A Quick Drink [erotic fiction]

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."

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

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"

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"

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...

..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]

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..

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...

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]

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.