'.

There was a conversation on IC the other day about being called talked about using words like 'pig', 'cow', 'udders' etc. I honestly would fucking PUNCH someone who ever said that to me. Just like anyone calling me fat or ugly. I know some people love that kind of play, but it's not something I could ever do. I want to feel I'm being raped or hurt because I'm fucking GORGEOUS, luv, not because I'm bleedin' hideous!

Other words that really make me go murhhrrrrr....'inside', 'cum', 'knife', 'blood', 'violate', 'take', 'have', 'want', 'need'. Yummy.

Acceptance

2010-04-27T15:04:00.001+01:00

An extract from a conversation with my friend, which I'm writing up here in case I need to be reminded of my own words in future...

My old cat, Leo, passed away a couple of years ago. I LOVED Leo. And I mean ADORED him. He was my safe place on four paws.

We worshipped each other- every morning I carried him into the kitchen for breakfast. His voice was the first thing I'd hear when I got home, demanding cuddles, which had to last at least half an hour or he'd swear at me. He was totally uninterested in food - cuddles first.

We got him when I was 12, and at the time I was probably most traumatised in my life. When everything else turned shit, I turned to Leo. He was there for me when my husband (R) was in hospital over and over again, when friends and I argued, when my family imploded. He was my refuge through my teenage years, through illness, trauma, bereavement. He was the thing that made sense, when everything else confused me.

He pined when I went away, made himself ill, wouldn't eat. He would let me carry him round the house like a baby, upside down, for hours. He slept in my arm, under the duvet, with his head on the pillow. Every night before bed he would wash R's beard vigorously.

As he got older he got arthritis, and then diabetes - Type 1, just like R. We used to say it ran in the family. On the vet's advice, we gave him blood tests by trimming his claws a little short - we would use R's blood test kit. We gave him 2 insulin injections a day. He never complained. He knew it would hurt when we trimmed his claws, and he knew it was coming. He would sit in my lap good as gold as I did it. He trusted me not to do anything that would hurt him, that wasn't completely necessary.

As he got to the end of his life he got extremely incontinent, in a variety of unsavoury ways. He'd been doing it on and off for years. He totally melted the carpet in the corners of our old house! For the last few months we lived with plastic sheeting over the sofa, bed etc. He still slept in with us because I couldn't bear to be without him, or to upset him, even though I'd be woken up most nights from lying in a pool of elderly cat wee. And believe me, until you've woken up covered in a diabetic's wee, you don't know anything about urine. There was laundry hanging everywhere, sofa covers constantly in bath being cleaned. We had to try and encourage him to...ahem...evacuate..by hand.

When he passed away, the vet came to our home. He slipped away in my arms, with his belly full of freshly cooked chicken, and for the first time, his body relaxed more than it had done in a year. I realised how hunched his body had been, with pain, for so long. I am sure I saw something, young, leave his body and joyfully spring away. I always picture him now in the grass, in the morning, wet with dew, stalking invisible creatures. He was beautiful. He was always such a beautiful cat - like a brick wrapped in silk, muscled, soft, graceful. Everyone fell in love with him. He had marks all the way up his cat-bed post.

His remains were cremated, and I asked them to cremate the scratch-proof, dribble resistant teddy bear that he loved, as well.

For months - and I mean MONTHS - I woke in the night, crying, waking up R to cuddle me. I HOWLED with loss. My body grieved. I had stomach aches - the heaviest period I'd had for years. It was as if I'd fucking MISCARRIED. My mind knew he wasn't my child, but my body did not. And he was my child - the child of my heart. I couldn't watch anything on television or films about losing a child, for about a year, I would just WAIL.

I lost interest in everything. Nothing seemed to matter anymore, without him. I was in such a bad way, so lonely, that we got our two kittens then, a couple of months after he died. But they weren't *him*. There was still this huge gap, this space, in my heart.

I remember being in at work one morning a couple of months after he died, and saying to my friend - I feel as if a light has gone out inside me, and that it will stay dark there for the rest of my life. I feel as if I'll never have that light inside me, ever again.

And she told me - 'that light HAS gone, and it won't come back'. 'Oh, well that's bloody comforting', I said. And she smiled, and replied, 'but something else, something different, will come. It won't be the same, but good things WILL still come, they will be different, and things that you don't expect. But they will come, and you'll always miss him, he will never be replaced, but other things will come and make your life worth living'.

And they have.

I never thought I could fill that dark space inside me with sexual fulfillment for the first time in my life, for example! I never thought I would fall in love again.

But that's how it works. Things come and go. Part of something being important to you, loving someone or something, is that it seems irreplaceable. And they ARE irreplaceable.

But that doesn't mean you are lost, or dark, or alone, for ever. The sun will always rise - even if the landscape looks different after the earthquake, the light will still come back.

I promise.

Pack

2010-04-12T14:31:00.002+01:00

The mist has risen off the sea and travelled inland; spiral streamers of it are damp in the air, cold dancing on metal. The electricity from me generates occasional sparks in the air, fireflies, tiny explosions; miniature novas in the cold and dark space. I run hot - my body is always warm, burning so much energy.

The mist is uncomfortable. Somehow it makes the town seem uglier - cement, pavement, cold and wet. I feel a moment of yearning for the forest - home - and dream of running, running through thick woodland dressed in fog, in the early morning dawnlight. Hairs rise on me a little - I feel unsafe in urban spaces. I make a conscious effort to settle - I am the monstrous thing that walks in this dark place, my fear is not required and I don't want to risk bringing on a change, this close to the full moon. Something has unnerved me though - it's not just the mist and the lack of earth underneath my feet. I feel the shape of something, a foreshadow of the future. Something threatening.

I am about to close on the feeling, pounce on the sensation and dig in my claws, when something stops me. There is pain in my shoulder, a sharp, stinging throb. I turn to look, feel something scratch, a buzzing, noise, the light is too bright, then – nothing.

Grey. The floor is grey. Cold. It drains my heat from me. Cement again. I want to go home. Please, won’t you let me go home?

Black now.

Grey again, tinged with light this time. Not from a natural source – everything here is hard and cold and uncomforting. Fluorescent strip lights overhead drain the shadows from everything. I strain for clarity, and the world comes back into focus. The floor beneath me, and the ceiling above, is unpainted, uncarpeted cement. Four glass walls surround me. The only feature of this room is the hole leading to a sewer in the corner – it reeks of bleach and old, odd scents. There is no furniture – no bed, no mattress or even a blanket. There is just the cement, the glass, and me. I am not where I should be. Staring out through the glass I see men walking up and down corridors between little glass boxes like this one. Some have women in them. Some are empty. The empty cells have troubling stains on the floor. I can’t smell anything – the glass has completely sealed the room. There must be an air conditioner somewhere, although I can’t see it. I am naked, except for a thin, short silk robe, in black, with Japanese patterns painted on it.

Understanding comes in a sudden wave, ripples green and white.

I have been stolen.

Time passes. I’ve no way to mark it, but I am closely connected to my body. I know I’ve been here for a day. My pack will be in frenzy. I am the only female wolf, although several of the pack members have human girlfriends. I am the one who answers their need to mount a bitch – the only one with whom they do not have to hold back their strength. They cannot damage me; I am as strong as they are. I take pleasure in the pain that comes from fucking, biting, clawing. They can be free, free to ram inside me as hard as they want to with their cock, draw bloody furrows down my shoulders with their claws, gouge ripped teeth marks in my neck – and I will only moan in pleasure.

But they will not be in a frenzied rage because of this. They will be angry and distraught because they love me. We are pack. I feel a tie with all of them, an invisible cord linking me to each one – stretched thin right now due to time and distance since we last marked each other, all becoming one, group scent mingling. And the greatest tie of all, is with my alpha male. My beautiful, strong, dominant leader. As a human, he is smooth-skinned, where he is not covered in dense, thick, curly black and silver hair. It hides his muscular body – wiry, not overly developed; a body meant for love and pleasure as well as hard physical work. His lips are made for suckling on, licking, biting, so smooth and plentiful. His hazel green eyes drown me in lust for him, before his mouth kisses air back inside me. His cock is hard for me, it draws me to it, I can’t not touch, lick stroke. I need him in me. When soft he is delicious, the texture and sensation in my mouth beyond ecstasy, beyond comfort – he is home made flesh.

When in wolf form he is black and silver light in motion; fast, powerful – so much more so than me, than any of the pack. His tail curls back on itself, his tongue falls out of his mouth in a wolfy grin when he sees me. He is as muscular, maybe a little more so, in this form. His cock is huge, pointed; the knot widens and stretches him, the shaft thick and scarred. It becomes angry red and veined when he is mounting me. One thing is unchanged – my need to touch him, scent along him, and be close and intimate with him.

He is my pack leader and mate. My love. My Max.

And Max will come for me, with the pack. And it will be terrible. But the knowledge gives me something to hold to – a reason not to let my mind fracture into a thousand pieces.

My reverie is interrupted by a need for movement - to be in motion. I can never be still for long. I pace back and forth along the glass cage’s floor. Then I stop myself – breathe – re-centre. I begin to move again, but under control this time; stretching, letting my body go where it will, falling into basic dance shapes, holding the pose, releasing. I feel the silk moving seamlessly over my body. It calms me. I feel something pulling on the thread inside me, which leads to the pack. They are coming. I am comforted.

The door opens, startling me. A near invisible split in the glass, let a panel move inward as a man puts his security card against it. He holds a tranquiliser gun casually against his shoulder. I don’t move – I don’t want to risk attacking and being knocked out again. It is gradually occurring to me that I’ve been stolen for a reason, and what that might be. There are too many things that could happen to me while I’m unconscious, for me to chance it.

“You know. I can tell. I can see it in your eyes”. It’s part statement, part command – he expects me to reply and say yes, I know why it is that I’ve been taken and brought here, why I’m in this cage. I ignore him. My silence fills the room. I won’t even look at him. He disgusts me. He’s not an ugly man, but a violence emanates from him that repulses me. His nose is thick; it’s been broken more than once.

Suddenly, I am on my knees. He’s grabbed me by the hair and forced me down onto the floor. Two more men come in the room, stand behind him, holding guns as well. They are dressed in military black, shaven headed. They reek of thug - hired muscle. This one though, has an authority about him, a sadistic, unkind, authority though it is.

I am strong – I am resilient – I heal quickly. I can change form, become wolf, but I am no stronger as my unnatural wolf than the natural creature is. I have no super abilities, no special powers. My gift, if I have one, is to love many, deeply. To give pleasure, to share passion, to release the tension inside others and allow them to play, to be free. I am not a person who knows, understands, violence. To harm another willingly is anathema to me. I feel their pain far too much. But I will protect myself if I can, and defend my pack when needed, with every last ounce of muscle, human or wolf, in my body.

Still and all I am weak from the tranquiliser, weak with hunger and dehydration. He moves shockingly fast and suddenly there is blood – on the floor. On my face. He’s smashed my head into the cement underneath me. The world tumbles, twists.

He goes down on one knee, still holding my hair. “Why. Are. You. Here?” He speaks softly, on the edge of whisper smooth.

I turn my head slightly – he lets me. I meet his eyes. I know mine will be a little sad, as I answer him. “You are gone. All of you – everyone in this room, in this building – is dead. You’re still walking around, you think you’re alive, but you’re not. Your death was already in place from the moment you touched me”.

His eyes change now, too. They alter from arrogance, to incandescent rage. It lights both his face and mine, reflected from my own expression.

He slams my head into the floor again, and pins my arms behind my back. Motioning behind him, the guards obey his instruction and come close, holding me down. He is trembling with anger, so much so that his fingers fumble as he pulls at his belt, undoes it, doesn’t even try to undo the cord which holds my robe closed, just claws at the fabric until a tear forms, which he rips, wrenches at, seizes with both hands and slashes into pieces. The tatters lie around me – the two guards hold me down. He hits me with his belt – it burns, my skin is ablaze. This pain is not the same, as when my loving and excited pack mount me, bite me, claw at me. This pain fuels my temper, it is destructive, damaging. The heat from me increases, radiates out – my skin is almost painful to touch. Again he asks me, and with each word is a blow. “Why are you here? Why are you here you little fucking whore? You stupid BITCH!”

I thrash around, hurting myself, there is blood all over the floor, I am scratched and grazed everywhere, and still I won’t give him what he wants. I will NEVER give him what he wants. The three men hold me down so I am unable to pour out my anger where I want to – so instead I release my control, held threadbare anyway by the threat, the need. I bathe myself in change, it is over in seconds. It surges over me, waves on rocks, I am flooded, overcome.

Now the body held down is wolf in form. I whine, use my re-shaped jaws to snap at them, try and use my claws, wanting to inflict as much harm as possible. I know I’ve denied them the words they tried to force from me, whatever happens next, I know I’ve won. They think they’ll punish me with something even worse – they’re wrong. I will never give in, not to them. They can hurt me, beat me, rape me – they can’t get inside my head. Only my Max, my beautiful Max, can do that. I am only for him. And when he chooses to share me with the pack.

They are incensed by my change, and keep furiously hitting me, restraining me. In victory, I find the pain easier to take, but I know what’s coming next.

“That’s right, whore. Change into your little bitch form – like the stupid bitch you are. That’s what our customers will pay us for anyway. You know it already, you’re ours now. We will whore you the fuck out to whoever will pay us the most. They can fuck your cunt, arse or mouth; human, or wolf, or change you halfway through. You will fuck them, and you will do a good job because if you don’t, we will beat you pissless. Why don’t you enjoy a little taste now? We deserve something considering all the trouble you’ve caused us, you nasty fucking whore.”

He rips open his flies and pulls his dick out, shoves his trousers down slightly, and mounts me from behind, roughly, violently. With each thrust he groans, cries out, or moans. “Oh yeah, fuck yeah…I’ve got a little bit of bitch cunt on my prick. This is what they pay for and I’m getting it free. God she’s tight. I’m gonna fuck her whorish little bitch cunt until I come in her, and then, you are going to fuck her too. Perk of the job, I reckon. I’m in charge here, you’re gonna fuck her arse and mouth.”

He’s inside me for no longer than a minute before he comes, scalding hot cum pouring inside me, filling me up with pain. He collapses, sweaty and exhausted on top of me, and I whimper gently. I have gone to another place in my head – somewhere…not here. I hardly fight back at all as one of the guards pulls his cock out and shoves it in my arse, holding onto my tail as he slams into me over and over again. His balls slap against me, making a loud smacking noise heightened by the cum which covers them, left behind from the rape only moments before.

He rapes me, and yet somehow he is the one humiliated by the act – shamed, as he pounds into me, sweating, dishevelled, his balding head jerking back and forth, his face slack as he buggers me, the first hint of a beer gut blooming on his pale, unhealthy skin, which I feel press against me each time his cock slams into my arse. I smell his ripe, sour scent, the reek of the cum he spilt on his hands last night as his wife turned her back on him in bed, again. The stench of his teeth, rotting unbeknownst to him, in his mouth. His stinking, discoloured hands are stained from endless roll-ups outside the gates, I can feel them, as they clench my fur in handfuls tighter and tighter as cum boils up out of his balls, and he blows his load inside my tight little arsehole.

The remaining guard shoves him roughly out the way when he’s barely finished – he is putting himself in place at my mouth, when the change comes over me again. An evolutionary defence mechanism, a response to continued threat – if one form hasn’t worked, try another. Human again, but this time I am in no state to resist, no longer defiant, just a sobbing, shuddering wreck on the floor, my cunt and arse streaming with cum from two men, about to be violated, violently, by a third. And knowing that once he’s dumped his load in me, it’s only a matter of time before I’m whored out to a customer. I put all my energy into the hope that my Max will bring the pack, in time to save his bitch.

The last guard holds me up by two handfuls of my hair, forcing me to my knees. My whole face is wet – I’m not just crying, I’m howling – gasping, shrieking out wordless sounds, screaming in pain and rage, unable to stay in the distant space inside my head where I hide. Tears and more pour out of my face, as he stoppers my mouth with his dick, muffling some of the noise. He brutally fucks my throat – my screams change to choking sounds, I cough, gag, wheeze, spit drools freely from my lips, and as he pulls out, it pours out of my mouth like cum. He slaps my tits with his hand, and then slaps me in the face with his prick. “Oh god, you fucking whore, you fucking whore”, he says, over and over again as he thrusts. His balls hit my chin, he’s forcing his cock right down as deep as it will go, mashing my own lips against my teeth. I feel something split with the violence of his force, my body struggles – he looks down, sees the blood on my face, sees me broken, and comes, ejaculating wave after wave of salty, burning seed, down into my stomach, pulling out at the last moment, spilling violation over my lips, cheeks, throat, breasts – it coats me in sticky, hot fluid. I fall to the floor like a rag doll as he releases his grip on my hair.

They are gone now.

I’m sore. I try to scrape their scent off me with silk rags, but I can’t. It’s choking me, suffocating me – sweat, spit, cum. There is nothing to wash myself with. I’m shaking, cold even by human standards. There is not so much as a blanket to wrap myself in. I pull my arms around myself instead, and stroke my own skin gently.

I can feel the pack coming closer. They are nearly here now. Through the door I see a man in a suit, in close conversation with the guards. They take him round to look inside the cells, he is taking his time choosing. He pauses in front of mine. I am dirty, bloodied, but still he looks. He turns to a guard and starts to say something – it’s too late, I think. They won’t come in time. Then I feel a tug down the link that bonds me to the pack.

Please get here. Please get here soon. I can’t hold on for much longer.

The lights stop working. Dark, it’s so dark – there are no windows, no natural light at all. I can’t hear anything outside my cell – there is no space for the sound to carry through. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for – I leap up and search frantically for the edge of the door. It’s impossible to see, even with light, and my fingers only find the crack because my sensitive hearing notices an infinitesimally louder space in the glass, where a little noise is spilling through.

I put my hands either side of where I guess the lock to be, and change. Two things happen at once. The electrical energy inside me, generated by the heat and my body’s alteration of form, grounds itself in the nanolock holding the door closed. There is a blinding flash, then an eruption of sound and scent. Chaos – fighting, screams, breaking glass, metal on metal, gunshots – streams into my ears, made ultra sensitive by my change. The smell of blood and other viscera, sweat, humans and pack, hits me almost as hard. I shimmy out of my fur as quickly as possible and remake myself human again. I still stink of rape – the scents and fluids have gone with me through change and back again.

