Softly, Slowly, Speaks the Soul

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"

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

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

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

'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..

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

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

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

"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

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...