Becoming

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy

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

It's all been worth it.

Black Liner Run

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

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

Friday, 7pm.

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, 1am

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, 2.30am.

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

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

Saturday, 10.30am

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

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

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

I am in love with you.

Saturday, 3pm

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

Saturday, 10pm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, 12am

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

Sunday, 12.30am

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

Sunday, 2am

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, 5am.

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

Sunday, 10am

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

Sunday, 6pm

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

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

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

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

Monday, 1am

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, 9am

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

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

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

Monday, 12pm

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

Liquid [story]

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

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

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

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

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

*tick tock*

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

*tick tock*

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

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

*tick tock*

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

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

*tick tock*

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

*tick tock*

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

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

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

*tick*

Weightless.

Breathless.

Gestalt.

*tock*

Collision.

Confusion.

I hit the floor.

*tick tock, tick tock*

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

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

*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*

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


*tick*

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

*tock*

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

*tick*

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

*tock*

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

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

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

*tick tock*

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

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

*tick tock, tick tock*

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

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

*tick tock*

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

*tick tock, tick tock*

*tick tock, tick tock*

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

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

I AM SO FUCKING ANGRY WITH YOU. I FUCKING HATE YOU.

How could you do this to me? How could you put me in this position? I stand in front of you, fuming. I can feel my cheeks flaring with red, and that makes me angry too. I want to be indifferent to you, quiet and dignified and utterly without reaction to you and this situation. Instead, my body betrays me. I do care. I am humiliated and furious, and I want to hurt you. I try not to let my anger show in my eyes; I deliberately soften them, and the line of my jaw, letting my teeth relax where they have been pressing hard together.

You must think I'm such a fucking slut. It's the arrogance as much as anything, that appalls me. The two of you sitting there. You and your cunting 'business partner'. You think, because you earn a lot of money, that makes you special? Is that why you think I lavish such attention on you? Cook, clean, run your errands, make everything run so smoothly for you? Do you not understand, value, the purity of my love?

You're leaning back in the red leather armchair that I bought for you. You pat your knee, and motion for me to sit there. You are making a mockery of everything I give to you. Fuck you.

I stare into the space above your head, and ignore you. Your expression changes slowly, surely. Shock, and the first tinge of rage, pass over like shadows from clouds, chased quickly away by your confidence and need to keep face in front of your colleague. You pat your knee again. I don't react. This time the rage flashes, it's in your eyes, the set of your mouth. Unmistakable.

You say it again. The words that began all this.
"I want to lend you to Mr Black for the night. To seal the deal of our new partnership. It's just business. Be a good little fucktoy and go let him enjoy you."

I look at you. I feel the anger rise in me like heat haze off dirty tarmac. I try to keep my face as impassive as my voice.

"Fuck you".

The bookcase must have fallen over, the contents poured on the floor. Spilled words surround me, the pages white with meaning; but my mind cannot find any, here. Why am I lying on the ground? I touch the back of my head, and look at the smudge of fresh red blood on my hand, uncomprehendingly. My head lolls back, and your face is in front of mine. I smile dreamily at you, unprepared for the punch which smashes my head down onto the floor again.

Your friend looks concerned, worried even. Is there something I should be doing for him? I forget.

You haul me across the floor by my arm. I see the words as if they are jewels, suspended in black velvet, laid out in display - I hear their shape, feel their sparkle, but they mean nothing to me but pretty shine in the light.

"I do apologise for her error. Please, make yourself at home. I will bring her back for you in a little while, once I have corrected the flaw".

It means nothing to me. It is nothing to do with me.

I know we are in the car. I can hear the engine; it sounds angry, not purring like it should. I'm still floating, but my vision is fusing, mingling, separate threads combining to form a whole. A sense of anxiety grows pressingly on me - there is something I should be doing. I cannot rest.

"Bitch". I smell freshly cut grass, hay, sunshine stored in the green, slow release from dusk.

Clothes tear. You press heavily on my body. The earth moulds itself around me. The explosive sharp rip as the air parts before your whip. The pain, the pain brings me back to this place, this moment in time. Reality re-asserts itself. I'm here. And I am fucking angry with you.