A body barrels into me and knocks me flying at high speed. I smell and feel immediately that he is pack – the scent and touch of home hit me and I can’t help myself, I sob helplessly, anguished, animal sounds issue from my human form as I wail over and over again. He gives me comfort as only pack can – licking my face, rubbing his scent over me, re-marking me as part of the group, letting me hold his fur as I rock back and forth. I can’t see anything, but I know exactly which of my family this is. I know he can’t change back to human right now –he’s not powerful enough to do it at will without the help of his alpha, but he stays with me, and just the line of his body against mine, the feel of his fur against my skin, soothes and calms me.

The fighting is starting to come to an end, parts of the room are clear of noise, and there’s some light, torches held by the pack as they secure sections of the prison. I gather myself together and look for Max – he is across the room, fighting a pitched battle with the man who raped me. Of course he would go straight to them, smelling my scent on them. The two guards are already dead at his feet, their throats bitten out, black blood already clotting on the floor. As an alpha, Max can change some or all of his body at will, and he’s fighting with five knifelike claws attached to each hand. As his body wheels into position for the final stroke, he sees me, bloodied and broken, and meets my eyes across the room. He’s holding the man up by the hair, across the front of his body. As he uses his claws to slice open the chest and eviscerate him, he smiles lovingly at me. He starts to pull the man’s intestines out of his body, accompanied by pain filled frenzied screaming – he lifts them up to his mouth, and starts to eat. He is the last to die, and Max tosses his carcass to the floor like so much carrion. The rest of the pack fall upon the dead body and consume it.

He stalks across the room and catches me as the adrenaline leaves me – I fall, I fall into him. He carries me, but I start to struggle and he lets me stand again. I want to release the others – we cannot leave anyone behind in the glass cells. I want to do it myself but don’t have the strength to – he asks the pack to see to it, using their energy from changing to short-circuit the locks. I feel his energy stream out and trigger the change in the weaker and younger pack members. They release the other women, see them safely outside, give them a mobile to call for help, some blankets – little things which will help without leaving evidence of the pack behind, or giving away information.

I get as far as the backseat of Max’s landrover, before I start shaking violently. I can’t get warm - I just can’t get warm. He gets in with me, leaving one of the pack to drive instead, and pulls a blanket around my still-naked shoulders. I’m covered in filth – blood, sweat, tears, spit and cum. We’re travelling in convoy – pack members in cars ahead, and behind. Max’s arms are around me, pressing me closely into his chest, under his arm – but I still don’t feel safe. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe again. He strokes me, whispers soft words, holds my hand to his chest to feel his slow breathing, his heart beating.

The car stops when we’re near home. I get anxious, scared of what’s happening. He soothes me – “sshhh, it’s okay, it’s okay baby. I’m going to make you better, my baby girl”.

He carries me out of the car and into the meadow. The pack follows, a strange procession, almost ritual.

He puts me down in the wild grass by the stream. There are poppies under me, crushed by my body, red petals falling to the earth. Max triggers another change - all of the pack are in wolf form now except for the two of us. He takes his clothes off, and holds me to his chest again, as he stands. We are both naked now. He settles me into the water, holding me so that we are both sitting up, my back against his chest. He takes handfuls of water, washing my body clean, washing all the dirt out of me. The water is cold, and my heat has not returned yet – I shiver, clinging to him, clutching at his legs. He holds me close, and I feel a little of his heat transfer to me. My energy is so depleted that the electrical charge normally created when our bodies come within reach of each other, barely creates a spark in the water.

He lets me drink from his hand – I gulp at it thirstily. Two of the younger members of the pack are sent to hunt – they will bring the kills to our home so we can feast, later.

The pack sings, as he cleans me of the scents of strangers, far from home. They sing of love, and mourning. The sun is setting, and the moon is coming up – it is full tonight. I feel a tug – some of my energy is returning. Before the sun goes down, part of this strange cleansing must begin before sunset – I know that, but I don’t know how I know it. I am following patterns laid down before I was born.

Max stands, and takes my hand – I follow him and he lays me in the meadow. I smell loosestrife, rue and woundwort as the flowers are crushed underneath me. He gathers speedwell and mashes the leaves in his hands, then rubs my body with the pulp. I want to push him away, I feel suddenly conscious of my nakedness, and his hands on me bring me close to tears again. But I submit to his care, I want his scent on me again. I need it.

The grass scratches and tickles against my back, as he presses firmly down against my white skin with the palm of his hand. He mounds each breast and squeezes it, rubbing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He digs his thumbs into my shoulder blade, and smoothes out the knotted muscle. Light touch on my neck – my hairs start to rise and goose bumps form as he gently pets me there. He runs his hand down my arm to my wrists, lifts them, kisses them, and speeds kisses up into the palm of my hand. He takes each finger into his mouth and sucks it, licks, bites. My body begins to respond to his – I am unable not to.

His hands grasp firmly again as both palms slide down the inside of my legs. He rubs around my calves and then slowly, slowly, his hands come up between my legs. My breathing comes faster, my heat is rising. He puts my arms above my head, and lets me spread my legs – but still, he doesn’t touch me there, not where I want him to. And I do want him to. I feel the lips of my pussy plumpen with need, I know they must glisten with wetness.

His fingers rub closer and closer, but still he does not touch – then I feel a single light brush. My whole body shudders – my back arches, I sigh. He knows then, that I am ready for him, and without any more prelude, he takes me. His cock slips inside like it was made to be there, I close around him, velvety, warm, wet and tight. I instantly feel safer, and clutch him closer to me, my nails digging into his buttocks. He growls gently into my neck, and nips me a little. I bite him back, little tiny nibbles, and then his teeth sink into me hard. I tip my head back and cry out. He holds my face in his hand, and murmers soft bonds of love, each word a kiss.

He pulls out and turns me then, and slides back inside, as deep as he can go. Slow, deep and hard thrusts, his hands on my shoulders. Then, just as the sun’s last light fades out, and the world turns to moonlit monochrome, he changes inside me. The thick shaft becomes pointed, skin changing shape – suddenly the hands on my shoulders are heavy, thick-furred paws. His rhythm changes, as his haunches balance differently, he jabs into me fast – his hindquarters slamming his thick, heavy, cum-filled balls, against my still human creamy thighs.

I feel a knot develop on his thick, scarred, reddened cock – no matter how many times he stretches me, no matter how I practice and try for him, I still have to try just as hard every time when in human form and he is wolf. My pussy is still as tight, still resists his knotted size just as much, when he mounts me. My back bows with the pressure of his weight above me, my legs are spread as wide as I can, and still when I look between my thighs I can see my pussy stretched out, opening up so that he can force that large knotted mass inside me.

He drives the last of it inside me with one final thrust, and the pain is cleansing. He plunges himself in and out of me with an intense, rapid assault on my cunt. I feel his cum scorch me as with each thrust yet more surges out – more than ever before. He is burning me from the inside out – I feel my heat return, as if he is pumping energy inside me with each gush of creamy liquid. There is so much – so much cum; a glut of it. With the last few spurts as he empties out his balls inside me, he bites, deep and hard, into my neck. I feel instant marks form, and I’m glad of them. I want, need, am compelled and crying out for, his mark on me – his scent, his cum, his bruises all over my body. I need to be made pack again. I need to be home. To be safe.

As his red, softening cock flops out, cum gushes out after it, like a cork has been pulled from an upended bottle, pouring out over my thighs, the crushed flowers beneath them. I collapse, roll over onto my back, and he moves forward to stand over me. He gently bites down on my neck, rubbing the bruises in deeper. His muzzle rests against my face, he breaths out gently, then signals to the rest of the pack.

In moments they are on me. The sun is down now, and the moon full in the sky. And so I choose to keep my human form, control returning to me with each act of power. Our two biggest in size after Max, bound forward, eager for their turn. It is rape, the way they take me. I would not have chosen it this way, and yet I am wet for them, wanting them. I kneel in the meadowgrass as the huge wolf stands on his hindlegs, rubbing his heavy, meaty cock over my swollen, stretched pussy, covering it in cum from his alpha. As soon as he’s covered himself in it, he rams it into my arse, but holds himself still with great effort while his packmate mounts me from the front, sliding his cock with relative ease until my still soaked pussy.

They move in unison, violating me, cunt and arse, violently slaking their need to re-establish a bond with their submissive pack female, covering her in their scent, and cum. He fucks me hard – brutally pounding my asshole, stretching me out, slamming me into his packmate who fucks just as hard into my cunt. I feel myself widen, and eventually snap back into place around their dual knots. As they tie with me and begin to release their heavy load, they both howl and claw in a frenzy at my back, each sinking fangs into my neck. Blood pours from me, it soaks into their fur, their claws are red with it. I scream – they fuck harder. I scream more, they fuck and bite and claw more deeply. As the last of their boiling seed fills me up to the belly, they pull out simultaneously and I fall, ravished, unable to hold up my own weight any longer.

But the rest of the pack want their turn – there is no stopping, not until the last one of our forty strong pack is done, each using the their predecessor’s spunk to ease their entry. And still, there is no rest, no surcease for me.

My Max returns to me as human. He reaches between my legs, scoops up a palmful of cum accumulated from the whole pack, and lets me gratefully lick it from his hand. Then he takes another handful and rubs it over my tits; smears the last few sticky drops in my face.

“I love you so much, my little bitch. You are safe now. You are ours. Mine. My bitch, to mount whenever I want. Get into wolf form. I’m going to just fucking mount you again, one more time – because I can”.

I change for him – my body dissolving and coalescing around itself, furred and strong. He changes too, his cock already beginning to knot, his balls just as heavy even though he’d blown his load into me only two hours before. He gets behind me and just sticks his cock straight in, I’m still stretched and sloppy with the cum of the pack. I feel him swelling, and have to open even wider to take his knot one last time. Just before he ties with me, he pulls out, and takes my arsehole instead. His angry, knotted cock, ties my body with his – I can’t be taken from him now. I howl in joy. He pants heavily, growls softly, bites the back of my neck – hard, and rakes his claws over and over on my skin. Even with fast healing, I will be wearing these scars for a while. With one final slam he drains himself dry, leaving me with torrents of cum from him, pouring out to join the messy remains of the pack’s violations.

He curls around me like a huge furry blanket, and all of the pack, even the two youngest back from the hunt, join us. Safe in a pile of densely muscled bodies, my pack scent is restored to me, I am safe. I am home again.

Even the Heart Must Pause to Breathe

2010-03-31T12:50:00.000+01:00

"Then I will tell you a great secret, Captain. Perhaps the greatest of all time. The molecules of your body are the same molecules that make up this station, and the nebula outside, that burn inside the stars themselves. We are starstuff. We are the universe made manifest, trying to figure itself out. And as we have both learned, sometimes the universe requires a change of perspective." - Delenn, Babylon 5

Moments of transition, caught in amber...

He stripped me down to underwear - bra, stockings and suspenders, heels. Knickers roughly pulled down to mid-thigh. He likes to leave them there. Sometimes while he's fucking me. Sometimes just to look at me while I blush. He shoved a crumpled note in my bra, called me a whore. Told me to earn my money. Told me he wanted change. He took me bent over a table in the window of the cheap hotel - lights on, curtains open, dark outside. He likes to fuck me where other people can see. Sometimes he is proud of his whore.

He buggered me. Hard. I learned I like it really rough. I moan the loudest when he's hammering his cock into my ass. It hurts. I relish the pain.

He forced a brutal dildo into me - not far, it was too big, I couldn't take very much. He violated me, I was open, stretched. I tried - I tried my best. I wanted to please him.

We slept. We slept through hunger, physical needs, pain - for hours and hours and hours. Held in his arms, re-breathing his breath. He breaks me, then remakes me, soothes my tears, returns me to his perfect whore, his fucktoy, his beloved, his cherished and treasured precious thing. I am loved. I am protected. He shelters me from myself - keeps my heart warm and safe.

There were things I wanted to call him - words that came to mind while we were fucking; not at any other time. Strange, unsettling. Something seen through a mist. Glimpses. I said things - things I shouldn't, or thought that I shouldn't. Later, it terrified me. Veins full of bleaching, burning cold, thirsting, yearning, uncomfortable. I slept, talked, breathed, recovered.

We went to the Club With No Name together. He broke me into pieces. I was drunk with pain, delicious, like being smashed on champagne.

Very late at night. I need to sleep with his cum inside me. In the darkness, silence, muffled sounds. We shouldn't be doing this - if we get caught it'll be hell to pay. I can't not - I need him.

How strange that I should seek this out, this recreation of a source of damage. Quiet, I strain to see clearly, struggle to make sense of the images refracted through dense black fluid - a shadowgraph. Words pour out from us both, words I never thought to hear, speak, relearn. Photographs on an inky lake float to the surface, stained and torn. I collapse into myself - my implosion is not catastrophic, but chaotic.

I need space to re-order, reflect. Tell myself to stop, breathe, take perspective. It doesn't work - I fall, I fall hard. Pieces of myself fly outward, shattered. I try to collect them, but there are too many - I can't hold them all in my hands. I need time and space to curl up into, so the broken pieces won't fall too far from where I'm laying. I'm afraid that when I hit the bottom of this rocky cave, more will smash, and it will take time, too much time, to remake me. I'm frightened. I'm damaged, filled with fault lines, I smash more easily, more explosively, than others. I'll never be whole, unbroken. I'll always be at risk of falling.

It doesn't matter. I find I have a safety net. I have two loved ones who catch me. Neither of them give a damn that I am breakable. At such times I fear their love - I fear my tears will wash it away, like drawings in the sand, transitory, ephemeral. I fear to tread on it in case I fall into quicksand. But instead, their care is a wall made of diamond rock. A strong, shining thing, in which I shelter for a while. They see my fault lines as a reason to hold me for longer, not push me away. Instead of a flawed thing to be discarded, a mistake, I become like pottery with crackle glaze.

It still takes me some time to make repairs. We do quiet things. Hold hands across the restaurant table. I sleep, curled up against him, while he watches a film. I am shaky, still. He guards the den while I lick my wounds.

I am regathering myself like drumming tatters wrapped tight. He makes me ride him, he makes me use his cock like a dildo. He fucks me in the arse while I hold another dildo in my pussy. I can barely take it - the shame is stretching me more than the physical act. I hate to engage actively in my own pleasure, when I am with him. I hate to touch myself in front of him, use toys on my own body, hold things in place. My body was made for pleasure, yes - but his pleasure, not my own. When I am with him I should be, want to be, touching him, not myself. To do otherwise draws deep on my shyness, makes me feel shamed and mortified. Yet I am able to endure it because he is in charge - forcing me to abuse myself, strangely I take my satisfaction from his, which he takes from mine, yet he knows I hate it so. It is the same when he tells me to just let him look at me. Standing with my skirt pulled up to my waist, knickers pulled to the side or level with my stocking tops, slutty, dishevelled, flushed - I cannot even look back at him, I just want to hide, but he won't let me.

We went to Sweet Torments - I am feeling confident and go in my underwear, not even bothering to put on the dress I had brought with me, whore that I am. He chooses to cuff me to a bar which is then winched above my head. He hits me, he spanks me, he takes what he wants from me, with fingers and tongue. The pain is cleansing, liberating. I am alive.

I want him - I can't stop touching him. I really want to fuck - I want it hard, deep, pounding. He lets me sit in the quiet space away from people, so I can have a little time for the chemicals flooding my body to clear. I am high still. He keeps my knickers in his pocket - I don't ask for them back. I want them, I am horribly exposed when we go to the bar, coat notwithstanding. I can't imagine asking him for them; he'll put them back on me when he wants them back on me. It's not for me to choose, no matter how I flush, knowing there are people, people who I know, who can see my pussy, see that I'm wet, that there's satin liquid on my thighs. Because of the man who stands next to me. And everyone knows. I'm filled with shame, hot with it.

When he's ready, he allows me to step back into my panties. We play again, harder this time. I am insatiable with rage, anger seems an endless supply, I wonder if it will ever wash me clean or if it will still leave a pool inside me. But his hand and his crop scourges me empty. Exhausted, I still want him. We have drained each other dry, and then fill each other again - vessels for the other's soul.

A last moment before travelling home tore me away: in the back of his car, a sweet treat for me, to comfort me because I'd been so sad. There wasn't time, there is never enough time, but still - I needed so badly to have him in my mouth. And he let me, he let me take that one last chance to have something of his, inside some part of me. A comforting thing, the taste and smell and texture of my loved one, a memory that that I wanted - needed - to carry home with me. I was so grateful he had listened to my pleading and begging, and given me what I asked for, what I needed. So very content and happy, and grateful, to be allowed to comfort myself in this way before leaving him.

"Quiero hacer contigo lo que primavera hace con los cerazos." - Pablo Neruda

2010-03-18T19:08:00.000Z

When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us. - Helen Keller

The last two weeks have contained such significant steps on my journey into my sexuality, I can't not mark them by writing about them, but whether I can do justice to them, I really do not know.

When I reach back with my mind to a year ago, and meeting my first girlfriend, playing for the first time, I can see now that she didn't want me to go on a journey - it frightened, threatened her. She wanted to keep me in the same place, close to her - and it was stifling and claustrophobic. She wanted to clip my wings.

Being with M as I am now, I feel as if he's taught me how to fly. He doesn't want to keep me in a cage, he wants to show me things, show me the world, show me what my body is capable of - and my heart. He loves me unselfishly, generously - it is a love without walls or bars.

My heart stills fears, and my fear still tells my heart this happiness can't last, it's too good, I will lose it someday - but strangely, for once, instead of making me want to pull away in fright at what may come, I'm able to savour this for what it gives me right now, to treasure each moment while I have it. To roll in it, lick it up, smear it all over me, wear it like a dress, to not let the fear of future hurt taint the current joy.

I've had some novel, profound, and intense sexual experiences during the last year. I've made love with women, been raped with a strap-on, enjoyed pain, experienced bondage, played in public, had my clothes cut off with a knife, opened up my marriage, kissed, touched and played with men, been in a triad relationship and slept between two lovers, discovered rough sex, oral rape, and what it feels like when another person makes you come - but until two weeks ago, I had never been fucked by a man.

I've made love, I've had sex - good and bad, and I've never done either of these things with a man I wasn't in love with, and in a relationship with, and who I believed loved me. But I've never been...taken. I've never been used....fucked...I've never had anyone just stick their fucking dick in me and empty their balls into me, with their own pleasure forefront in mind.

I am his whore, and he can do anything, anywhere, anytime, however we wants to, with me. I trust in him not to abuse this. Through this power exchange, I am empowered. I have never felt so deliciously that I owned my own sexuality - instead of fighting against my body, I am centered within it.

