Posts
I'm a real logophile. Words have a 'mouthfeel' to me, even when read, that affects how I feel about them emotionally. I find this very difficult to seperate from my intellectual understanding of them.
Some words are just trigger words for me getting very fucking horny. 'Abuse' seems to be a favourite at the moment. You can't go wrong with a good 'rape' either. 'Nasty', I'm also becoming acclimatised to.
'Subbie', I hate. DESPISE, actually. It makes me cringe. Also, 'pleasure', when used in a certain bad porn/ mills and boon way - "I'm going to PLEASURE you". Ugh. Doms who refer to someone as 'my sub' really give me the heebiejeebies. It's a very personal thing, but it just rubs me up the wrong way. It just feeds into that whole vibe that some doms have of 'I am the great blah blah blah and this is not a person who is submissive to me, they are 'my sub', like 'my whip' or 'my spreader bars'.
Bad grammar and spelling make my hackles rise anyway. My husband's dyslexic, and his spelling and grammar are better than most - because he makes an effort to overcome it. I can't bear people who say 'I'm dyslexic, so therefore ignore any spelling mistakes. I couldn't be bothered to use the spell checker or practice making an effort and improving, because I am quite frankly, a lazy cunt'. Text speak repulses me. Even worse when it's out of context, in memo or email.
I don't expect everyone to have the same joy in language that I do, but at least some sense of respect for the words that come out of your mouth is reasonable, surely? No-one is perfect, but - really, can you not at least make an effort?
'Whore' is always good. 'Good girl' just melts me. Possessive words when used with respect for me in the mind behind them, turn me into a buttery-cunted little slut. 'Mine', 'you belong to me', 'I own you'.
I really like 'baby', or 'my baby'.
Words with a humorous or disrespectful colour, make me prickle up immediately, if used in a play or sexual context. You might as well laugh in my face. Words that should never be used during anal sex - 'bunghole', 'shitter', 'love portal', 'poo'. Just no. And whilst being quite comfortable with 'cunt', and 'pussy', the word fanny makes me feel quite disgusted. In fact I can actually feel the corner of my mouth turning up in prim maiden aunt fashion, just at the thought of it. 'Vagina' should stay in medical contexts. 'Mimsy' is fine for amusing discussions but not during sex. 'fuckhole' - mmm, depends, makes me a bit uncomfortable. Anything overly flouncy 'your butterfly' or overly rough and ready, 'kebab' just horrifies me.
'Prick' is lovely, 'dick' is fine, 'cock' is my favourite. 'Willy' is okay for strictly silly conversations. That goes for 'Nob' too, really. 'Wank' is a basic standard, you can't really call it anything else that doesn't sound bloody idiotic. 'Fuck' - what's not to like? I've come around to the idea of 'tits'.
There was a conversation on IC the other day about being called talked about using words like 'pig', 'cow', 'udders' etc. I honestly would fucking PUNCH someone who ever said that to me. Just like anyone calling me fat or ugly. I know some people love that kind of play, but it's not something I could ever do. I want to feel I'm being raped or hurt because I'm fucking GORGEOUS, luv, not because I'm bleedin' hideous!
Other words that really make me go murhhrrrrr....'inside', 'cum', 'knife', 'blood', 'violate', 'take', 'have', 'want', 'need'. Yummy.
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Acceptance
An extract from a conversation with my friend, which I'm writing up here in case I need to be reminded of my own words in future...
My old cat, Leo, passed away a couple of years ago. I LOVED Leo. And I mean ADORED him. He was my safe place on four paws.
We worshipped each other- every morning I carried him into the kitchen for breakfast. His voice was the first thing I'd hear when I got home, demanding cuddles, which had to last at least half an hour or he'd swear at me. He was totally uninterested in food - cuddles first.
We got him when I was 12, and at the time I was probably most traumatised in my life. When everything else turned shit, I turned to Leo. He was there for me when my husband (R) was in hospital over and over again, when friends and I argued, when my family imploded. He was my refuge through my teenage years, through illness, trauma, bereavement. He was the thing that made sense, when everything else confused me.