I howl into the earth and rise up from the ground; the fury, the rage, animates me, gives me speed and strength normally absent from my gently rounded, soft-skinned body. I slam my fist into your face. My fingers claw at your skull - you have little hair to use against you, my fingernails slide into your flesh instead. My throat is burning as I scream, wordless, but not soundless - no, my pain, heartsore, on fire - ragged, rough, iridescent.

Your fingers dig into my throat as you choke me, the sound of screaming is more and more remote. I rip one finger away, you lift a whole hand, cover my mouth and nose with it. You straddle my body, choking, suffocating me. Subdued for a moment, I let terror loose in me, my eyes are unresponsive with fear as you begin to thrash me again, with your hand, your whip - blood splashes, sweat falls onto me from you, I go away...I go away...

I stop fighting. I can't remember why I'm angry with you, anymore.

I'm lying face down. I feel you pull my knickers down. There's an urgency in you entirely absent from my own state of mind. I'm not here. You unload yourself into my cunt, cumming in seconds, spurting jet after jet of creamy jism into me, your heavy balls slapping against my arse. You scoop up a palmful of cum and blood, lift me into your arms, and rock me, gently. "Drink this, little one, it will help you feel better". You feed me sips from your hand.

You tuck me into the car seat, wrap a blanket round me, and drive. I stare out the window as you pull into the dogging spot.

"Out", you tell me, and I flop, muscles exhausted, into your waiting arms, when you open the car door for me. You lean me against the hood of your car, fix the spreader bars between my cuffed wrists and ankles.

You make the men line up, and choose six of them to fuck me. They each enter me with a groan, sliding their cockhead against my pussy lips already wet with spunk. None of them last long. They grasp and pull at me as they thrust at me; disgusting, like rutting animals.

The last finishes. Other men beg to be chosen, to be allowed in me, but you refuse them. You take me yourself, quickly, sloppily. You're on a tight schedule. You fuck my arse once your cock is greased enough. You dump your cum into me, pulling out and smearing some of it over my buttocks, rubbing it into the cuts from your whip.

You take off the spreader bars. "You fucking whore", you say, gently, as you stroke my cheek.

You lift me into the car. Drive. Carry me into the house, wrapped in the remains of my clothes, and the blanket - dirty now. Nod to your business partner. Run a bath. Clean me. Rub my body gently with your hands, careful on my sore and used cunt. Pinch my nipples cruelly as you soap them. Towel me dry. Spray my favourite perfume at my throat, wrists, cleavage. Dress me in cuffs and chains. Lead me back to the other room, the one where he is waiting.

"You'll be a good girl for me now, won't you baby?"

I kneel to him.

You say it again. The words that began all this.
"I want to lend you to Mr Black for the night. To seal the deal of our new partnership. It's just business. Be a good little fucktoy and go let him enjoy you."

I look at him. Love is in my body, in my heart.

"Yes, Sir".

"Streams full of stars, like skies at night"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's all worth it.

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

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

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

Shaking. Is this sickness?

Held. Comfort. Light. Warmth. Home.

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

Yes.

Metamorphosis

Segue
Definition: "(in music and film) move without interruption from one song, melody, or scene to another"

Sometimes, the more darkly I play, the purer and lighter of heart I feel. My mouth, hot and wet, around his cock as he pounds my throat. My thighs, splayed open to the point of pain, the muscles, tendons, ligaments, straining as he pushes in, unmercifully, then pumps me full of his cum. My face, mashed against black leather as he bears down on me with all his weight.

These things help me walk in the light, keep me away from the valley of tears, the slits along the shadow shawl, the memory sunspots which burn too brightly if I look at them. They keep me pure with the force of his rage for me; his love for me is not just given in words but in the fury of his violent strength, poured over my body as he mauls me, his heart's balm.

A few weeks ago we relieved each other of tension - a difficult fortnight for both of us, various of life's normal trials and tribulations contributing stress, which we dealt with in our own ways. Mine, quiet weeping; fury strapped firmly down inside. His, calm and laid-back in the face of constant myriad pressures, but you've got to wonder: where does all that strain go? Same way as mine - the rage and the anger flowing into playfulness together. Murderous thoughts transmuted by an esoteric process, into consensual non-consensual violence, sexual rage; a passion poured out over each other in torrents, splashing into each other's faces, dripping from us, over every inch of our bodies. Denied satisfaction in one part of our lives, so we take satisfaction in this, the soaking of each other in the incandescent light of fierce violence, pain and fear the accelerator fluid for the fucking to come, that lights up the starless sky with dark flame.