I have, at many times in my life, felt disempowered. Out of touch with my body, as if my past is a wound, my body the enemy without, my mind struggling to wrench control and force it to do what I want it to do. Coming into my sexuality late as I have, allows me to appreciate the sense of joy in becoming one with my body. I learned to orgasm only a few years ago, and until recently each climax was a struggle to pull forth something which my body and the blank places in my mind sought to deny me.

To have a lover so skilled as to reverse this, is a revelation. To have one who loves me, who I love, who is so kind and gentle with me yet so violent and enraged (and engaged), and dominant in the best possible ways - is a wonder.

I knew that he would love me, whether he ever fucked me or not. I knew he would never pressure me, or ask, or demand. I wanted to give him my trust, and my body - I wanted there to be nothing he couldn't do to me, nothing he had to hold himself back from. I wanted to give him everything.

I was terrified. I've been with my husband (R) for nearly 15 years and this is the first full sex with a man I've had in all that time, outside of my marriage. R and I agreed limits when I first began playing with men, limits that, one by one, opened up. I don't go into detail about what level of intimacy I have with M, when discussing our relationships with R, because R has asked me not to. Despite knowing I had R's full permission to do whatever I chose to with my body, it was still a huge thing, a momentous thing, to offer myself to another man in this way.

M tried his best not to terrorise me, and succeeded, although I terrified myself quite successfully. We had a hotel room booked in london and plans to go to antichrist - my decision was quite a last minute thing, and when I met him there, seeing him again was like a physical blow. I needed - NEEDED - to touch him, I wanted to crawl inside his coat and melt into his skin. As we fell into each other, he began to take control of me - and I gave to him. I submitted to his choices of where to put me, how he wanted me. I reveled in it, relished it. At first I was fighting him, then I was moving with him, seeking to pour my heart and soul into moving my body so as to give him the most possible pleasure.

I was wet before I even got through the door of the hotel room, let alone by the time he touched me, and by the time he slid inside, I was soaking for him, just covered in sticky wetness all over my thighs. He was...AMAZING...and although I had already discovered how much, how easily, how quickly, he makes me come, I surprised even myself this night. I came four times on his cock, the last as he was shooting his spunk inside me. My pussy fought him for control, clutching at him so intensely it almost pushed him out. Still hard, he took my arse, slamming into me as I locked my gaze with his - shocked, adoring, wondering.

It was so new, so intense - there aren't words. The only way I can explain what happened to my mind, is to show you - this is what it must have looked like inside my head.

And completely unexpectedly, without understanding what was happening or noticing, as I sit here writing this, choosing that link, I find my eyes are wet. I am crying with the fierceness of the emotion, as my body remembers these profound and transcendent moments.

Afterwards, we held each other, mingled in sweat and cum, lust and love, his scent and a part of him, both inside me, to keep close and safe, and on me, to mark and wear with pride, I struggled to find the desire to tear myself away from him for long enough to get ready to go out.

I was so shaken and uninhibited in my happiness, my contentment, that I almost felt lost when I went into Club Antichrist. I clung to M, scent and fluid bonded to him; he was my shield from the noise and brightness and overpowering sense of people, crushed into a small room. I was so...open...that only he could protect me from the feeling of other people - their needs, desires, thoughts and feelings, scent, sound, touch - invading my personal space. I was happy and enjoyed myself all the time he was touching me, but when he was not, I felt...lost. He grounded me, providing a centre of gravity around which I could move.

The urge to play got the better of me - I had been fucked that night, fucked good and hard - but I needed a beating too. I batted my eyelashes at M until he was in the mood to deliver some violence to me. The dungeon was set up in a small room with two exits, both onto dancefloors, and no space to recover. In hindsight it wasn't a very good place to play, but we were both too overcome with lust to stop ourselves. The crowd pressed in on all sides, separated from the players by a ring of barriers. There was something almost gladatorial about it, or like high greek theatre.I was wearing the most touchable, strokeable, eye candy of wrist and ankle cuffs that M had bought me - patent black on the outside with soft purple suede inside. As he dragged me through the crowd, shouldering onlookers out of the way, he was more than capable of slamming me onto the st andrews's cross, and clipping my cuffs to each point, despite my struggles.

We played hard - he marked me well. With the onset of pain my anger erupted, as it always does. Each outburst was accompanied by some physical manifestation of my rage - I shook the cross, I spat in his face, I screamed at him, swore, told him to get the fuck off me and leave him alone. I tried to kick him, break out of the cuffs, and snarled at him. He met, matched, and exceeded each of my explosions of fury with his own - he sweated with passion, so heavily drops fell on me, he spat back in my face, he yanked my hair so far back I was nearly bent double. Veins stood out on his forehead as he smashed me, again and again, with his hands, with his whip. And still, my anger kept boiling over, despite the pain. And then he covered my face with his hand, closed my mouth and pinched my nose shut. After that I gave in to him, I slumped in the cuffs and took what he gave me. No-one watching was left in any doubt that I...was...his...

Afterwards M found the quietest place for me to be, and held me wrapped close in his arms, but the noise, the light - it was still too much. And I couldn't bear to me around people again, almost as if the play had destroyed the very last of my physical and emotional barriers. Gradually they rebuilt as I recovered, and at last I could sit and float, as he protectively sheltered me until I was ready to explore again.

I danced - only a little, and with some effort, as part of me was still floating. I danced with M, and we kissed...kissed some more...and then I wanted him. I indicated that I would like to explore inside the couples darkroom, and he took me there. He led me in by my hand, I was suddenly a little shy and felt gauche. I couldn't meet anyone's eyes, the room seemed a montage of fucking and sucking, low light and deep beat. Melting flickers of pornographic images met my view as I gazed around. He fucked me - then he chose to use his fingers in me. Again, and again, and again. Something happened to my body...I remember lying back in a leather chair, my legs apart, him between them. As I came, there was suddenly liquid everywhere - soaking into my dress, running into my fishnets, splashing with the force of his fingers smashing in and out of me, splashing into his face, splashing into mine! I looked at him, I don't remember asking but my eyes must have held so many questions. I didn't know what was happening to me, and I thought...I thought something incredibly humiliating had occured, something I can't even bear to write down here now. I expected him to look back at me with either concern, or possibly, pride, confidence, knowledge. Instead his face was...crackling with energy, determination, a kind of shock, longing, passion. He looked like the maniac who would come screaming into your home at night to tear you up with a chainsaw. But none of this could stop me from coming, and coming, and coming - it made me more drawn into the intensity of the climax, and I couldn't stop, I was ashamed and afraid and I just...could...not...stop...his fingers worked in me over and over and still, every time I came, this liquid...everywhere. He re-positioned me so that I was sat on his lap with my legs wide open, my knickers tucked in his pocket, his fingers in me, and still, although everyone could see my shame, he pumped me until even more liquid gushed out, soaking his leather trousers, the chair, the floor...I was beyond caring, and yet I did care, I was horrified, and yet, and yet...he stood me up, bent over a sofa, my legs spread as he told me to, and for the fifth and final time he made me come, as liquid splashed onto the ground. I was mortified, completely put to shame, I felt debased - and at the same time, liberated, swept up, flying.

Then, he finally let me rest, and held me as I sat on his lap, struggling in as close as I possibly could, curling up into a ball, hiding my head in his shoulder. I wanted to ask - what was it? What just happened to me? What did you do to me? But I couldn't. I kept beginning the words, but then I couldn't, because asking met admitting what I was afraid had happened. It couldn't be cum - surely women just don't? I've heard of female ejaculation, but not that much, surely? It smelled, tasted, looked like cum - but...surely instead I had done something disgusting? In the end I found the courage to speak up. He petted me and reassured me and held me, told me that despite my fears, something amazing had happened, cuddled me until I felt safe again. I cannot remember the last time, as an adult, that I felt such a sense of...wonder. It was a revelation. A sexual epiphany.

It was like a dream, not real; a segment of time outside time where things were not as they seemed, and yet were more real than most of us ever get to experience. I was dazed, adrift in sensations from my body and mind, of pain, and pleasure, harmonising as one to create something so heart-touching my whole spirit responded by resonating in sympathy.

After a time of glorious contentment we rose, and made our way slowly home. As we walked through the streets, in the quiet time after sunrise, before most inhabitants of the city are awake, I felt that we'd somehow slipped into an altered world, where everything looks the same, yet is different, touched by meaning, changed because *I* was changed. Because *we* were changed.

My dress, slutty at best, rose even higher as we walked the pavements and the tube stations. I could have asked for my knickers back. I'm fairly sure M would have given them to me, had I done so. But I knew it would please him more if I walked along, dishevelled, barely clothed, exposed - and so I did. I walked along the street with my pussy on display, smeared in my own cum, for everyone to see. Part of me felt shame for being such a whore, part of me glowed with pride in how I had pleased the man I adored.

The journey was long, and took some time - it was so late, and I needed to sleep, I was so very tired. And I should have slept, but I couldn't until I had been given what I needed. He took me again, more gently this time, but still aggressive and rough by my normal expectations. It was...delicious. I slept with his cum inside me - it was still leaking out in the morning, which was a good excuse for him to rape me. Just a little bit. I wanted it to hurt more but I was still so slick with cum, that he slid straight in...

That evening, he took me dogging - he fucked me from behind in the car, in front of strangers, dirty drug dealers, desperate chavs, haggard losers, and the rest - they watched from outside and lit our scene by phone-light, as he marked his property. He turned me so that I lay on my back, on the seat, and took me with his fingers until I came, with more of that silky gushing liquid flowing out of me, onto my clothes, his clothes, the seat, his hands...

Drained, he wrapped me in a blanket he keeps in his car so he can make me warm and safe. He drove me home - an hour's drive at best, from where he lives. I could have caught the train but he wouldn't let me, not like that, not when emotionally vulnerable and needing care and comfort. He held me and touched me on the way, and then when we reached my home, I didn't want him to leave. Not without just one more fuck. I begged, pleaded, abased myself, used every possible means I could think of to try and persuade him.

I should have let him just drive home without draining his balls again, it was late at night and he had a long way to go. But I got my slutty way at last, he put me in the back of his car, stripped me naked, and made me ride his cock, bring myself to orgasm by working his dick back and forth inside me. I gushed on his cock, screamed his name, begged for release...he turned me and fucked me from behind - hard, very hard. I came again, I forget how many times. When he finally blew his load into me and filled me with his seed, we had a little time together to learn how to breathe again, and then I went home, content and clutching his cum inside me, a souvenir of the weekend...

Unchained

2010-03-15T18:44:00.000Z

This poet's heart's desire is overflowing;
This poor inadequate offering my gift.
I long to find the words to honour truly,
This sea of change on which I am adrift.

In lust, I dreamed of this before I chose it,
In love, I ached to feel my hips meet yours.
My heart, this fragile, damaged, fearful thing,
My body, impatient for the chance to be your whore.

A tumble of emotions spiralled through me.
As you caught the knotted threads and pulled,
Untangled every yarn and bade me wind it,
With me in shocked obeisance to your will.

By my hand you pulled me in towards the darkness
You lay me down and opened me by force.
You took me first with raping strength and power,
There was no indecision, no remorse.

With your fingers you degraded and abused me;
This virgin's pussy stretched into a whore's.
Your brutal penetration forcing from me,
Violent proof in heart and body I am yours.

Over and again you roughly took me,
The cries ripped from me merging to the beat.
The darkness veiling glimpses of my body,
You displayed me on your lap - I was in heat.

Confused, I felt the liquid gushing from me
Afraid, I saw the spasms of my limbs,
I begged for you to ease this degradation;
Yet I suffered gladly further for your whim.

When last I shuddered, crying out in shock,
My shame dripped wetly from me to the floor.
Exhausted, you drew me closer to you;
As you rocked me, I loved you even more.

You held me in your arms and I clung close to you,
I whimpered quietly for you as I sobbed,
Finally I gathered up my courage,
And dared to ask you if I was still loved.

Once my body held me prisoner inside it,
I struggled to break free from chain and lock.
I longed to find the key to my own freedom,
But no matter where I turned the way was blocked.

You found the key and gave it to me for release,
My desire no longer caged or clipped.
What was once so broken is now healed,
And love has broken every chain that did exist

It's not just your love and care that I need -
It's your rage, your violence and your seed.

Let these last words tell you what I know -
I am yours, in mind, in body and in soul.

Whore [erotic fiction]

2010-02-27T09:44:00.001Z

You stand in the doorway. Light from the streetlamp eludes you, your face is shadowed as you count the money dealt out to you by the stranger. The black, leather trenchcoat you wear gives you an air of menace, protected as you are by its thick, concealing folds. In contrast I am exposed, vulnerable - all my flaws unveiled as I stand under the harsh light, my back against the post, arms above my head; not because I am bound in that position by rope, chains or shackles, but because of you - because you told me to.

I am your whore. The man who searches through his handful of change to find the last twenty pence for the five pounds you have charged him, is eager, but drunk - or drugged. His crude, trying too hard, clumsy movements, seem to suit him though, and match his appearance. His clothes are label brands, stained with drops of food and drink from an evening on the piss. His baseball cap can't conceal how dirty his hair is, and the white t-shirt, blue jeans and trainers are a perfect match for those worn by his friends who stand a few feet away, drinking from cans and laughing, joking, and arguing over who gets to go next.

The transaction complete, you step forward, into the light for a moment. I look into your perfect eyes and you answer my unspoken question.
'No.'

You unbutton my coat, slowly, while you kiss me. You pull up the thin, satiny fabric of my skirt, and push my ruffled panties down. I step out of them, and you put them in the pocket of your trenchcoat. I'm left with only my top, cut low and revealing, heels, fishnet stockings and the coat that frames it all. You work your fingers inside me, step back and suck the silky wetness from them.

Turning, you nod your head at the man who just paid to fuck me. He grins in dazed fashion, and unbuttons his jeans with rushed haste. The air tastes of diamonds tonight, cold and bitter as I breathe in, quenching the sickness in me. His cock is of average size, but he holds it as if he were a club to hit me with. It's not yet fully hard, filled as he is with alcohol and amphetamines, and it looks and smells unwashed. I part my legs as he approaches me, and he rubs the plump lips of my perfectly clean and shaven pussy with his dirty, inadequate prick.

He shoves it in. I shift uneasily to gather balance. I look at you, standing watch in the doorway, and there's a warning in your gaze. I look up, instead, and watch the stars, falling in my mind, pieces of the sky inside my head, inside me. An empty place, now filled. The man grunts and shifts position. Now that he's worked his way in fully, I can feel he's becoming harder. He shouts over his shoulder to his friends. 'Fuck, this is brilliant! Her pussy's really tight. I'm gonna fucking come in a minute!' His buttocks thrust mindlessly, as he falls into a rhythm. He is a single speed thruster fuck - his sole aim being to shoot his load inside me as quickly as possible, using my cunt to jerk himself off, job done. I am surprised then, when he slows, and turns his face towards you, hands still on my hips, thrusting still but his focus on his question. 'I can stick it in her arse, yeah?'

'That costs extra', you reply. 'Two quid, pay up front before you do it'.
'No fucking way?! Two quid? Fucking hell!' He sighs, loudly. 'Oh, alright then...' He rummages in his pocket for change, his rhythm becoming erratic. He turns around and shouts out to his mates, who are laughing with almost hysterical amusement. 'Anyone got a couple of quid?' His friends come up with the money between them, and pay you the extra. Your face is utterly serious. You don't return their smiles. I know they disgust you as much as they disgust me. You are using them, like a whip, or a crop - as a tool.

He pulls out of me, and then feels between my legs for my puckered opening. He doesn't know that it's not necessary - you've trained me to angle my body for you perfectly, and my asshole splays itself for you on your first touch. He jams his fingers inside, awkwardly, and I wince with pain. He doesn't notice - but you do. I see your cock twitch inside your jeans, sensitive as I am to every aspect of your presence, however transient or trifling. More confident now, he brings his cock to meet his fingers and starts to push himself in. 'Ahhhh, yeah - fuck yeah', he sighs. He pushes in with force and falls into a rhythm again. With each assault on my body I feel myself come closer to sobs. I won't give in, I won't. Not to him.

He shoves roughly into me, jamming his prick as deep as it will go. His jeans are around his ankles now, and his pitiful buttocks twitch and clench as he pokes his dick into my arse relentlessly. His moans become closer together and louder, he cries out with shocking noise as his prick convulses inside me, shooting hot, scalding, plentiful cum into my body, into my arse, as he empties his anger at a world that he is too ignorant to understand, inside me.

He jerks away, not wanting to touch me, now that he's left me mired in filth like his own. Cum dribbles down my legs, soaking into my stockings, dripping in warm, creamy droplets onto the gritty pavement on which I stand, my legs apart still.

Before he's even buttoned up his jeans again, the next customer stands forward to trade with you for your whore.

And afterwards, after they've all taken what they paid for, you let me sink to the floor, stinking and fouled in mind and body. You clean me with soft words and rock me as I cry, I cry for you, sobbing into the leather of your coat as you cradle me.

'You fucking whore', you whisper, as you pull me closer still. 'You're mine. My whore. Mine'.

A Quick Drink [erotic fiction]

2010-02-25T18:02:00.000Z

My pussy glistens, soaking wet, as my body prepares itself for you to enter me. Pushed down onto the red leather of the sofa, my wrists grasp each other, arms stretched out in front of me, exactly as you have told me to put them. My buttocks are raised, ready for you to choose where you want to fuck, my back arches, my legs are spread obediently on your command, without question, for you - and only you.

As your fingers slide with almost no resistance into my tight little pussy, your cock hardens. You should be familiar by now, with how drenched I become for you - not just moist or damp but sodden, slippery with silken liquid. But still, this time you are shocked at the dripping extent of the defiled plump lips of my puss.

You know you can take me, however, whenever, you want. Or not at all. Maybe you'll just keep me like that, waiting, bent over the sofa of the pub, while people walk past on their way to smoke, or piss. You know I won't move. Not until you tell me I can. Although you know, if you wait too long, I might start to whimper, or silently cry. You rub yourself through your jeans in anticipation, knowing I am fighting the desire to peek through my hair, to see what is happening, who is watching. You're controlling what I see...and what I fear.

Without a word you get your dick out, and rub it against my silky hole. This is the first time you've ever fucked me and you want me to know you can do whatever the fuck you want to with me, wherever, however, you want to. You yank me into a kneeling position and growl aggresively into my ear. ''Where shall I fuck you? Shall I fuck your arse, or your pussy?'