He pined when I went away, made himself ill, wouldn't eat. He would let me carry him round the house like a baby, upside down, for hours. He slept in my arm, under the duvet, with his head on the pillow. Every night before bed he would wash R's beard vigorously.
As he got older he got arthritis, and then diabetes - Type 1, just like R. We used to say it ran in the family. On the vet's advice, we gave him blood tests by trimming his claws a little short - we would use R's blood test kit. We gave him 2 insulin injections a day. He never complained. He knew it would hurt when we trimmed his claws, and he knew it was coming. He would sit in my lap good as gold as I did it. He trusted me not to do anything that would hurt him, that wasn't completely necessary.
As he got to the end of his life he got extremely incontinent, in a variety of unsavoury ways. He'd been doing it on and off for years. He totally melted the carpet in the corners of our old house! For the last few months we lived with plastic sheeting over the sofa, bed etc. He still slept in with us because I couldn't bear to be without him, or to upset him, even though I'd be woken up most nights from lying in a pool of elderly cat wee. And believe me, until you've woken up covered in a diabetic's wee, you don't know anything about urine. There was laundry hanging everywhere, sofa covers constantly in bath being cleaned. We had to try and encourage him to...ahem...evacuate..by hand.
When he passed away, the vet came to our home. He slipped away in my arms, with his belly full of freshly cooked chicken, and for the first time, his body relaxed more than it had done in a year. I realised how hunched his body had been, with pain, for so long. I am sure I saw something, young, leave his body and joyfully spring away. I always picture him now in the grass, in the morning, wet with dew, stalking invisible creatures. He was beautiful. He was always such a beautiful cat - like a brick wrapped in silk, muscled, soft, graceful. Everyone fell in love with him. He had marks all the way up his cat-bed post.
His remains were cremated, and I asked them to cremate the scratch-proof, dribble resistant teddy bear that he loved, as well.
For months - and I mean MONTHS - I woke in the night, crying, waking up R to cuddle me. I HOWLED with loss. My body grieved. I had stomach aches - the heaviest period I'd had for years. It was as if I'd fucking MISCARRIED. My mind knew he wasn't my child, but my body did not. And he was my child - the child of my heart. I couldn't watch anything on television or films about losing a child, for about a year, I would just WAIL.
I lost interest in everything. Nothing seemed to matter anymore, without him. I was in such a bad way, so lonely, that we got our two kittens then, a couple of months after he died. But they weren't *him*. There was still this huge gap, this space, in my heart.
I remember being in at work one morning a couple of months after he died, and saying to my friend - I feel as if a light has gone out inside me, and that it will stay dark there for the rest of my life. I feel as if I'll never have that light inside me, ever again.
And she told me - 'that light HAS gone, and it won't come back'. 'Oh, well that's bloody comforting', I said. And she smiled, and replied, 'but something else, something different, will come. It won't be the same, but good things WILL still come, they will be different, and things that you don't expect. But they will come, and you'll always miss him, he will never be replaced, but other things will come and make your life worth living'.
And they have.
I never thought I could fill that dark space inside me with sexual fulfillment for the first time in my life, for example! I never thought I would fall in love again.
But that's how it works. Things come and go. Part of something being important to you, loving someone or something, is that it seems irreplaceable. And they ARE irreplaceable.
But that doesn't mean you are lost, or dark, or alone, for ever. The sun will always rise - even if the landscape looks different after the earthquake, the light will still come back.
I promise.
My old cat, Leo, passed away a couple of years ago. I LOVED Leo. And I mean ADORED him. He was my safe place on four paws.
We worshipped each other- every morning I carried him into the kitchen for breakfast. His voice was the first thing I'd hear when I got home, demanding cuddles, which had to last at least half an hour or he'd swear at me. He was totally uninterested in food - cuddles first.
We got him when I was 12, and at the time I was probably most traumatised in my life. When everything else turned shit, I turned to Leo. He was there for me when my husband (R) was in hospital over and over again, when friends and I argued, when my family imploded. He was my refuge through my teenage years, through illness, trauma, bereavement. He was the thing that made sense, when everything else confused me.
He pined when I went away, made himself ill, wouldn't eat. He would let me carry him round the house like a baby, upside down, for hours. He slept in my arm, under the duvet, with his head on the pillow. Every night before bed he would wash R's beard vigorously.
