Beauty in Violence

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He punches me in the stomach.

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

Before it stops hurting, he punches me again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hits me in the face again. And again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I. Need. This.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am so very lucky.

Integrity

I have been thinking about choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Softly, Slowly, Speaks the Soul

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.