I suck air through my mouth, gasping, struggling not to cry out loud and draw any more attention to myself. You yank my head back even further. You jab your shaft painfully, violently, against my mouth, slapping me in the face with it, pushing, distorting my features as you shove it into the side of my cheek. You know I find this almost unbearably humiliating. 'Don't you know?', you rasp into my ear. 'You don't fucking know, where I want to put my fucking cock?'

I can barely speak with the effort of trying not to sob out loud. 'You...you...you can fuck me...however you want to...please....please...I can't...'
You shake me like a rag doll. 'CAN'T FUCKING WHAT?!', you spit at me, 'Can't fucking stay there while I stick my cock in you? Don't fuck you? You don't want me to fuck you?!'
Your eyes are huge and furious, the pupils dilated.
'No....I don't...I can't...I don't know...please, please don't be mad at me... I'll do whatever you want me to...I'm sorry...please...PLEASE! I'm yours, you can do whatever you want to, to me'. My voice is high and frightened.

'You're fucking right I can do what I fucking want to with you. Now get your face in that fucking leather and spread your legs further apart. NOW'.
I obey, instantly. Only because you know me so well can you see the reluctance, confusion, shame, in my body.

'Where?', you ask me, a fraction calmer. You're giving me the chance to redeem myself. Just one word - but I know exactly what you are asking. And I'm happy...so happy because I know the right answer and I can give it to you.
'Anywhere', I whisper.
'When?', you ask me.
'Whenever you want to. However you want to'. I'm calm now, too. I've given in. Given up. To you. Whatever happens now, it's you who will make the decisions. My soul is naked to you but I'm clothed in the confidence that your commanding presence gives to me. You run your hands up and down my body, lifting my skirt, tugging with your fingernails on my stockings. You slowly, deliberately, pull on one of them. The fabric strains against my thighs, then gives as your strength overpowers it. You hear a ripping sound as you tear it off my body. My skin reddens, and you know you're hurting me, but I'm too far gone to voice protest. Gone too far, into that space in my mind in which you have chosen to put me, in this place. In this time.

'That's right', you softly tell me. 'Good girl'. You sit back on the sofa and for a moment I imagine a reprieve. Shock...relief...confusion...disappointment...anxiety. Have I done something wrong? Do you not want me anymore? But then, you put both arms around me and lift me, positioning me on your lap, facing you. You arrange my skirts so that no-one can see, and tell me to kneel up. Your fingers slide inside me - you start to push, pulling, using, stretching out my pussy. I don't last long...I can't...it is only moments before I start to come, and as I gush over your fingers, you put your other hand over my mouth and pinch my nostrils closed. My eyes are huge...you see my distress...and you drink it in.

You position the fat head of your cock against the lips of my pussy. Lips that are dripping with my cum, and open like a flower...for you to pluck, or crush, as you choose. You rub against me, your prick so hard it hurts, and watch my face as I moan, seeing my expression move from lust, to fear, to shame. I think that you will use my pussy, but suddenly and shockingly, you slam your dick into my arse. Without warning you drive yourself deeper into me. It must hurt you a little - and for me, it's agonising. You see the pain in my eyes, as every thrust hurts me and causes me to cry out - you thrust deeper and harder. Your hands are on my hips, forcing me to bear down...your tongue in my mouth, is taking my kiss, stealing my breath. You are making me ride you...making me take your dick inside me so deep, as you fuck my arse savagely, here in this place, where everyone can see...where everyone can see I'm yours.

And those are the words that you say, as you slam yourself into me. Then without a word you lift me, and throw me down on the sofa. Automatically I assume the position of presenting myself to you.
'You. Are. MINE', you remind me, as your length drives in to my virgin pussy, for the first time. You fuck hard...and harder...deeper...I scream and cry your name, over and over and over again...my cunt throbs as it clenches around your cock, squeezing, as I come so intensely I lose all control.

You cry out once, then pull out. You know I want your cum inside me - need it inside me - but you choose instead to soak me in it...my back...my torn and tattered stockings...my pussy lips and used holes...and after you empty your balls over me...drain yourself, pour yourself over me...you collapse, and little sighs and words escape you, as you tell me that I'm yours, that you need me, that you love me. I'm crying again, this time because it hurt, and still hurts, that this moment will not last for all time, so much do I love you and want this completion to be now and forever.

You finally raise yourself, and sticky with your seed...soaked in sweat and cum, we see the gathered crowd and prepare ourselves to find a way to explain this mess.

You smile, and I return it. Neither of us can even begin to care. We only have space for thoughts of each other, and the intimacy, the intensity, or what has just passed between us.

"Stars, hide your fires, Let not light see my black and deep desires."

2010-02-25T16:55:00.000Z

Look, if you want to torture me, spank me, lick me, do it. But if this poetry shit continues just shoot me now please. ~ Lori Petty in Tank Girl

I almost don't know where to start. I've had so many new experiences...been to so many new places in my head in the last couple of weeks, that it's just blown my mind. I need a bit of time to reflect and process what has happened to me, in the best way I know how - write it out, pour it out, let myself organise and frame this personal history in a way in which I can understand it.

Back in November, I contacted M on informedconsent.com (IC) - because his profile struck a chord with me. Something about it, I don't even know what, spoke to me, and resonated. I contacted a few people from IC around that time, in the wake of a relationship break-up - I think it's very common to start searching for something to replace what you've lost, long before you're ready.

I never chat online with people I don't know. I prefer to memo back and forth, and within a few memos-worth of conversation I usually know whether I want to take it forward or not. I tend to go with my gut instinct, and all but a couple of IC'ers got excluded on the grounds of just not being what I was looking for, bad writing skills, bad attitude, or hideousness in the photo department.

M though, stood out right from the beginning. But I wasn't ready. I felt strongly drawn to him, but my instincts were saying 'no' - and I think now, that they were GOOD instincts, because if I'd gone forward with it at that time, I would have blown the chance to connect with someone, so damaged still as I was from the ending of my previous relationship. I needed to give myself time to heal, and let go. So I told him 'no'. He took this rejection in the most gentlemanly fashion, asking me only that I would promise to get in touch, should I change my mind.

A few weeks later, I was still going through a really tough time. I blogged on IC as normal, struggling to make sense of my messy head. He got in touch again - not in a predatory 'brilliant, you're a bit fucked up, can I have a go on you?' sort of way, but in a 'listen, I know you're not into me in *that* way, but if you want someone to vent to, or offer advice, or just be here for you to offload on, then I'm offering'. I was so desperate at the time, that the chance to pour my heart out, even to some random stranger on IC, was a lifeline. He wasn't the only one I memo'd about what I was going through, but he was the only one who offered advice that actually made a significant difference to my problems. In fact, I think it's quite possible that his advice might have saved my marriage, which is quite bizarre under the circumstances!

It was I, not him, who asked if we could meet in person. He treated me much as you might a scared rescue dog - with patience, gentleness, and kind generosity. And I responded to it - god, did I need someone to just carry my burdens for a little while, so I could rest. I was so lost. I got so lost. But I was so, so afraid. I'd barely lived through my previous break-up, and was terrified of being hurt again. I kept running scared...but still, that patience, gentleness and kindness, even in the face of being pushed away, time and time again, remained one of the few consistent things in my life, at that point.

Then the day came when I stopped pushing him away. And fuck - how I wanted him. Desired him. Needed him - not just sexually, but the person that he is, what he gives to me, how he makes me feel, about him, about myself, about the world. The world is...softer...because he is in it.

When we started playing, it was in a very different way from how I was used to. I worried we wouldn't be compatible, couldn't, or wouldn't, meet each other's needs. I couldn't have been more wrong. I have never felt such a perfect sense of 'match' in a partner, sexually. Over time, it has become less and less, something that can be described as 'play'. One scene merges into another, and suddenly - it's not sexual role-play anymore. It's just the way we are, together. And I have never, NEVER, felt such a burning desire to couple with someone.

A week or so ago, he came to see me at my house. It was only for the evening, I was tired, he was tired, we expected only to cuddle and maybe just talk, kiss, be soft with each other. He knocked on my door - I opened it, and he was wearing a thick leather trenchcoat. I've got....a bit of a 'thing' for leather trenchcoats, so my eyes lit up on sight. And frankly, seeing M in one...my god, the man *IS* sex personified. He came in, and before we'd even gone up the stairs in the corridor, he made me come, noisily, messily (in the echo chamber that is our corridor, right above the downstairs flat's kitchen). Twice.

We ended up in a sweaty, tumbled heap on my bed, via the sofa, the floor, the walls... Instead of fighting him, defiant shouting, swearing, kicking, slapping or shoving, this time I just...submitted. He took what he wanted from me - and I gave it. With difficulty. Some of the things he was choosing to make me do were hard - physically, and emotionally. Humiliating. Shameful. But I was so frightened that he would punish me more if I refused, or denied him - frightened that I wouldn't be able to take the punishment, and also frightened that I would displease him.

I don't think it's accurate to say that I have never truly submitted before this time - and yet, something new did happen. Perhaps there are levels of submission, and this took me deeper - far deeper into that space - than I had ever been before. It made something inside me be....not broken anymore. As I lay in his arms afterwards, and he put my pieces back together, I became something a little more whole than I was before.

Just a few days later, we saw each other again. In our fierce need for each other, we kissed, falling on each other with starved haste, and as we started to become more intense my anger flaired - never suppressed for long. Defiantly I shoved him off me - he shoved back harder. I fought and struggled - he overwhelmed me. He pinned me down, then let me go, free to move as I wanted to, while he spanked me. He struck me - I slapped him in the face. He struck me again - I slapped him again. Then the anger inside him exploded to meet mine - he held me down and beat me over and over again, his sweat hitting my face in droplets, along with the spittle from each expelled word. Shocked, I lay unmoving as he tossed me aside onto the floor, and walked away.

When he returned and put a knife to my throat, ripping my head back by the roots of my hair, a hot, burning fear jolted through me. I felt sick with terror, ill with it. A deep and primal dread pulsed back and forth through my body as he ran the knife over my back, and when he told me to stay still and not move, I had no thought other than to obey...there were no thoughts in me, only reaction. He beat me so hard I almost couldn't take it - it was pushing my limits, and the pain made me cry out, scream, beg, and then sob, soaking the fabric under my face with tears, hot and full of release. He held the knife to my throat one last time, and just as I thought I couldn't take any more, he held me, and stroked me, and made me safe again. I sobbed piteously for a long time - a very long time. And when it was all over, all gone, I felt....clean. Scrubbed new and shining. Light, and more than light - golden.

Later, as he took more of what he wanted, I gushed for the first time in my life. I used to find it so hard to come - I even warned him before we first played together, that it was hard for me, and infrequent, and took a long time. Now, I lose count of how many orgasms he's given me, every single time we're together. I felt safe enough this time, ready enough, to ask him if I could make myself come while he watched. Not only was I given permission, I was reassured that it was okay to ask, that it was a good thing, and I realised I would not be laughed at, or ignored, or that he would just tolerate it but be bored as I'd feared.

We went out for the evening, and were walking back through a little used side street when he pushed me up against a lamppost, kissing me. As we became more passionate, little flashes of consciousness that we were in a public place, intruded. Every time I looked around, to see who was in the alleyway, or walking past it, he turned my face back to him. He was controlling what I could see, and my mind played tricks on me, not knowing whether the echo of heels on the pavement was a few yards away, or in the next street.

He pulled my knickers down - fucked me with his fingers - pulled my knickers down MORE so they were below the level of what little modesty was preserved by my coat - finger fucked me again - took my knickers off completely and put them in his pocket - brought me to orgasm - very loudly - and finally, supported my body until the shudders left me. I asked him if I could pull my skirt down - I was clasped in his arms in my heels, fishnet stockings, yanked up skirt and no knickers, in a public street, curtained only from view by my undone coat, and his body. He said 'let me look', in a soft, firm voice, and backed away a few paces. I'll never forget the sight of him, his coat framing his muscular body, his eyes drinking in my naked and moistened thighs. My face was turned to one side, I couldn't meet his eyes, my cheeks burning. Then he let me cover myself, and we walked - with him holding me as I struggled to walk, my legs shaky, my face flushed, my eyes shining in the dark.

We made it to the pub for a quick drink, and curled up together on the sofas on which we had sat when we first met. We talked, stroked, kissed...he got hard, I got wet. I wanted him - and I told him so. He threatened to take me outside to the smoking area, and fuck me bent over the grimy table in the beer garden, if I wasn't careful, and didn't stop taunting him - but I continued to tease. And then with careful deliberation he folded our coats and tucked them out of sight, and led me by my hand to follow him. There was no thought in my mind to refuse - I could have as easily stopped my heart beating, as told him no.

Against my expectations, he led me into the toilets instead - the urinals stank of stale male urine, the floor was dirty, the walls scrawled with meaningless graffitied swearwords over the red paint. He took me into a cubicle, where I knelt on the floor at his will. Afterwards, he told me to stay there while he checked outside, then led me back onto the sofas again, to reclaim our seats. Then he held me - and my body sank into his like a physical manifestation of my submission. My very flesh submits to his. He told me once, that it's almost as though all of my body is submissive - that as he pushes himself inside me, his tongue into my mouth, his fingers into my pussy, he sinks in so easily, just taking what he wants. That's how it feels to me, as well.

And that is what he did to me, with me - as we sat on the sofas together, in full view of the foreign student couple seated at the sofa in the other half of the 'L-shape' from us. As they talked, the unknown words of their conversation provided a dream-like quality to this already surreal evening. He sat upright, I lay sprawled in his lap, facing him, his arms around me. Slowly he slid a hand under my skirts, encountering my soaked and slippery cunt. No knickers impeded his fingers - they were still tucked out of sight in his pocket from when he took them away from me earlier. Slowly and deliberately, he brought me to a silent climax that was almost unbearable, so hard did I have to work not to cry out. I gushed over his hand again...

Despite the intensity, the transcendent, all-encompassing nature of the experiences I have with him, unlike other lovers I have had, I do not find him draining or emotionally exhausting. I do not spend many hours in tears because of him, or troubled in my mind. He is so....*easy* to be with, someone I would want in my life as a friend, even if I never touched him again. But oh, how I need to touch him. It is almost impossible for me to be in his presence, and not to be touching him, and more. I cry less, I worry less, I angst less...because he is in my life. The only other person I've ever met who caused that effect, rather than the opposite, I ended up marrying. I wake up every day and think how lucky I am, to have two such special people give me their love, in such completely different ways, but ultimately two people I can hold in my heart to adore.

Blood, Sweat, Tears... and Cum

2010-02-24T18:00:00.000Z

Before there is peace, blood will spill blood, and the lake will run red. ~ Erin Hunter

The body's own river, why is blood so bound up with emotion? The act of spilling my blood always increased the intensity of any play, tenfold. It has such power, is imbued with so much symbolism. The moment of being born, the imagined moment of our death, the very core of how we know we're alive - all these things are carried in our veins.

For women, blood spilt does not always mean an injury, or pain. We are comfortable with blood, in a way men are not, and can never be - just as we are comfortable with penetration.

But for blood to be taken in violence - that is taking away our power over our own bodies, something that should belong to us, and only us.

Don't feel entitled to anything you didn't sweat and struggle for. ~ Marian Wright Edelman

It's only in the last few months, I've become aware of what a visceral person I am. I've always known I'm a sensual, earthy person - I love to touch and be touched, to run my hands along the garden walls as I walk down the street, to feel the texture of leaves, bring my fingers close and breathe in the scent of rosemary, lavender, or rose. I want and need beautiful things around me, and I adore running my eyes over the curves of my female friends, drinking in their shape, their plump dimpled elbows, or slender pointed hip bones, with equal pleasure. The sound of my partner's orgasm can bring me to climax - voice and tone are essential to good sex, for me. I love to have texture and taste in my mouth, I want to experience my lover's body, I need to drink it in, drink it down.

I sometimes find myself 'scenting' people close to me, or those I'm drawn to. Something will trigger a need, and I will just rub my head, urgently, against them. I love it when people sweat - people who I want in my life. I want to cover myself in it, rub myself in it, sleep covered in it. I want to combine my scent with theirs, to make a group scent - pack.

What higher compliment can there be that someone thinks you are worth their toil, their sweat?

If I were to die and I could come back as anything, I would want to come back as one of your tears. What girl wouldn't want to be conceived in your heart, born in your eyes, live on your cheek, and die on your lips. ~ anon

Can there be any pleasure/pain more profound than being hurt by the one you love until you cry? Why are my tears so arousing to the one who's causing them? The vulnerability, the humiliation - shedding tears is normally something done in secret, a private thing, shared only with those most intimate with us. It is an action willingly chosen - crying..sobbing...these things are normally caused by events or people outside ourselves. We are not in control, when we cry.

I confess to sometimes putting on extra mascara and eyeliner in the knowledge that my eyes will start to run, as I choke on cock, or even better, my sobs and tears from pain will prettily blacken my face. I take an erotic pleasure from crying that is rooted in the sense of being exposed...opened...and not by choice.

When my friends and loved ones let me see them cry, I am honoured. They share with me a part of themselves that few others get to see, and I treasure it, and treat it with the respect it deserves.

The measure of your life will not be in what you accumulate, but in what you give away ~ Wayne Dyer

I am a cum whore. Unashamedly. I adore cum. Fresh, scalding hot spunk surging out of a man's balls, as he empties himself onto, or into me - if I haven't already orgasmed myself, there's a very good chance that will trigger it, just by sight and feel alone.

The taste of it - my god, why would anyone waste that? Spit or swallow - are you mad?! Who wouldn't want to drink down their lover's seed, carry it around inside them, deep in their belly, for as long as possible. Especially if you have to be apart afterwards...it's a way to keep a piece of your loved one with you, for a little longer.

I've never understood women who say they can't deep throat either. What does that mean? How can you not? Do they mean that they gag? Isn't that part of the fun?

I like to sleep clothed in a loved one's cum, wrapped in their sweat and their arms - the safest place I can be. It's beautiful - it's a beautiful thing.

"Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance"

2010-02-14T17:59:00.000Z

How I long to fall just a little bit, to dance out of the lines and stray from the light. ~Dar Williams

I thought I would spend the whole night dancing, but instead, he danced with me the weekend through.

He got here late, due to a combination of circumstance and misfortune. I was already stuck into the gin and ensconced at a kitchen party, when he arrived at my friend's house. The room was tiny, really I should have just sat and behaved...but I'm a bad, bad girl, and bad girls misbehave and smile while they're doing it...