We met at my house, quiet words of greeting exchanged, boyfriend and husband both arriving home at the same time, chatting to each other while I got changed. Slipped my slutty hellcat school uniform on, kissed husband goodbye, and took boyfriend's hand for a night out at the local perve's club. We didn't exactly match, him wearing his leather armour, but the sight of him in dirty, used, filthy leather, buckles, straps, sheen of sweat and glint of 'something nasty this way comes' in his eye, left me breathless and oh so very willing to be something dirty, used and filthy of his, too.

Enraptured by each other, tearing apart to speak to others, always coming back to feed our skin hunger, moving apart, coming together again, always a link between us, always precisely aware of where the other was, the evening was a night-long dance, painting the space and the stage, with movements in the air; flirtation, overture, crescendo...

Everything combining, harmonic sparking, bringing us to this moment, this space carved into the time and place, a silhouette cut out of paper held up to the black background of velvet curtains, framing the stage. I knelt down on the bench willingly, for him, although hesitant, uncertain, my slow and troubled movements betraying me; betraying me like the damp, sticky moisture beading on ruffled white knickers, threatening to seep down into my stocking tops.

As he slides my knickers down, I feel his fingers drag on the fabric, I know he can feel the texture of me, wet silk on thigh. Ahhhhh - yes; his hand on my flesh. He caresses, strikes, strokes, pounds into me with his open hand. Hard. His fingers stroke my swollen cunt; he barely pauses to part the lips before plunging fingers deep inside me, pumping my soaked flesh and ripping reluctant shivers and moans from me - the bad man hurts me, so why does it feel so good?

Moving me deeper underneath him and the focus of his fury, he presses down heavily on my back with his weight, crushing me under him. His belt, lashes out at me, over and again - ripping cries from my throat, startled, animal sounds. He finds my beast. In anger, I scratch and spit and hiss at his face, my own features contorted, snarling, eyes wide and fucking furious. It trips his anger-switch into thunderous incensed determined outrage - he doesn't have to say the words: 'Who the FUCK do you think you are? I will fucking DESTROY you...' as the sweat which pours from him, the foam beginning to show in his mouth, his staring eyes with the pupils blown open so there is barely any iris left, no sign of any softness at all...

Involuntarily, sounds escapes him as he lifts me, strong fingers coiled firmly, quickly, into my dreadlocks, and his fingers clawing, mauling into my flesh. I am lifted and slammed down on the bench, my back lying flat, my legs falling off the bench, jerking, as he bears down on me - hand covering my nose and mouth. His face is inches from mine, there is no space for thought - I cannot breathe, I cannot breathe - I count, silently, hoping this will calm my terror, which then loosens like a spring under pressure, released, a rapid convolution spiraling impossibly fast as my legs jerk, my body struggles, start to scream through his hands, a scream which builds up pressure underneath the meat of his hands which are tearing away my endurance - then it is released, high pitched and terrified as he lets me go.

Always before, this terror has divorced me from my red mist, revealed the submissive, bared my slave self naked in chains, led by him. This time though, longing though I am to be stripped, the heat of my anger rises back again - the fire has taken too much of a hold. It is only stilled for a moment, smothered, before flaring almost as strongly as before. I shout and writhe, furious at him, indignant at his offense to me, the acts of violence, unreasoned, unjust. I am unchained, unbound, free to say what I want, do what I want, react immediately and emotionally to the blows, there is no need for restraint or holding back from within - the restraints are his wrists closing around my arms, the leather strap pinning me to the bench, the heavy pressure of his body as he pushes, pushes down on me. He stops my breathing again, and this time as I burst, terrified, to the surface of my fear as he releases me, the air is ragged with my screams, hot and painful, air sucked down into my lungs, burning my throat. Now the smothered flames of my anger take longer to leap back up again.