I couldn't resist touching him, stroking him, I wanted his scent on me, I needed to reconnect after a week apart. I wanted to make him happy and mentally grimaced as I found myself not only opening bottles of beer for him and handing them to him - but drawing other people's attention to it. 'Look, look, see this powerful, muscular and charimatic man? I'm his!' My submissiveness made me angry at him, so I used every opportunity to let him know...digging my nails into his skin...glaring. I probably deserved what came later.

In the dingy little metal club, uninspired by the music (with so much potentially fantastic music to draw from, how is it possible to so epically fail at DJ'ing?!) I stayed off the dance floor. As I kissed a couple of friends of mine, leaning into their mouths, enjoying the whisper of their tongues on mine, I felt like a whore. And I smiled.

He reclaimed me with a hand inside my knickers, not even up against a wall or in a dark corner, just taking what was his. My eyes, shocked and slightly confused, taking in nothing but his face, became unfocused as my attention locked in to what he was doing to me. He took my first orgasm from me while I was standing, my body pressed against his for support, my cries unheard amid the pounding beat, my flushed face unseen by the press of the crowd as I buried my head in his shoulder.

Later, much later, he put his hand around my throat and made me pay for earlier. My back to the wall, he put his fingers inside my mouth and stretched it out, then pushed his hand further in until I started to gag. He let me breathe a little then continued...so erotic, so terrifying...I must have looked frightened enough that someone I didn't even know came up and checked we were okay, that I was okay. We smiled and he went on his way, happy at having done his duty.

The next day, exhausted, and (in my case) hideously hungover, we contented ourselves with just talking softly, and taking what we needed from each other - naked, skin-to-skin, gentle whispering strokes on my body, on his. Toast, tea, bath...everyday things, but special, so special because they were with him. Okay, so we might have played a tiny bit, too. ;-) The time disappeared again, as it always does.

We walked into town, had a drink and some dinner. I love to watch his face as he talks. I like having all his attention to myself, but I also enjoy watching him with other people...so charismatic, spell-bindingly so. People watch him, caught almost despite themselves in whatever story or anecdote he tells. He uses his hands to speak, more so than anyone else I know - and his hands, his arms, are so beautiful, so very....male.

Hand in hand, we walked back through town. If anyone saw us who shouldn't have done - who doesn't know I'm poly and wonders what I'm doing with a man who is not my husband - I find it hard to care. I forget myself, when I'm with him. I'm not as clumsy as I normally am, he makes me feel like I'm dancing, dancing all the time when I'm with him - a hip-swaying, heel strut of a dance, sinuous and dizzying.

We spent that night in a hotel together, playing. I don't know how many times I came that weekend, because I lost count. Each a little death, a little rebirth...I died a thousand times of love, that night for him. A strange kind of love, whose only flower petals are the bruises blooming on my skin, the poetry of which is whispered, 'whore.. you are MINE'.

I find myself hoping I've pleased him.

Covered in the smell of him, dazed with the lifetime of treasured moments collapsed into this tiny space of time, marked by the ruin he's made of my skin...I come together enough to assemble my public persona. Corsetted, heeled, and slightly unsteady, he carries my bag as we make our way to the car. Little things like this make me happy. Almost as much as having the shit beaten out of me. ;-)

We arrive at the London Alternative Market, and for a moment, I'm unsure. It's been a while since I've been to LAM, and I don't quite know what reception I'll get from friends of my ex. I needn't have worried - people are as friendly and welcoming as ever. I see lots of people I know, and enjoy catching up on the scurrilous gossip. I also meet someone I've only ever corresponded with on IC, and never met in the flesh, and am pleased to find he looks about twenty years younger in person, and tolerates my mild flirtation with good humour. God, I'm such a whore!

I can't take my eyes off the man I've come (and cum) with, though...of all the people there, I need his hands on me, his lips, so delicious to kiss, lick, and...bite. I probably deserved what happened later. Are you spotting a theme here? ;-)

We ambled around the market, picking up some interesting things to have fun with, and then taking some time out for food. The things he says to me, when we're alone, and with other people. I don't think anyone's ever paid me so many compliments...

When trouble came, in the form of a large group of loud, burly, vulgar men (let in through the door on strict instruction that they would have to leave when the downstairs closed in an hour), he sent me round the other side of the bar, and positioned himself where he could quietly calm matters if possible, and keep an eye on things. Unbeknownst to him, I was on the other side of the bar, keeping an eye on him! Although, as he pointed out when I told him this afterwards, I'm not sure what I would have done, had a massive fight kicked off...fallen over in my heels on them, possibly? Got my knockers out and distracted them? Fainted in my corset and landed on them?

All was well in the end and everyone ended up safely upstairs, the ignorant blokey blokes dispatched in a taxi with directions to the other side of london, courtesy of my young man *preens*.

And so then to the play which occupies a particularly special place in my mind, I think quite the most fulfilling and transcendent public play I've had to date. I wasn't sure we would play at all...the LAM afterparty can be quite a surprisingly unsexy and unatmospheric place, brightly lit and set up more like a school dinner hall rather than a sex club. Compounded by the fact you can't actually have any kind of penetrative sex in it, something I got a very gentle reminder/ warning about from Cosmic while I was sat on my dom's lap, legs open, flashing the room. Why I got told off, I really don't know - I'm not the one in charge!

We were sitting right at the back of the hall, where it was a little darker and more intimate. No-one else was up there, at that time, and so I don't know who saw, when he decided to make me pay for all the little scratches and bites I'd given him throughout the day. He dragged me off the chair by my throat, and threw me up against the wall, banging me into it again and again and again. I honestly thought we might crash through it at one point, as he lifted me onto my toes, choking me, pulling my hands above my head, or to the side, kissing me so deeply, and then slapping me as I pushed and struggled to get away from him.

He let go of my arms a few times and I used this opportunity to get a few blows in, with one very powerful slap to his face. I was furious...feral...channelling all the anger, all the frustration from a very difficult week. His face was transformed, like an animal, bestial, brutish. His colour darkened...when veins started to stand out on his face I knew I was in trouble. And still I hissed insults at him, uncaring that he would shout back at me, inches away from my face, his spit hitting my cheeks with the force of his words, vicious, degrading words, abusive words...words that got me even more soaking wet than I already was from his use of me.

He dragged me to my feet by my hair, and thrust through the crowd, his fingers digging deep into my arms, causing instant bruising. By my hair he pulled me, and then threw me over the piece of kit - a flat-bottomed barrel with restraint straps. He hauled up my skirts and started beating me in earnest. I fought free of him for long enough to slap him again, and he heaved me back over the barrel and held me down as I flailed wildly against him. He hit me so hard I gasped for breath, blows raining down, pouring over, onto me. And still I screamed. I swear there was a moment when I called him a fucking cunt at the top of my lungs, when the whole room took a breath. He tied me into the restraints and took out the thick crop-like whip he'd bought that day, that I had no idea he'd kept on his body. His rage showered down on me, and still I fought, spitting into his face, the moment he ceased to hold me down. He wrapped the body of the whip around my throat and spat into my face, I was terrified...I couldn't speak with my mouth, I let my eyes speak for me, instead. Then he smashed me back into the barrel, putting his full weight into holding me there, and he beat me, and beat me, and beat me, breaking me down, until finally, at last, at last, I could give in, give up, to him. Exhausted, I lay my head against the barrel and made little utterances of submission, murmuring that I was sorry, that I loved him, please...please...anything, take anything from me that you want.

And he did. He slowed, but continued to spank and beat me, and do whatever he fucking chose to, to me. Because he was in charge. I'd at long last, surrendered. He took some more from me...I wanted to give him everything - I wanted him to fuck me, over the barrel, with everyone watching, so that they could see I was his, his woman, his choice. All my rage, my thunderous fury, gone. When he'd finally finished, and he stopped because he wanted to, not because I wanted or needed him to, he lifted my dead weight up, and carried me over to the side of the room. He held me up against the wall, as I stroked his head, my eyes luminous in the dark, soft and loving, as he took me, kissing me, mauling the flesh he had just won, caressing my face.

He sat me on his lap, and we held each other, as if the world was ending, the cosmos turning to dust in the void, and us uncaring. The perfection of a newborn self glimpsed for a moment, shattered pieces of my soul collected one by one, an infinite jigsaw puzzle made whole, pressed back together again by the magic and the mystery, accomplished by the consummation of love through play.

Is it any wonder that I cry sometimes, from the sheer joy of it, afterwards?

And then he took me home, driving me all the way back to Brighton, before his own long journey home.

This is how it should be. Always, is too much to ask for. Sometimes, is enough, when it's as good as this.

Je vous remercie de tout coeur, mon loup.

"Always be a poet, even in prose"

2010-01-28T17:58:00.000Z

Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted. ~Percy Shelley, A Defence of Poetry, 1821

Receiving pain can be casual for me, but submission could never be. Whilst I can enjoy pain for its own sake, and I can enjoy sex for its own sake, the best kind of sex involves pain, just like the best kind of pain involves sex. BDSM is poetry of the body – and with the right partner(s), it becomes poetry of the heart, mind and spirit, too.

How can something so distorted be so beautiful? I like to be used – used badly. I crave degradation, and abuse. I need to be hurt, broken, debased – shattered into a thousand pieces, ruined. And then remade. I want to love and be loved. I want to adore. I want to submit. I want to fight back until I scratch weals in your skin. I want to scream your name in rage and panic. I want to sob until make-up runs down my face, my eyes huge and terrified. I want to be safe. I want to be frightened. I want to be torn apart, then reborn. I want to be empowered; I want to become the person I love being - who can say yes as well as no.

And...when I play with you, it is so beautiful to me. It leaves me feeling content and happy and safe, wanted, cared for, shining. Little pieces of my soul made whole again. No matter how you abuse me, no matter how depraved or violent, dark and nasty our play is, no matter how badly you use me, I will be uplifted by it.

When we take pleasure in each other's bodies, out of love - Agápe, Éros, or philia - whether it lasts for a night, or a lifetime, however marvellously twisted and unique and debauched it may be – it cannot be ugly. This is a joyful thing, precious and to be cherished, no matter how abundant and plentiful it becomes in our lives.

I am so very lucky to have so much joy in my life.

But he that dares not grasp the thorn...

2010-01-24T17:57:00.001Z

..Should never crave the rose.

And he who dares, wins. Mixing my quotations somewhat, but the sentiment is accurate.

I've been a bit quiet recently because I've been taking some time to re-centre myself, and also because everyday life has suddenly got insanely hectic and my time is getting eaten up at an alarming rate.

I'm being careful and cautious. I'm not as innocent and naive as I was, just a few short months ago - although it feels like much longer ago than that. I can't believe that less than a year ago, I didn't even know BDSM existed, really, and certainly didn't have any fet friends or go to any events, and had never played, never explored the side of me which I hadn't even acknowledged existed, and yet was such a huge part, in waiting.

I'm trying to protect my heart, and my body, and I think I'm doing quite well. I'm keeping quiet about what's new with me, at the moment, just in case I go running round screaming about how great it is, and then it all goes tits up. Again.

But I am having a lot of fun - god yes, am I having fun! I'm trying some things that are very different, and I feel very sure that what I'm doing at the moment is right for me. Very intense, very mind-blowing, but very right.

Je rêve de toi. Mon rêve était beau. Que mes baisers soient les mots d'amour que je ne te dis pas.

Born Bad [erotic fiction]

2010-01-12T17:57:00.000Z

I watch you out of the corner of my eye. You are, as always, beautiful to me. You are more like a dream of a wolf, than a wolf itself. Thick-furred, your haunches are dark with muscle, and the snow settles gently on your brow like jewels. Gently, gently I begin easing myself into the space between us, closer to you - but a subtle flick of your ear tells me to stay where I am. There will be mention of my behaviour later - but for now you want me to wait until you choose to punish me.

I forlornly place my head back on my paws and breathe out, slowly, thinking of my latest transgression. The cold has made prey scarce, and discipline even more important to the pack. There is no energy to waste on running outside of the hunt, and I longed for the heady dash through our territory, whole body suspended in the air between bounds, weightless and free. I wonder whether the excitement of running again, after waiting so long, got too much for me; I shake my head and close my yellow eyes. As you always says, it's a Reason, not an Excuse. I never, ever should have bitten you, no matter how caught up I was in the joy of the chase: as an alpha it is your right to eat first. I was only playing, it was only meant to be a little nip, but the moment I tasted fresh blood in my mouth, I knew there would be consequences.

The snow on my fur melts slowly and drips down my cheekbones onto my paws, little drops of water falling like tears into the dark space between. My whole body feels heavy and sick. As the sun goes down, the others in the pack quietly move away, to sleep close together in warm piles, content to be near each other, cuddled close. Re-breathing each other's warm breath, they remake the group scent, the scent of our pack, thick and filled with musky hints of green, waterfall bitter, but at the same time warm like rich dark soil. Only you and I remain behind, and my stomach roils with anxiety. The weight of your disappointment, sadness, and my hopelessness, press down on me once more. My breathing becomes panting, as I wonder how long you will chose to punish me like this, with your silence, and the thick, heavy scorn of my pack-mates.

I am focused so intently on you that I move almost before you do, alert to the tiny muscles of your body which signal your impending change in posture. As you stand and pad quietly through the trees, I know you mean me to follow you. I trot eagerly on your heels, pleased that the time between now and your forgiveness grows shorter. You stop when we have moved some distance from the remainder of the pack, and turn towards me. You sit, and I stand still at first, unsure as to what you want from me. I crouch awkwardly for a few moments and then sit down on my haunches, in front of you. The low harmonic of your howl starts to sound slowly, slowly, building until my ears fill with it, my head thrums with it, and I add my own whine of protest to the sound for a moment before biting it off with my teeth on catching your eye.

I remain sitting, while you circle me. The fur starts to stand up all over my body, the sense of threat is imminent. I resist the urge to turn and face you, trying to stay in properly submissive posture. But when you lunge, growling, suddenly nightmare huge and all ivory teeth and claws, my resolve flies away and I turn, wheeling away on back feet and lurching off in a run. You're on me in a moment, you're so much faster and stronger than I am, and I feel you before I see you, black jaws clamping down on the back of my neck, sinking through fur into skin. You shake me in your jaws like prey, throwing me into the air and slamming me into a tree, so that I slump to the ground. Your body is on me again in seconds, and you've got me in a neck-hold. I buck frantically underneath you, but I can't shake your hold. You put your front legs over my shoulders and use your own body weight to force me back into position, into the exact place that you want me to be in.

You mount me, suddenly, unexpectedly, and take a new grip on the back of my neck with your jaws. You enter me without preamble, roughly having me, exercising your right to take what you want, when you want, to assert your dominance over me in whichever way you choose. And what you want right now, is to be inside me. You feel so hard, and your thrusts are passionate but not uncontrolled, rhythmic, pounding into me, pushing me into the wet earth, shoving yourself so hard into me that I feel your heavy balls slap against my skin with each thrust. You're very big, and I struggle to take it all, but I want to, for you - anything for you, you can take anything, do anything to me. I want you to. I need you to. Desperate to be yours again, I need this, I need you to do to me whatever it is that you want, whatever it is that it takes, and as you bite down harder on my neck I feel your big thick knot pushing at me, forcing its way in, shoving itself inside me, my moist cunt stretching and widening to accommodate all of you. Once the knot has pushed all the way deeply in, and you slam into my ruined pussy again, hammering all of yourself deep inside, I feel you start to give me your seed. I feel you spurt with each thrust, it seems like forever, but it is still not long enough - each time you ram into me, your tight knot inside my cunt loosens, and the knot in my heart loosens still further. Each time you drive your cock in me I drink down more of your cloudy fluid that flows into me, drink it deep down with my body.

As you pull out of me I collapse on the ground, exhausted and sore, and my ruined body dribbles semen and blood into the snow, melting patterns like an early thaw. You straddle me one last time as I lie on my side, mounting my head, and I clean you with my tongue, big licks tasting us both together on your softening shaft.

And as fast as you had pierced me, you leave me, tongue hanging from your open mouth leaving clouds of breath in the air; you just leave me, running back to the centre of the pack, while I lie there, content to wait a while until I return, covered in your scent, content to know that I am yours again and beloved.

Ravens, ravens everywhere, and me without wings..

2010-01-05T17:56:00.000Z

There are ravens everywhere in town today, but I don't feel like flying anywhere.

I've worked so hard, and for so long, to drag myself out of the doldrums. Made so much effort, which really seemed to be paying off. Recently I've been all shiny and new, and felt like I was on much firmer ground. And then just one tiny thing, one tiny pathetic insignificant thing, and I've fallen so far down again I'm shocked at the speed and intensity of my emotions. Which tells me that the ground wasn't as firm as I thought it was in the first place.

One by one I find myself cutting off my sources of support. Can't talk to R, I can say I'm feeling down, but not why, if it's got anything to do with kinky. It only confuses and upsets him, and he's asked me not to share stuff with him to do with BDSM. Can't talk to family or non-kinky friends anymore, as I feel they disapprove. Really don't feel like talking to anyone or seeing anyone in person. Feel like I've leant far too heavily on my kinky mates anyway, during my last rather severe episode of crapism. Which leaves wittering away to unknown correspondents on IC and posting maudlin weblogs. How the mighty have fallen!

Just the slightest bit of emotional engagement with someone, and I fall to pieces. I wish, desperately, that I could be emotionally detached and not care so very damn much. I wish I could lock the door again on my needs. I was fine how I was. I liked me, and I liked my life. And now there's just this huge hole, this well of loneliness, this huge aching NEED for fulfilling sex, the satisfaction of emotional intimacy and sheer physical pleasure of BDSM, and it seems to be drawing people to me, but I'm afraid that it's my vulnerability which attracts people, and not my strength, and that's never good. That, and the fact that I'm presenting myself as a total slapper at the moment, and everybody thinks I'm easy, when the truth couldn't be further away, I've snogged half of brighton it would seem, and played with a couple of people, sure, but that's as far as I've taken it, I didn't even shag my ex, the one I was madly in love with, who broke my heart, because I wasn't ready. I'm tired. I'm lonely. I feel so lost.

I need a bloody slap in the face and to stop being so pathetic. I hate this side of me. I think I need to back off from physical contact with people for a bit. I'm so so desperate just to touch and be held, how do I do that and get close to people without taking it any further? Every time I go to the pub recently, I end up snogging someone. I reckon that's got to stop. Even if it means giving up the chance to touch, and be touched. Even if it makes the loneliness even worse. Everything I touch at the moment becomes problematic.

Obligatory New Year's Day Ramblings...

2010-01-01T17:56:00.001Z

Yes, well it's practically some sort of BYLAW isn't it? A single post summing up my experiences/ learning curve/ highs and lows and feelings and thoughts and and and...

Okay, so that's probably not going to happen. But someone rather nice suggested a period of quiet contemplation might be a good idea for me at the moment, so in the spirit of that, here is my summary of 2009.

1) A Transformational Year

I changed inside myself. External stimulus effected change in me. I effected change in my environment and relationships.

I began the year, not anticipating the metamorphosis to come. With hindsight, it's all so clear. I have *always* been sexually submissive, and I have always had a very high libido. I buried these desires so deep within me because, what is the point in wanting things you can't have? Married, been together for 14 years, and very very happy except for sexual compatibility. I abhor lies and deception and cheating, I would never ever do that, and cannot imagine being without my husband. So what do you do with these feelings except push them behind a door? I closed it and hid it and forgot the door was even there. I denied the existence of the door to myself and others. But this year was the one in which desire blossomed into need.

Step by tiny baby step, my husband and I negotiated and discussed (and occasionally argued) our way to poly (see below). I probably *should* have taken the same approach to BDSM, but I rather threw myself into it (a friend described my experiences as sounding like someone threw a cat into a minefield...) From where I stand now, I can't say I'm sorry. I had some fucking awful downs as well as some liberating and transcendent highs, but I'm still here, I didn't get broken, or if I did, then I remade myself even better than I was before.

2) Who Have I Become?

I've tried a lot of things in the last year. I liked most of them, LOVED a lot of them, and was bored and/or annoyed by a few of them. I had my infatuation with the scene, then fell out of love with it, and am now embracing it again for what it *really* is, rather than a newcomer's rose-tinted view. [caveat: I'm allowed to change my mind again at any moment, and also I reserve the right to say this time next year, how naive I was and how much I've learned since posting this very weblog]

Prior to this year, I'd spent a couple of years quietly just pootling around at home. My social circle was really small, and generally consisted of chums to hang out with at home over dinner or a nice cup of tea. This year I've got that spark back again, that enjoyment of other people, and I've hugely widened my group of friends. Looking through some photos of a holiday at the start of the year, I'm struck by how....static... I look, just tired and frozen and worn and OLD, like someone who's come to the end of their go on life. I don't look like that now. And I don't feel like that now. I've come back to life again. I've never felt so crazily in love with life as I do at the moment. I feel impassioned by people, by music, by how pretty the world looks. I want to dance, I want to kiss in the snow on the beach, I want to paint and write and tell stories and touch people.

People are beautiful. The world is beautiful. And for the first time, I mean REALLY the first time, in ever so ever so long, maybe just the first time that ever was, I feel a little bit beautiful and desirable and fuckable too. Can't be bad, really.

3) What's Good for the Goose is Good for the Gander

Husband (R) would never have sought out 'doing poly' without the impetus of 'well, you're having a go on other people, maybe I ought to try it too'. He's yet to move from being poly in his head to poly in practice, but I'm encouraging and hoping for him.

It's taken time to get to where we needed to be, in terms of him being comfortable with me playing with, having sex with, others. At the moment it all seems to be good, he's happy, I'm happy, we need to work on his self-esteem and my sense of guilt so that every time he feels down, I don't feel that it's because I'm emasculating him. I've also been working on my discretion. Poor boy really doesn't need or want a blow by blow account, but I keep wanting to tell him more than I should do, because that's just my nature. I'm working on it.

What poly means to both of us is the same, but with different emphasis in practice. He wants emotional intimacy, with a tiny bit of sex and no BDSM whatsoever. I want LOADS of sex, and BDSM, with masses of emotional intimacy too. We both see it as about opening up your heart as well as your body, to others. I don't (can't, am unable to) put restrictions on the way I feel about other people because R is my 'primary partner'. It just doesn't work that way for me. I just feel the way I feel about people, and it's completely and utterly separate from the way I feel about R. They have no relation to each other.

4) Are You Okay?

Yes, I'm okay. I'm still kind of in recovery phase after a relationship break-up which left me reeling. But I think I'm sort of 95% over it. And increasingly able to identify it as a learning experience, rather than one in which I fucked up horribly. Areas of self-improvement however, are:

A) I am not (and should not behave as if I am) desperate. There will always be arseholes out there looking for a bit of a go on me. My task is to learn to identify said arseholes and avoid them, and not go 'what? You like me, you say? Oh, how wonderful! I'm so grateful! Do you want to get me drunk and/or take me home and abuse my trust a lot? K thx bai'. I've been very lucky so far, but some of my more alcohol-fuelled adventures have been edging into self-destructive territory, so that's something to keep an eye on and improve.

B) Self-esteem. Yeah yeah yeah, I know. But if you don't feel it inside, you just don't. I am getting increasingly on board with the 'fake it till you make it' philosophy, though.

C) I am a masochist as well as a submissive. And it's okay to enjoy a safe, sane and SOBER play with someone who doesn't push all my buttons but can deliver the pain I need, without then having urgent frantic sex with them followed by making their dinner and cleaning their flat. Emotionally and sexually detached play is a bit like junk food. It'll do until something better comes along, if you're really hungry. But this doesn't mean I have to lower my standards to MacDonalds or something. There ARE limits, after all....!

D) I'm really getting quite good at this writing porn, palaver. It's fun, gets me loads of compliments, and is a legitimate dumping ground for my sexual and play frustration. What's not to like?! I'm going to carry on, and quite possibly get even MORE vulgar and debauched.

E) I quite fancy getting something pierced. A nipple barbell, or a lip ring. What do you think?

F) I also quite fancy learning to dance something new. I already take bellydancing classes which, as it turns out, I'm quite good at. It's the hips, y'see? I'm very drawn to the passionate latin dances, salsa, tango etc. But I think I'd have to learn from a dom. No normal man is going to be able to lead me.

Spellbound [erotic fiction]

2009-12-30T17:55:00.000Z

I watch the others watching you. You capture their attention, your voice rises and falls, binding them, holding them still for you to play with. Your hands dance the same spell in the air. You have the most beautiful hands - they are not overly large, meaty, over-sized, like those of some men I've known. Neither are they manicured, perfect, delicate, smooth. They are like you - capable, hinting at a strength and roughness inside, the hands of an engineer, or a paramedic, perhaps. Someone you could turn to in an emergency, for help - practical, or a matter of the heart.

I am suddenly seized with a fierce longing for your cock inside me. I'm flushed, the gin has gone to my head, perhaps. I tense the muscles in my thighs, try to relax them, feeling a longing, a yearning for you. I imagine you turning, halfway through a sentence maybe, and just reaching out for me, climbing across the laps of your adoring audience to get to me, then taking me by the throat and...I cut my imagination off with a sharp shake of my head. I stand and go outside, to join the others who are smoking. I don't smoke, but I need the break from your presence. Just being near to you makes me wet. The cold cuts into my throat, I breathe in deeply, savouring the air free of your scent.

I walk back inside the pub, and stop for a moment, waiting. I don't want to interrupt you now, much as I want you. I wait. I watch the patterns you make, the story you are telling and your voice weaving back and forth, hypnotic. Your fist slams into the red leather of the sofa as you make a point, and there is an audible intake of breath from my female friends. I smile to myself, knowing the effect you are having on them. I feel the pulse between my legs jump, syncopated to your voice. Your energy fills the whole room, so intensely fascinating, so electric I can see the light in you drawing people closer. I take a step forward, compelled, despite myself, despite knowing better. I wonder if all the people who surround you, listening with their faces turned upwards to your shine, can also see the darkness in you that I know is there.

I should go now, while I can. I know you want to hurt me. I know I can't let you. We both know it would end badly.

I decide not to say goodbye, so I leave you, stepping quietly out of the back door, leaving you shiny and illuminated. I bring out the darkness in you. I'm not good for you, and you would drown in me. The air is so icy my breathing makes shapes in it, and like making images from the clouds on a summer's day, I amuse myself by watching my own body's warmth become cold and fall to pieces in the dark. I walk to the train station - my house is only five minutes through the woods at the other end, not far, and I know the path so well even the foxes don't run from me anymore when they hear me coming. I'm climbing the stairs to the station when I see your car pulling up beside me. You roll the window down. "Get in".

"No, you know I won't. Go away".

"Come on, for fuck's sake, I'm not going to fucking RAPE you, you know. Just let me give you a lift. You can't walk home on your own, it's not safe, I won't let you. Don't be such a stubborn twat".

"Just fuck off, I'm not going to get in your car, just go".

We have this exchange every time. I don't know why you keep bothering with me. You know I'm not going to give in, give up, to you.

I hear your frustrated grunt, and your car pulls away with a great deal of noise and roaring. I smile and shake my head. You idiot. I dash up the stairs as my train gets in - you nearly made me miss it, arsehole.

I get a text while I'm on the train. 'One day I am going to drag you into my fucking car, beat the fucking shit out of you and just stick my fucking cock in your pretty mouth to get you to shut the fuck up. I may well destroy you, you cockteasing little whore'. Despite myself I'm wet again, reading it. God, I hate you. I text you back. One line - 'uhuh *rolls eyes*'.

I hop out at the next station and saunter through the woods. I feel safe here. This is MY place, my territory. I've walked these woods so often, in daylight and after dark, I know the path under my feet without needing to look. Every branch, every bump underfoot, every turning, every sound, is familiar to me and loved. I've lived near here all my life and nothing will stop me walking home the way I want to, when I want to. Not you, not ever.

I'm halfway along the path when something isn't right. Some sound...or absence of sound...feels wrong. I pause, looking around, listening. I step forward again, reach down and pick up a branch. I smell the moss which is crushed under my hand as I grasp the wood. The path divides in front of me, an old pine marks the centrepoint of the Y shape. Some shadowed shape unfolds in front of it, rises up, I hear the sound again, a rumbling, growling wordless noise, the hairs on my body rise, adrenaline floods through me, my breathing changes - then the shape moves, and I see who it is.

"You absolute fucking CUNT. You scared the SHIT out of me. What the fuck do you think you're doing?! You ARSEHOLE!" I scream at you, starting to move forward ready to slap you a good one. Then I see your eyes clearly for the first time. You are...not yourself. I've only ever seen you like this once before, the time you hurt me so badly I walked away from you. The fact that I wanted you to, ASKED you to, frightened me more than what you did to me. I opened the door to something inside you - something predatory and barely even human. I thought that door had shut again until...this. Your pupils are dilated, it's not just the darkness, it's the lack of light in you. You've changed into someone or something that frightens me. And I hate it. I hate you like this. My whole body shudders and my knickers are wet through. I hate you for this.

Even your walk has changed. It's fluid, graceful, as if the dancer in your voice is in control of your whole body now. You come towards me and your hand is on my throat, choking me. I struggle to breathe. You've turned me and walked me backwards, so that I'm pushed up against the pine tree. I smell the needles, and the rainfall from last night. My legs angle forwards, you come so close to me you're almost straddling me. I feel how hard you are for me, and you shove your groin into my flesh, emphasising each word with a thrust. "I. Want to be. Inside. You". You use your other hand to pull my head back, yanking my hair so hard I think you'll pull it out by the roots. "You're such a hot little bitch. I'm going to smash you into fucking pieces and use you like the whore you are. I'm going to just stick my fucking dick in you, and use your soaking wet cunt until your tears make me cum in you".

I start to struggle, gasping for breath. You put your thumb to my windpipe, and push. I start to panic, and fight even more, choking, trying to cough, struggling against you, against myself. You step back suddenly and I fall to the ground. My hands dig into the muddy roots of the tree, searching for something to hold on to. My skirt is dirty, smeared with earth. I put my hands to my throat, soothing the skin, touch my face. You pull me sharply up by the wrist, and I stagger, landing on my knees. You're pulling at my skirt, tearing, and I'm fighting you, but I can feel tears are close now. You're so angry, I don't think I've ever seen you this angry. I slap at your hands, and you belt me, hard, across the face. I fall against the tree and hit my head. My skin breaks, and I feel something trickle down over my eyes. I'm crying now, I can't pretend I'm not scared anymore, the fear is too much for me to be angry at you, I just want you to stop hurting me. My face is covered with dirt, smeared make-up, tears and blood from the lasceration on my scalp.

You pull the shirt off from over your head, and despite myself, I'm struck by the beauty of your skin, so white and perfect in the halflight. I could run now, but I'm just lying there, sprawled and frozen, clothes half torn and sobbing, waiting for you to come for me. You rip the remains of my skirt from me, and take my top in both hands, pulling it into pieces. You reach round then, and gently unhook my bra. You throw me against the ground like a rag doll, and you dig your fingernails into me, ruining my pale flesh, marking me as yours, scratching, tearing, biting. You use your mouth on me, you bite into me so hard I think I'll faint from the pain, your hands are all over me, stroking me, then disfiguring me. You rip my panties off and stuff them in my mouth, and I don't fight you, I'm too afraid. I just look at you with tears pouring down my face, and only whimper and struggle a little, pointlessly, as you take off your belt and use it to tie my hands behind my back. You straddle my legs and open your flies, pulling your cock out, then slapping me across the face with it. You use my hair to smash my face into your dick, as you grind yourself against my gagged mouth.

"I'm going to spread your tears all over your face with my cock, you little fucktoy. I am going to fucking RUIN you, you little cunt, you are MINE". Your voice makes me cry harder, makes me want you even more, and hate you even more. You push me towards the earth, shove my face into the ground, and hold me down. You start to hit me, first with your hand, and then with the riding crop that I recognise the feel of so well, even though it's been so long since I've felt it. I spit out the panties from my mouth and start to scream, shouting and frantically struggling, some of my rage returning. "Don't you fucking dare fight back, don't you dare, you bitch". You yank my head back by the hair and then smash my face into the ground, and spit into my mouth. My lip has split open from the impact and I taste more blood still, as well as your saliva. You hit me over and over again with an anger and intensity I've never imagined, even with all the rage you hide so well. By the wrists and hair once more again you throw me, and the weals on my back and thighs scratch and press against the wood on the ground.

"Spread your fucking legs, you little cunt whore. Open your legs, NOW". I gaze at you, broken and wordless and so, so afraid again. I can't move, so you hit me in the face and dig your fingers into my thighs as you shove them apart. You stick your fingers inside me, I'm shamefully, humiliatingly wet, but it hurts still, you're so very rough, and I'm scared of what you're going to do to me. You ram your whole fist inside me and I cry out, sobbing. You stop my sobs with your cock as you push yourself inside my lips, and start to fuck my mouth. You hold me so close to your body that I gag, my eyes stream even more, and my body flops, out of my control as you use my mouth and throat to fuck your cock. You pull out, and start slapping my pussy with your crop. I moan, and cry out. I'm so close to coming, that when you push yourself inside me, I sob with need instead of fear or pain.

"Oh god, please", I whimper, "please, please, let me cum, I need to cum".

"Not yet, whore", you whisper in my ear as you take me. "This is for me, not for you. But you look so pretty with Daddy's cock in your pussy".

Your thrusts become more and more frantic, and I can't hold on much longer. You take your cock out of my cunt and fuck my arse instead, so hard and deep I start to cry from pain again. Just as I think I'm going to black out, you cry out, fuck me with two more hard thrusts, and then pull out and spray your cum all over my face, droplets landing in my hair, running down my throat, hot and liquid. You rub them into my breasts, then run your hands over my face, collecting more, and push your soaked fingers into my mouth. "Lick it all up, little whore. Drink it all down, take it, bitch". I suck on your fingers, desperate now, needing my own release so much I almost cum just imagining your fingers to be your cock inside my mouth again. My hands are still tied behind my back, my legs spread, pussy soaked and wet and sore, my hair dishevelled, covered in blood, sweat, mud, leaves and your cum, looking like the slut I am - your slut that I am.

You hold me down with one hand as you use the other hand on me, and I moan and writhe for you, mewling pitifully as I try and push myself against you more, which only makes you hold me down all the harder. I feel the pain from the scratches, weals and tears in my skin, as I thrash, struggle and twist around, to get closer to you. "Please please please, let me cum, I need to cum now, I'm begging you", and all the time you shake your head, smiling, as you shove your fingers inside my hot little pussy and I moan for you, soaking your hand. You finger fuck me and rub my clit with your thumb, you push more fingers inside my ass and I cry out, looking at you pleadingly, begging you with my eyes. You lean down and just as you shove your fist inside me, you growl next to my ear, and I cum for you, screaming, arching my back until I'm barely touching the ground, sobbing and crying and moaning your name, over and over and over again, as the waves rush through me, shattering me, breaking me so thoroughly and completely, making me utterly yours.

Afterwards, I look at you and just eat you up with my eyes, I can't STOP looking at you, as you rock me and stroke my hair, and whisper little things to me, telling me I'm good, I did well, I'm yours, that you'll look after me. You have made me who I want to be. You have made me myself again.

On the outside, looking in...

2009-12-22T17:54:00.001Z

Quite a few friends seem to be thoroughly depressed and miserable at the moment, struggling to reconcile their 'real' selves with the self that will be welcomed and included in the end of year family/ friend/ work festivities.

The ordeal of christmas with family, or christmas meals at work, social occasions where there is an enforced sense of jollity, and limits put on when/where/how you interact with people...so many of us find this horribly trying.

Picture the scene. You're arriving at the Parents, presents in hand (that you didn't want to buy), children running amock at your heels (that you can't stand), a grin plastered to your face (or is a rictus of rage...?)

You sit down to a badly cooked meal, shoulder to shoulder with relatives you only see once a year, have absolutely nothing in common with except for shared genetics (a miniscule fraction in addition to what you share with every other human on the planet), and you know, you just *know*, that if these people knew the 'real you', you would be confronted with expressions of horror, distaste, incomprehension, disgust, fear...

If you have a partner who knows, loves and shares that inner side of you, then at least you can share amusement, 'in-jokes', and sly glances that hint at 'if only they knew...'

But when you have to face these things alone, it's even harder. Put in this situation, I can guarantee that within half an hour and one glass of gin, I'll be talking about clit piercings and anal sex, and getting my knockers out in order to demonstate lapdancing on some random uncle.

Which is why I don't do it. Fortunately, I'm in the position of being able to take or leave family and work christmas stuff. Parents and colleagues have long since given up trying to force me to do anything I don't want to do. And even if I'm made to, I can take my lovely husband with me, so I've got some moral support. Even if discussion of anything to do with sex or pervery totally squicks him, I'm still very lucky.