He has wrapped his thick leather belt around my neck - not enough to choke me, just enough to remind me that he could, if he wanted to. I clutch at it desperately, fearfully - and as he begins beating me with the cane, the belt falls into my hands, loose. I grab and squeeze at it as the blows fall down, the pain arcing in swollen red and purple rings behind my eyes. I cannot see, I cannot see - my focus constricting to the small territory we have made, nothing except him, and me, and the pain, the pain like ribbons of thuggish painful knives, gathered in burgundy velvet; horrifying, obscene - a terrible beauty.

I smash him in the fucking face with his own belt - he catches my hand just as the blow is about to land; smashes me from the bench onto the floor against the wall, fucking me up, slapping me, shaking me, screaming into my face. He covers my nose and mouth again and growls low, threateningly as he does so. I don't think he even realises, the sound drools out like spit. This last time it is not so much fear, as relief, mixed with capitulation, as if he is a surgeon excising my anger from me. But his cuts are not careful and deliberate - instead they are a frenzied, brutal assault. But my rage requires handling like this - it is a destructive force, which destroys and damages, whether turned outwards, or - nearly always - inwards, burning and scarring me from the inside. As abandoned as his onslaught might seem, the trauma to my body purges trauma from my soul, and at all times he treats this part of me like a priceless possession. Just as he treats my body, and my mind, once he has finished destroying me. This is how he remakes me.

Sobbing and mascara streaked, my flesh purpled and reddened and criss crossed with so many cane stripes, there was little space unmarked. He pulled me into his arms. Held me close. Whispered soft things in my ear, tucked the hair to one side. Stroked my face. The noise and the heat and the sense of other people just being too *close* became too much. He carried me into the garden where I asked to lay down on the cool, calm space of the wooden flooring. There, as the breeze soothed my mind, and the peace helped me to be safe, with him and in his arms, I was quiet. I felt shaky, a little sick, sound and vision expanding and contracting, sudden loudness, then fuzzy muffled. Sharp and bright, then dim at the edges. Quiet, cool - safe.

This is what I had been seeking. I needed this. We all have our sense of personal space. Intimate space, it is called - a boundary through which only close friends and intimates, can pass. Within this physical boundary is the barrier of our bodies, but also a protective wrapping around our psyches, preventing the casual aquaintance or stranger from penetrating too deep. It is as if pain strips me of this; and the simple existance of others close to me - their noise and light, sounds and colours - are an attack on my senses. I need to be - 'Away' - to enjoy the floating intoxication of the endorphin high.

He took me home, where he enjoyed me; his prize, his pet, his possession - for hours. Then sleeping, wrapped in love and care. Proudly examining the bruises with him, observing the black, purple, red, blue. Pointing out this one or that for his approval. Receiving his praise, earning his pride.

Pleasure. Pain. Degradation. Worth.
Antonyms become synonyms.
Metamorphosis becomes Preservation.
To metamorphose - to transform, to renew, to remake.
To preserve - to protect, care for, look after.

THE NEXT TWO WEEKENDS

Time merges, expands, collapses, when I am with him. We are late everywhere, arriving dishevelled, giggling, flushed and slightly shame-faced. A constant round of apologies - we were late because we were fucking; sorry. Both of us happy to miss social dates altogether, and just stay in; our bodies, heads and hearts still in a whirlwhind of pleasure and excitement. It doesn't matter whether we are at a party, club, fetish market - or if we stay inside all day, playing with the dogs, talking, walking around the supermarket. All of life takes on a shine: it sparkles, when I am with him. And I am more alive now, even when we are apart. Life itself, is shiny again, for me. I have been returned to how I used to be - my real self. And I have discovered something new, something vital, something so very much in my core.

What began as play, is now so much more than that. Once we have spent a little time together on our own, it is as if he has removed not only the barrier around my psyche that I spoke of above, but the wisps of protection around my innermost being, my core. Clouds, threads, locks of behaviour, patterns of thoughts, action, mood - gone, gone like candy floss twisted up on a stick and held by him, to be returned to me later. Bare and naked, the pillar around with those candy floss mists swirl is the core of my essential substance, my identity no longer masked by obscuring layers. In a daydream I happily walk beside him, tucked under his shoulder, or with his fingers encircling my wrist. He gathers my hands in his and holds me in flesh handcuffs. He twists my arm behind my back, takes my neck, or throat, in his grasp. He does all these things without noticing, until I alert him to them with a smile, or gesture. They make me feel proud - proud to be his, and proud that he asserts his ownership of me without conscious action.