But even so, I myself am struggling with a little bit of the 'kinky single at christmas' syndrome. I know I won't be getting any text messages telling me to sneak off to the toilet, take my knickers off, and taste my own cum, halfway through christmas dinner. There will be no bruises between my legs to savour, as I cook breakfast on christmas morning for my husband.

But kinky or otherwise, we *all* feel like this sometimes. Some more than others. I remember sitting through some wanky training course at work on 'bullying in the workplace', where they asked us to think of and discuss, an example where we once felt excluded from the group. It made me smile...I've *always* felt like this. As a bookish, bespectacled, highly 'academic' child...then later, as a dirty goffick, then as an alternative person who rejected the alternative social life for homely pursuits like knitting, baking and snuggling up on the sofa with a book and the cats...and now, most recently, as a kinkster. It's very rare for me to feel *included*. I am, always and forever, on the outside looking in.

But what I've realised is, that to a greater or lesser degree, we *all* are. We're born alone, and go into death alone. Times like christmas are socially acceptable ways of easing a little of that loneliness, or giving us the illusion of easing it. So maybe the trick is to enjoy it, throw yourself into the family festivities with a glad heart, knowing that your kinky friends, goth mates, knitting club...whatever...they'll still be there waiting for you, when you come home. And maybe, just maybe, someone will send you a text anyway, even if they aren't your lover, your play partner, your dom or your sub. Maybe it will even be me.

We all hide from the emotion of loneliness, we use different ways to ease that pain. The most obvious one is sex, which is perhaps why being single at christmas cuts deep to the heart for some. Sex is a route to the all-too fragile and transient moment where the isolation within all of us is dispelled.

But maybe if you can't have sex, you can still challenge that isolation, be it with a touch, a cuddle, a text message, or even the shared understanding implicit within a look.

I must be feeling a little soppy today. My cat left big muddy paw prints all over the bed linen this morning and I didn't even spank his paws.

Fuck me hard, fuck me up, but don't fuck me over..

2009-12-21T17:53:00.000Z

ARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

I am SO fucking frustrated at the moment. It's been a good couple of months since I had a decent play, PLUS about the same amount of time since I had a decent shag, and I swear to god I'm going to Actually Do Someone an Injury if someone doesn't relieve my frustrations soon.

When I get like this, I become....quite 'aggressive'. I just want to grab some gorgeous bit of totty, throw them down on the bed, rip their clothes off and ....then probably be sadly disappointed because they will fail to overpower me and I'll end up doing 'hmph' and pouting.

My libido has gone into uber max overdrive now, partially because I had a sizzling affair de la memo via IC over the last week, which unfortunately didn't work out in real life. At least I'm no longer second-guessing my instincts. I should have gone with my initial 'no, this isn't going to work' response, rather than doubting myself.

Also, I did something really fucking stupid the other day. I drank about six pints and asked someone I barely knew to take me home and hurt me. We got back to his house whereupon he dragged me up the stairs by my hair, slapped me in the face (to be fair, I slapped him first), and threw me in the bedroom. Whereupon I burst into tears. Congratulations me, for being a total and utter twat. On the other hand, my judgement that he was trustworthy turned out to be completely sound, as he just cuddled me better, fussed over me, and sent me safely home untouched. Not that I'll be taking that risk again, of course, it was a fucking stupid thing to do. But on the other hand - go me, with the intuition!

What I really need is someone who can terrify the shit out of me, frighten, beat and fuck the aggression out of me, and then cuddle me into some state of relaxation afterwards. But given I don't have any current play partners, casual or otherwise, and I don't do casual sex with men ANYWAY..the getting fucked hard bit is going to have to wait a while. Let's not hope it's too long or my tetchiness is going to get a lot worse before it gets better.

So it looks like I'll have to search for release in the form of someone who can fuck me up a bit, leave me with some lovely cane stripes, bite marks, take me to that endorphined up, adoring heaven where I really need to go, give me a part of what I'm craving, so I can at least let some of my control drop for a little bit. Because my infamous self-control is being severely tested at the moment.

Of course I shall have to employ my gut instinct in seeking someone who can do this for me without fucking me over. In the meantime, I'll just grit my teeth and growl at anyone who looks at me funny today.

ETA: Ooh, I tell a lie. BD 'did' me a few weeks ago, but that was topping not domming and so, wonderful as it was, only released the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.

I would normally exorcise this frustration through vigorous physical exercise, such as my thrice weekly stompathon constitutional down the seafront. However, we are currently in the grip of, to quote our taxi driver last night, 'the worst case of iced up roads and pavements I've seen in 42 years of living here'. There are tree'd, lampost'd, and abandoned cars spread throughout the town. It could be worse though...on my bus trip to work I saw a blind man making his way along the ice, and then a few minutes later, a homeless man clutching his can of special brew. Grim - made me a bit ashamed of the rant I was composing in my head, at the time.

Addendum

2009-12-19T18:00:00.000Z

And another thing...

My bloody mother on the phone yesterday. Jesus, that woman. She suggested that I shouldn't get emotionally attached to anyone again, I should just fuck 'em, basically. Because 'you know what happened last time...you can't go through that again and you don't want R (husband) to be ill again, do you?'

'What's me falling in love got to do with R being ill?' I asked, not unreasonably. (Back story - R was in hospital a couple of times recently with seizures. Long story short, diabetic hypos resulting in fits, used to have them regularly years ago, 5 year gap, has just had two again. We're a bit gutted)

'Well, all that suppressed emotion can't have been good for him. After all, knowing you're in love with another man, even though he says he's fine with it...that might well have caused the seizures'.

Thanks mum. Gotta love family. Or murder them and bury them under the patio. One of the two.

Lifelong Learning

2009-12-19T17:52:00.002Z

Hurrumph.

A year ago I would have said I knew myself, and my needs, pretty damn well. It's winter now, which is *thinky* time, not *doey* time; I'd say now that I have learned more about myself in the last year, than in the entire lifetime prior to that. However, it's made me even more aware of how much more I need to learn about my needs, my desires, and why I do things the way I do.

If anyone say anything about the wisdom of knowing that you know nothing, I *will* hit them.

I've got PMT, I'm sexually frustrated, pain frustrated, and no appealing play partners available to hand. Grr. Also, husband (R) is getting the full force of my techniness today, the poor boy. In the last two days, he has:

1) Wound me up by making my tea the wrong way. This is not just a failure to use the right cups (One tall, white, with picture of Tatty Teddy eating biscuits on it, one short, wide, with 'Good Girl Gone Bad' written on it), or to make it how I like it (2 sweeteners, strong, not too much milk...and two cups at the same time, one with a inch of cold water in, so that I can drink it straight away and not wait, and the second as a chaser). Worse that that - he came in the room carrying the porridge, and mumbled at me..I asked him to repeat himself, and he....SPAT MY COLD WATER FROM HIS MOUTH, INTO MY CUP! And then asked me why I was looking horrified. Okay, using his mouth as a handy carrying receptacle, is at least...inventive...but...!

2) So we're in Maplins, and I'm looking for new headphones, batteries, and a replacement mouse. I go looking for the mouse, and he's getting underfoot. So I say - can you find where the headphones are? He wanders off....five minutes later I've selected my mouse, and I find him staring aimlessly out the window. 'Did you find the headphones section?', I ask him. 'Oh, was I supposed to? I didn't know...I was just concentrating on doing my boot laces up'. ARGH!

3) I remind him to log in to Sainsburys and add any shopping that he wants for christmas. I've already set up the order and had the 'like gold-dust' delivery slot booked for weeks. He finishes off, and a couple of hours later I check my emails...which include one from sainsburys saying 'you have cancelled your order'. 'Did you check out properly?' I ask him. 'Well I thought I did', he replies. 'Did you actually click on the checkout button and get confirmation?' I ask. 'Err....what checkout button?'

Head. Desk.

Poly Man in Buried Under the Patio Shocker. News at 11.

Diversity and The Space Between

2009-12-17T17:51:00.000Z

A few thoughts on similarity, difference, and the space in between...

So, I'm over at a friend's house last night, and he hands me this passage out of Foucault, and pretty much goes 'what d'ya make of them onions, then?' Now, my poor befuddled brain sort of went 'splat' and fell over at this point, but it seemed to me to be something about the arbitrariness of groupings and categories, the way we envisage similarities between things, and also, the space in which something is *not*, the absence of something, and the invisible.

It put me in mind of my old record label boss, who used to say, sometimes it's not the main melody that makes the song special, but what happens around it. Sometimes removing your favourite riff from the song can actually make it *better*. At the time I thought 'that sounds like bollocks to me', but maybe there's something to it. The Velazquez painting that Foucault refers to is remarkable, not for what it shows, but what it does *not* show. The dance is beautiful, not because of where the dancers touch, but where they do not...the space between the dancers. It is not what is spoken but what is *not* said, that gives you the key to unlocking the puzzle.

To visit my friend, I had to take the same journey on the train that I only ever took to visit my ex. Walking out of the station - the empty space where he was not there to meet me...that was the bit that hurt. It was not what he did while we were together, but what he did *not* do, that broke my heart.

My friend suggested that, because I'm married, the majority of people will struggle to love me the way I love them. Because people who want a long term relationship will feel I can never belong to them, so they will hold back. It's what they perceive as what I can *not* give them, that means they'll never return my feelings fully. This saddens me. My love for my husband is completely separate from my love for anyone else. I don't love other people *less*, because I'm married to him, because I love him. When I fall in love with other people, which I've done twice this year, they get everything that they would have got anyway, if R didn't exist, in terms of my heart. I might have to share time and practicalities get in the way, but when I love someone, I love so completely, so openly, that there is almost nothing they can do to make me not adore them. It's almost, but not quite, a kind of unconditional love.

My family and friends solution to this is - don't get emotional. Don't fall in love again. Don't get emotionally attached, just get beaten and shagged. Sounds great in theory, but I can't do that, I'm not that sort of person and never will be, I don't think.

So. Last night, my friend and I were also talking about different approaches to BDSM. For example, we both like spanking. Like...a LOT. For him, with his collection of household objects he likes to be hit with, his perfect scenario is caring, loving, discipline and humour, warmth and spanking in the middle of making dinner. The strict but loving domme.

Technically, we can both be grouped together as perverts and spanking sluts. But our approach is so, so different. For me, if someone laughed during a scene or hit me with a household object, I would get really upset. When I submit, the layers of protective personality that I use to defend myself - the stroppiness, the laughter, the confidence - all these are stripped away. If someone laughed or did anything that wasn't completely serious; it would be like laughing at someone when they've just shared an incredibly personal or private intimacy about themselves with you.

For me, BDSM is very, deeply sexual, and what turns me on is the sense of suppressed anger, violence, darkness. Yes, I want the person to care for me and cuddle me afterwards. But I want to feel empowered by the sense that I've caused such passion in someone else. This is what is missing in my life. This is what is *not*.

In other news, I have already fallen over on the ice today. I sometimes think I am officially the Clumsiest Person in the World, Ever. And then once I've fallen over, I carry on walking but become entirely rigid with terror. It's not so much Bambi on ice as someone pushing a stuffed moocow onto a skating rink with a broom.

In other, other news, listening to Breed 77's 'La Ultima Hora' obsessively is not helping to calm my libido down. There's something incredibly erotic about the rhythmic rise and fall of the vocals, the swelling, cresting fusion of latin, middle-eastern, metal and goth, the passion and the drama. It makes me want to dance, and it also makes me do my 'anguished ecstasy' face, which is probably not sensible when listening to it whilst walking down the road. Passers by probably think I'm having a stroke. I'm just waiting for someone to stop me and ask kindly, 'Is there anyone with you looking after you, dear?'

Instinct and Experience

2009-12-11T17:50:00.000Z

Some thoughts on the usefulness of gut instinct, and experience...

I have extremely limited experience sexually, and with BDSM, with means I need to rely heavily on my gut instinct to guide me, plus common sense. It's the sort of arena you can get in quite a tizzy with, if you're not careful. And recently, I haven't been careful. Or perhaps I've been too careful?

And there's the rub.

I'm such a dominant persona in my everyday life. I am used to sorting things out, taking charge, fixing things, being in control and up front. I present myself as very self-possessed and will voice my opinions confidently. This can give people the impression that I actually know what the fuck I'm doing, which quite frankly, is bollocks. I'd emerge from an airlock covered in cat hair and biscuit crumbs, I'm so clumsy I'm always covered in bruises which I've given myself by blundering into things, and I flounder from one cock-up to another. I just hide it well.

Okay, so a bit of background first. This is all a bit TMI, but frankly, that's just a character trait in Impworld. Apparently there's this thing called 'private' but I've never had much use for it it...

I met my husband when I was 19. Before that, I'd had 3 male lovers, all in relationships, but it was pretty much fumbling around in a teenage fashion. My first chap - he should have known what he was doing, as he was a lot older; but he really didn't. My second - he was a virgin. My third - he'd had a shag once before but apart from that was all virginy too.

So then we have 14 years of vanilla sex in my marriage, with my darling and beloved husband who has an incompatibility with me in the area of libido. I've probably had under a dozen shags in the last decade, with him. I've given a hell of a lot of blow-jobs though!

Oh - plus a bit of drunken lezzing up with mates in the meantime.

Then - BDSM and BLIMEY, explosion time. So since february I've had a bit more drunken lezzing up, two experiences of longer-term interaction with women, including lots of new sexual experiences, and regular casual play with a man which developed into a far deeper relationship than I originally intended, and became very sexual, with my hard limits changing week by week, and some very rude and saucy stuff indeed happening. But no actual fucking as such, with him.

But that's the lot. I'm also, more importantly, EMOTIONALLY inexperienced, particularly with men, when it comes to non-platonic interaction. I've had a wonderful, comfortable, easy, patient partner for 14 years, and I haven't got a fucking clue how to deal with people who aren't like him.

So - minimal experience, so I'll go on my gut instinct and common sense which combine together to make judgement. But where does good instinct depart from other emotions which can be mistaken for a gut reaction? Fear, anxiety and so on - these can also be triggered by a word, sound, sight of something, perhaps it reminds me of an ex, or maybe I'm reading more into a sentence than really exists.

I am attracted sexually to people who make me uncomfortable, uncertain, afraid. I adore being abused, consensually. How do I make good judgements about who is a wanker and will fuck me up, and triggers my gut instincts, and people who are genuinely good, kind, are compatible with me sexually (i.e. want to do the nasty things to me that I want them to do), but trigger my uncertain, fear-based reactions?

I think my instinct is normally pretty good - but how to be sure I'm listening to my instinct, and not my fear? When I first met R, all those years ago, he was the WORST kisser I'd ever known. I decided not to follow it up because of that. But then we got to know each other as friends and I fell for him, and it didn't matter that he was crap. But my instinct in some ways was right - we were and are sexually incompatible. On the other hand, having him in my life is incredible, wonderful, and I wouldn't change a thing.

The three people I've had relationships with over the last year, since discovering BDSM; 2 triggered 'this not good' instincts which I ignored. But the other one didn't. And they all ended horribly and I ended up disastrously hurt, as did the other participants, to a greater or lesser extent.

I'm in the market for someone(s) new in my life at the moment. Something preferably not a one-off, although that too will be considered under the right circumstances. Regular, but relatively casual, where we both say outright what we want, and get it - that will keep me ticking over in the meantime. But ultimately I want someone(s) exceptional, someone who understands my needs and theirs, who can make me want to give up, give in, to them. A dom, for want of a better word, that I can submit to, in a loving relationship, who will beat the shit out of me and fuck me senseless. Someone who passionately desires to hurt me and fuck me and isn't afraid to take what he wants, when he wants.

But avoiding another relationship disaster is paramount, right now. And avoiding putting myself in danger, that too would be kinda handy.

Conclusion - fucked if I know. Answers on a post-card please?

In other news, R is going out on sunday to meet a lady he met at the poly meet-up the other day. I really liked her, so fingers crossed!

In other, other news, my cat has chewed through my phone charger and completely fucked it up, just on a day when I really need my phone and I ran all the batteries down gossiping last night. HurRUMPH.

In other, other, other news, my libido has kicked into turbo gear mode. Now, okay, this is not uncommon, but what a waste! Today I have a blind date with....a completely platonic new friend. (Female, straight, vanilla).

In other, other, other, other news, the town had a pretty fog hanging over it this morning, like something out of a painting. Exciting!

Safely in Fear/ Fear in Safety

2009-12-08T17:49:00.000Z

One of the most bizarre things about my sexuality, that I've only been able to acknowledge/ explore/ come to terms with, during the last year, is how I sexualise uncomfortable emotions.

Fear - not always of course, because I'm afraid of a lot of stuff, although no-one would ever guess, and a lot of the time it's just that: Fear. But put me in a space where I feel frightened by someone I find attractive, and that becomes very sexual, very quickly, for me. The thrill, the dangerous, the 'you are a BAD MAN'; I want you to hurt me, frighten me. Perhaps it's because I'm so 'full-on'; I intimidate people sometimes without at all wanting to. If I feel someone can not only stand up to that, but inspire the feeling in me of being intimidated instead of the other way round, that delicious feeling of having the tables turned on you becomes hot as fuck.

Uncertainty - the people who bring this out in me, who make me get flustered, blushing, embarrassed and confused. Maybe it's a control thing - I'm normally the one in charge, driving the conversation. Take it from me by natural authority (not from being boring, opinionated or pompous) and I'll be impressed. And horny.

Anger - piss me off and I'll be seconds away from snogging your face off, if you're hot. I love the idea of furiously rowing with someone, and the next second being kissed into submission. Anger often features very heavily in my fantasies - my anger or theirs. It's the intensity, you don't get angry unless you feel deeply.

Misery - I like to be hurt until I start crying. Soft little sobs and whimpers, broken down into pieces, ready to be rebuilt.

I think it's because I'm so highly controlled in my everyday life. I'm a very emotional person, I feel things very intensely, I'm very passionate, but I have to keep it all under control, I can't let these emotions get away from me and drive my behaviour. For example, I have a very destructive temper; but it's very very rare for me to lose it completely. I can't remember the last time I did. Sometimes it gets away from me a tiny bit, just for a couple of seconds, but then I'm back in control.

Tied up and being beaten - that is the one place I can drop the control for a moment. I can let go..I can submit to experiencing my full emotional range and expressing it. In a sense I'm submitting to myself, as well as the dom(me). I can furiously scream shout and swear, be unsure, be sobbing in pain and misery - and I'm still safe. No-one will hate me afterwards and I'll even get a cuddle. I won't have hurt anyone. I won't have damaged anything. I'm safe.

Spiral Bound

2009-12-07T17:48:00.000Z

I feel strange and unusual.

It's been quite a week. Furious row with my husband (R). I wonder more and more whether he can cope with me seeking the fulfilment of my needs outside our marriage. He says he can, but...I'm greatly concerned. I feel a weight of guilt and selfishness on me, but how else can I go forward? I have a high sex drive and I both want and need BDSM in my life; he has a low sex drive and finds BDSM bizarre and repulsive. I view sex as life enhancing, beautiful, energising, transformational; he views it as akin to putting together an ikea flat-pack e.g. lots of faffing about trying to get the right bit in the right hole, not being able to read the instructions right, and wishing you could just give up, go off and get a cup of tea, and get someone else to do it for you.

We made up and have been very close since. He says everything will be okay, and I thought so too. Went out to the Eastbourne munch on wednesday night. Drank far too much but had a huge amount of fun, in fact it was the first time I'd had fun since my last relationships ended, having a great time instead of just going through the motions. Probably making a complete twat of myself, but at least I had a good time.

Saturday night I had a great time, too. A long time ago (or it seems like a very long time ago - in reality just a few months back) when I was new and didn't know myself or my limits well, I played with a friend of mine and nearly fainted in a club because I didn't safeword when I should have done. It was pretty awful and both myself and R were quite upset.

I haven't played with him since until now. We went to Club Punishment and he topped me - I was very frustrated and dying for some play, and I also wanted to close that circle, to prove to myself how much I've learned and grown since that other time with him. He was brilliant and did exactly what I needed him to do - we agreed beforehand that he would push me until I safeworded; which is exactly what happened. It was great and we both felt very happy and content afterwards. I had flirty naughty fun and it was just a really good evening.

Then yesterday, I went off to the U-35 munch, and R went off to the first of the new poly group meet-ups. As I grow happier and my confidence returns, I'm regaining my social gregariousness and joie de vivre. I had fun at the munch but then, realising I'd forgotten my bank card and having drunk all my pennies, I sallied forth into the night to steal some money from R. I rang him and asked if it was ok, and offered to meet him outside the pub, not wanting to interfere with his evening, but he invited me to come in and when I arrived, suggested I get a drink. I was filled with energy and excitement still (and cider) and hung around for half a pint like an exuberant whirlwind of hyperactive puppies, jabbering nine to the dozen excitedly and being all bright eyed and bushy tailed.

This morning, something very unusual happened. R pounced on me in bed - I was quite stunned and should have been pleased, but something felt...wrong. There was an air of urgency and desperation about the sex.

Then later today, we were chatting online, and he said he felt really odd and small, boring and old in comparison to me. That I was glamorous and exciting, and he was not. Which makes me so frustrated because it's A) not true and B) I don't know how to make him see that and C) I want to enjoy my new-found energy, not feel bad about it because it's hurting him.

What frustrates me is that as my confidence and energy and happiness grows, as I become more fulfilled - this seems to make him feel bad, like I'm out-shining him somehow. There was a time when I felt I could heal his emotional wounds with my body, by cuddling or having sex; this time, it seems to have made things worse. I feel like I should have been able to make him feel more of a man. There have been long periods of time in the past when I felt very much less-than-shiny on the inside. I think part of him likes me being like that, because it's not threatening. I think I frighten him when I'm looking and feeling my best. When I dress up and go out of an evening, either with or without him, he often won't cuddle me like he normally does, he finds it a bit intimidating. I hope for a compliment from him but never get one - he prefers me when I'm all untidy and scruffy looking and the worse I look the more he prefers it. How can I stretch myself and become everything I can be, without damaging him? How can I enjoy my renewed confidence and energy and passion about life, without making him feel dull and boring in comparison?

I KNEW I should have kept my gob shut if I went into the pub. Maybe I undermine him somehow? Or make him feel small and insignificant?

I feel as if the ground is shifting underneath my feet, like I'm taking a leap of faith and I don't know whether I'll land on earth or quicksand. I feel uncertain and confused, and very, very alone. I'm really quite frightened.

Flow

2009-12-03T17:47:00.000Z

'm very lucky that there are quite a few activities which result in flow, for me.

Walking. My mind is always cluttered with lots of different thoughts and feelings. After about two hours of walking, the different strands seperate out and eventually run out, and I finally get to an empty state, a kind of moving meditation. Turning the world under my feet, walking a mandala miles wide and earth deep.

Dancing. Utterly immersed in the spontaneity, the physical movement, the power and the joy of connection with my own body, the energy in me resonating to the vibration of the music; it's the only time I ever don't feel clumsy.

Singing. When I used to sing in bands, I would always be so nervous beforehand I was nearly sick. I would tremble, awash with adrenaline and high voltage anticipation. But from the moment I opened my mouth to sing, an energised and focused calm would overtake me, and I would feel almost a sense of deja vu, so completely certain was I that nothing could go wrong. It was almost as if I was remembering it, rather than living it.

BDSM. I want pain in my sex, and sex in my pain. I need it. The pain brings me into the now like nothing else can.

Sex. Saving the best till last - my favourite. With my fingers inside her pussy, or my tongue flicking her clit, or his cock in my mouth, there is no other thought in my head except this moment of total pleasure, complete joy.

Giving Good Aural...

2009-11-28T17:47:00.000Z

I'm sometimes attracted to people more by their voice than by their looks. I've been intimate with a few people who would not be described as traditionally attractive, but who have been beautiful in my eyes because of the way they sound, and use words.

Words have a power over me I really can't explain. They have to come from someone who I'm already attracted to though, and have feelings for. I roll my eyes and sigh when I get memos from people who seem to think 'I want to fuck you' is a good introduction. But once I've started to get a little crush on someone, the impact of the words they use can be spectacular. I love getting texts and emails from people I'm into - even if it's relatively tame - but the sight of something very saucy can turn me on and get my knickers wet almost instantly. Especially if it's got swear words in it.

On the other hand, you also have the joy from sounds made in person. The smell of a body leaning in, the touch on your shoulder, the whispered voice, 'I'm going to fuck your mouth'.

Then the sounds of nails on skin, the echoing slap, the cries you make yourself, the sound of your own voice saying 'no, please stop, don't, you're hurting me, please, please'. The noise of the cane on your flesh. The sound your clothes make when they rip, a stocking tears, the zip opens. Your half-swallowed sobs.

Then the comfort afterwards - 'shhhh, you did so well, I'm so proud of you, you're such a good girl'.

I love talking dirty, there's a kind of event horizon of embarrassment to be got over, but once I pass that barrier - given time or drunkenness - I get really turned on by whispering filthy little things into someone's ear. 'I want you, I need you inside me, please....please take me. I want you to make me yours'.

I store the sounds and words from people I love inside my head, tucked up like little pearls in a treasure chest, to be taken out and polished and admired every now and again, then put away until next time.

"I'm only happy when it rains..."

2009-11-23T17:46:00.001Z

As part of my cheering up process, I'm making an extra special effort to look good at the moment every time I leave the house, even for work. This is aided by the fact that I've lost shit loads of weight whilst lying around the house with hand to forehead going 'woe is me', and that my hair seems to be behaving itself at the moment and isn't currently trying to eat anything. I like being able to look in the mirror before going out and think 'HA! In your face, motherfucker!' It's worth it even if it does mean I've used more eyeliner in the last week than the last year, and that my house is starting to resemble an explosion in an underwear factory.

So I'm walking down the road thinking 'yeah, I think I'm getting my strut back!' when the heavens open and I realise I've left my umbrella in the pub last night. Fortunately my dreadlocks act like a sort of built-in umbrella, even if it does mean they'll be dripping water down the back of my neck all day. But my eyeliner when I arrived at work bore a closer resemblance to 'I've just had my mouth fucked until I gagged and my eyes watered' than 'immaculately presented professional'. Hey ho, both looks are good.

Burning Bright

2009-11-22T17:46:00.000Z

here's nothing like some heavy socialising to perk me up.

Until the start of this year, I had no idea BDSM was so fucking *organised*, with munches, and clubs and stuff. Not that it's something I'd explored - I've always been a perve but when in a very long term marriage with a vanilla partner, monogamous, there's not much point in tormenting yourself with what you can't have. Until the pressure builds up to the point where you actually *have* to have it, and you find ways to explore what's out there without undermining the relationship that means so much to you.

Funny, when I began getting my kink on, I unquestioningly assumed it was all about sex. And yes, in the last year I have undoubtedly had some very fine sex indeed, the best I've ever had, in fact. But actually, the most positive experiences have been about friendship. If this was some bloody heartwarming novel, it would have some suitably sickening tag line on the back along the lines of 'she went looking for sex, but what she found was friendships deeper than those she'd ever known'.

And very very satisfying it is too, to make those deep, intimate, emotional connections with people, with or without sex. I'm not sorry. I don't regret doing all this.

So. Friday night, Club with No Name. Drank heavily, met some new lovely chums who were remarkably sanguine about me dribbling on them in an alcoholic haze. Backed up in the form of existing friends who dispensed cuddles, booze and listening as and when required. A good time was not expected, but had nevertheless.

Saturday night, under 35 munch in London followed by Crimson. My stated intention was to find and at least snog someone I found hot, regrettably this mission was not accomplished as the opportunity did not present itself. Never mind. I still got to bump into some very sexy people and say hi, and watch an awesome rope suspension done on our friend. So so beautiful - I LOVE watching suspensions. It actually makes me feel a little bit like crying, but in a good way. There were some slightly uncomfortable circumstances surrounding it, but hey, take the joy where you can get it, right?

I'm not quite back to myself yet - on a night out I can usually feel the energy, the excitement, the lust, sparking through me almost visibly. It's starting to return, slowly, though. Which in itself presents a little bit of a problem - as my libido returns to normal I MUST BE MORE CAREFUL - damn my attraction to bad boys. And bad bad women. There's nothing I find hotter than someone who looks as if they're waiting for me in a dark alley so they can rape me.

Change is the constant

2009-11-19T17:43:00.005Z

PHOENIX, n. The classical prototype of the modern small hot bird ~ Ambrose Bierce.

Okay, enough of this lying around moping in a consumptive fashion. It's time to start looking outward again. The self-scrutiny stuff is all good though, it's part of my process and very necessary to keep me on track. I'm often told that I'm over-sensitive, and that I over-think things. I've believed that most of my life. Well, I've come to a conclusion recently about that.

It's BOLLOCKS.

Okay, so very occasionally it's true. But most of the time? No. The problems start when I *stop* listening to the inner voice, and plunge onwards, ignoring the build up of thoughts and emotions, sweeping them aside as 'inappropriate' or 'foolish', judging them as a product of over-sensitivity or over-thinking, burying them under a dizzying schedule, reacting to events, rather than understanding them.

If I'm spending a lot of time in a situation where I feel hurt and want to cry - that situation is problematic. And I need to address that, instead of assuming I'm 'just being oversensitive again'.

I find it hard to express my needs - add into the mix some very forceful personalities, and the intense emotion of d/s in whatever form - and I can end up backed into a corner, somewhere I really don't want to be. And THAT'S when, listening to my emotions, and thinking about how I feel, could stop me from going along with things I'm not comfortable with. Because when I get backed into a corner, and feel trapped, with no solutions in sight, I react very badly, and my temper can be very destructive. And in all probability I'll remove myself from the situation entirely, because things have degenerated to the point where they cannot be salvaged without further damage to everyone involved.

Baring my soul via blog entry? It's part of my process. I like the idea that I can look back and see where I've been, how far I've come. Look at some of the comments and see where people were right - or wrong.

On another note, R (husband) is off to meet a nice young lady tomorrow, who I've lined up for him. Think he feels a little bad that things are taking off for him just as I'm on my own extra-marital-wise, but I'm really glad for him. It was me who started all this, but I haven't actually shagged another bloke yet, which is the Big Thing, and all the other stuff he takes in his stride (he doesn't bat an eyelid if I have sex with a woman etc). So I'd rather he has sex with another woman before I have sex with another man.

I'm in Extra Special Uber Protective Mode around R at the moment anyway, since he has started to be very poorly again. Needless to say, I don't think his failure to look after himself properly has helped, but I've chucked my hissy fit and forgiven him. So anything which makes him happy, I Extra Especially want for him, at the moment.

It's so very hard for us both when he has these seizures - he doesn't know his own name for anything between 2-24 hours afterwards, gets agitated and punches people in the face when they try and give him medical attention. He screams and swears, it's like he's had a complete personality change. It makes me feel so utterly alone. He's my stability, my centre of gravity. I often think of R and I as having an invisible elastic string attached to us, that pulls when we're away from each other. When he has these seizures it's like the band has snapped and is leaking bits of my soul into the ether. Sounds ridiculously dramatic but that's the only way I can describe the sensation. I think that's why I'm feeling the loss of the additional support from my other relationships so very hard, it's the loneliness that his fits bring, which lasts for a great deal longer than just during his recovery period.

But I have a responsibility to myself, as well as to him. And I need to take my happiness into my own hands. So I'm throwing myself back into the social whirlwind, taking every opportunity to enjoy myself, spending time with good friends both old and new, and giving myself some fun. And I'll be balancing that with time to think and time to reflect on how I feel. I'm still a little vulnerable, a little fragile, so I'll be taking my time and being gentle with myself for a while.

It happened again

2009-11-16T17:42:00.000Z

n the early hours of this morning, my husband had another convulsion and ended up in hospital again. He's due out later, I've just popped home to clean the blood off the sheets, make stew and whinge in a truly pathetic manner.

I can't fucking believe this is happening again after at least five years of fit-free life. Looks like it's set to become a regular occurence, followed by the delightful 24-hour recovery period of him not knowing his own name, vomiting copiously and punching people in the face when they try and insert a canula.

Where this leaves me, and the pursuit of my own happiness and fulfillment, I really don't know. I could wait until this is all over - in another ten years perhaps - and explore my kinky side and sexuality then? Out of the 14 years we've been together, he had fits for 9 of those years. How can I put my life on hold until he stops being ill? He's diabetic - that's never going to go away. And how can I chase after any sort of desires of my own knowing he could fall ill and be in hospital at any moment? And who the fuck will want me while I'm all whiny and upset and worried, anyway?!

It's back into my cave for a bit for me, I think. I wonder if I can have my libido removed surgically? It would solve a lot of problems...

Edited to Add: I'm also a bit pissed off with him since he went out on saturday night and drank 9 pints and had 4 hours sleep, which I don't think particularly helped keep his blood sugar stable. So there's some additional lovely conflict there, ta very much dear husband. Grrr.

And we give ourselves away..

2009-11-13T17:41:00.000Z

I'm a little faded at the moment. Normally, the sound of my raucous laugh, the bounce of my dreadlocks, and my sheer in-your-face enthusiasm for life gets me compared to a cheerful labrador. But right now, I feel more like one of those old and battered bull terriers with grey round their muzzles, struggling to do the things they used to enjoy so much, when they really just want to be at home sleeping and remembering better days.

I've given my heart away twice this year. Both times it's ended badly. The most recent loss has knocked me hard, draining away my joy in life, my energy, and my bounce. Much as it's correct to think that he/she/they weren't right for me anyway, losing loved ones - even if it's your own choice to walk away, because you know you have to - can turn everything into shades of black and white and grey. I'm colourless. I normally treat every situation, be it frivolous or serious, by throwing humour at it (usually grossly inappropriate sexual humour, often with embarassing results..). It's very unlike me to be unsmiling for so long.

Of course there's been a helluva lot of other stuff going on this year. Going from a monogamous, married for 14 years, vanilla existence, to discovering play, realising how much I loved and needed it, then opening up our relationship, a major operation with a long recovery time (me), and a recent serious episode of illness (for my husband) have drained the bottom of my 'coping skills' tank. I'm tired.

I'm very lucky that my husband knows just how to help me. Frequent application of tea, cuddles, listening and occasional supportive comments, are the equivalent of handing me a paintbrush and pallet, letting me begin the process of adding a little glimmer of pigment to the outlines of the future stretching out in front of me. He really is a most amazing man.

BDSM was the key that unlocked the door. I'm just at the very beginning of understanding where that door can take me. I've just begun to touch the edges of what it could mean to be sexually fulfilled, after a lifetime of not being so. I'm a deeply sexual person, the passion and the needs built up in me after neglecting that side of myself for so long can be overwhelming at times, both for me, and for others.

Sometimes I wish the door had never opened. It would certainly be simpler that way. But now that I know what's there, what I could have - I can't live in black and white forever. I need pain. I do not want to give up control, I want it to be taken from me. I need to have the anger beaten out of me. I want to be loved. And I need to know what being fucked feels like. Preferably before I'm dead, thankyou.

But I'll take my time. Because I need to learn to shut some of the doors around my heart, and because it is quite possible to be TOO open, too honest, too loving. I don't think there's much chance I'll ever become jaded or guarded, but I need to grow up very quickly and grow out of the naivety that my inexperience with sexual relationships has burdened me with.

Phoenixes are colourful birds.

"The price of freedom is eternal vigilance"

2009-10-21T06:21:00.002+01:00

Things fall apart, but the centre holds. But what happens when the centre falls apart?

My husband used to suffer from fits, related to his diabetes, and would usually be hospitalised while extremely agitated, vomiting, reduced level of consciousness, for at least 24 hours, then kept in or discharged depending on whether his blood sugar was stable. Extremely distressing for all concerned, so naturally we’ve been delighted that this hasn’t happened for four or five years now.

On sunday morning I called him and realised quite quickly he’d had a fit, as he was only able to speak a little, and after I called the neighbour who broke into the house, they found him vomiting and near unconscious. He was kept in overnight, and is nearly well again, although blood sugars are a little unstable, he is home and I’m looking after him. We don’t know why it happened again after so long. We don’t know if it will happen again, or when.

While this was happening to him, I was with B & O and had been since wednesday, partying and being a whore. The fact that he knew where I was and had his full understanding consent, doesn’t change that I wasn’t by his side where I should have been. I could have done something and I wasn’t there. I feel sick every time I see the bruises on my body; a visible reminder that I wasn’t where I should have been, when it mattered.

I know I’m not thinking straight. I know I’m exhausted because I haven’t slept. I know my judgement is skewed. But taking care of R is WHO I AM. I’ve failed him, I’ve failed myself, and I’ve failed everyone else who believed I was who I said I was.