Back at his house, he asserts his ownership of me consciously, constantly. He is becoming addicted to fucking my mouth, and letting me suck his cock. I adore sucking cock. In the past I have taken pleasure in knowing I am skilled, enthusiastic, in this - I knew that I did a mean blow-job.

But with him, I don't give blow-jobs. They are not something I do to him. They are something he does to me. He just happens to have his dick down my throat, instead of in my cunt or arse. Sometimes he forces me to submit to a brutal throat fucking while I retch and gag and drool. Sometimes he lets me suck him. Regardless, I do not do what I used to. I used to just suck and lick, exactly the way I liked to, doing whatever felt good, *to ME*. Unless he makes a special effort not to give me any verbal or non-verbal cues, I find it impossible now. Which I love. Because I don't want my pleasure to be the focus of sex. I want to be used. I want my body to be used for HIS pleasure, not mine.

And so joyous is it to please him, that my body reacts automatically to what he wants, desires, and needs. Because what he wants, desires, and needs, is what *I* want, desire, and need. Pleasing him in this way gets me impossibly wet. Just talking to him about my need to please, to make him proud of me, to be the perfect fucktoy for him, gets me wet. I am proud and vain and boastful regarding this - it gives me such joy to be always available for him, from the moment we are together to the moment that I leave him. He can claim his property at any time. I never wear tights when I am with him, or if I do, I make sure that they are ones he can rip if he wants to fuck me urgently. Instead I prefer stockings, and heels, and either very short skirts or long ones, easily lifted or moved aside. I like to look pretty for him, with soft skin, scented and clean, shaven. It pleases me. Many of these things I did before I ever met him, but if I know he has a preference for something, it makes me want to always ensure he can have it, if he wants it. Whether I am wet or not, he can sink his fat cock into my swollen pussy at any moment, and know that within a minute or two, I will be sloppily, messily, wet.

I am proud that I have a tight cunt for him, that sucking his dick gets me soaking wet, and that when he tells me to cum, I cum. It pleases me to ask for permission if I am about to climax, and he has not already instructed me to. He likes me to cum hard and often, and it pleases me and makes me happy that I can bring him pleasure this way. When I move to make it easier for his fingers to be inside me, it is not for me that I move, but for him. He likes to play with my cunt, my tits, or to finger my arsehole, while he fucks me, or wanks himself off over me, forcing me beneath him so he can spray his sticky load all over my face, or smother my tits with it, or spunk up all over my pussy, finishing off inside me. Sometimes he will push more of it inside me, with his fingers, or his cock. Or I will lap it from his hand, or his stomach, eagerly. It makes me feel so proud, and happy, to be the perfect fucktoy for him.

Three times now, he has forced me to cum through my whole body, bringing me to orgasm with his voice, telling me where and how to feel it, building it inside me, and then, when he is ready, releasing me. I shook afterwards, twitched and writhed like I had taken an electric shock. Terrifying. Amazing. I am stunned.

I tell him about some of my first fantasies, reminding him that until I was in my late twenties, I had never had a sexual fantasy about anyone except my husband, and never used a toy on my clit, and I had never cum, until then. My whorish ways now, conceal this. Later, he took me through the story of a fantasy so unwholesome and repulsive, I have never shared it with anyone, before. He made it real for me, my body reacted as if it was real - it WAS real, and finally he spun the climax of the tale in my head as he greased me and slowly worked inside me the most brutal, obscene, appalling, of all our dildos, that I have never been able to take before. So determined was I to please him, so fucking incredibly hot was it to feel my depraved imaginings be made real, that I bore down on the immense shaft wantonly, letting the huge meat fill my slutty little pussy, breathing through the pain, until it became pleasure and pain, then only pleasure, heat, pressure, and finally, I came as he worked it back and forth inside me, my cunt becoming unbearably tight on it as my muscles shuddered and squeezed and I moaned, rocking back and forth, uncaring of how shameless, how much of a fucking slut he had made of me.

Because I am *his* slut, *his* whore, *his* fucktoy. His beloved. And he is proud of me. And this makes me happy.

Beauty in Violence

'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.