As he got older he got arthritis, and then diabetes - Type 1, just like R. We used to say it ran in the family. On the vet's advice, we gave him blood tests by trimming his claws a little short - we would use R's blood test kit. We gave him 2 insulin injections a day. He never complained. He knew it would hurt when we trimmed his claws, and he knew it was coming. He would sit in my lap good as gold as I did it. He trusted me not to do anything that would hurt him, that wasn't completely necessary.
As he got to the end of his life he got extremely incontinent, in a variety of unsavoury ways. He'd been doing it on and off for years. He totally melted the carpet in the corners of our old house! For the last few months we lived with plastic sheeting over the sofa, bed etc. He still slept in with us because I couldn't bear to be without him, or to upset him, even though I'd be woken up most nights from lying in a pool of elderly cat wee. And believe me, until you've woken up covered in a diabetic's wee, you don't know anything about urine. There was laundry hanging everywhere, sofa covers constantly in bath being cleaned. We had to try and encourage him to...ahem...evacuate..by hand.
When he passed away, the vet came to our home. He slipped away in my arms, with his belly full of freshly cooked chicken, and for the first time, his body relaxed more than it had done in a year. I realised how hunched his body had been, with pain, for so long. I am sure I saw something, young, leave his body and joyfully spring away. I always picture him now in the grass, in the morning, wet with dew, stalking invisible creatures. He was beautiful. He was always such a beautiful cat - like a brick wrapped in silk, muscled, soft, graceful. Everyone fell in love with him. He had marks all the way up his cat-bed post.
His remains were cremated, and I asked them to cremate the scratch-proof, dribble resistant teddy bear that he loved, as well.
For months - and I mean MONTHS - I woke in the night, crying, waking up R to cuddle me. I HOWLED with loss. My body grieved. I had stomach aches - the heaviest period I'd had for years. It was as if I'd fucking MISCARRIED. My mind knew he wasn't my child, but my body did not. And he was my child - the child of my heart. I couldn't watch anything on television or films about losing a child, for about a year, I would just WAIL.
I lost interest in everything. Nothing seemed to matter anymore, without him. I was in such a bad way, so lonely, that we got our two kittens then, a couple of months after he died. But they weren't *him*. There was still this huge gap, this space, in my heart.
I remember being in at work one morning a couple of months after he died, and saying to my friend - I feel as if a light has gone out inside me, and that it will stay dark there for the rest of my life. I feel as if I'll never have that light inside me, ever again.
And she told me - 'that light HAS gone, and it won't come back'. 'Oh, well that's bloody comforting', I said. And she smiled, and replied, 'but something else, something different, will come. It won't be the same, but good things WILL still come, they will be different, and things that you don't expect. But they will come, and you'll always miss him, he will never be replaced, but other things will come and make your life worth living'.
And they have.
I never thought I could fill that dark space inside me with sexual fulfillment for the first time in my life, for example! I never thought I would fall in love again.
But that's how it works. Things come and go. Part of something being important to you, loving someone or something, is that it seems irreplaceable. And they ARE irreplaceable.
But that doesn't mean you are lost, or dark, or alone, for ever. The sun will always rise - even if the landscape looks different after the earthquake, the light will still come back.
I promise.
Monday, 12 April 2010
Pack
The mist has risen off the sea and travelled inland; spiral streamers of it are damp in the air, cold dancing on metal. The electricity from me generates occasional sparks in the air, fireflies, tiny explosions; miniature novas in the cold and dark space. I run hot - my body is always warm, burning so much energy.
The mist is uncomfortable. Somehow it makes the town seem uglier - cement, pavement, cold and wet. I feel a moment of yearning for the forest - home - and dream of running, running through thick woodland dressed in fog, in the early morning dawnlight. Hairs rise on me a little - I feel unsafe in urban spaces. I make a conscious effort to settle - I am the monstrous thing that walks in this dark place, my fear is not required and I don't want to risk bringing on a change, this close to the full moon. Something has unnerved me though - it's not just the mist and the lack of earth underneath my feet. I feel the shape of something, a foreshadow of the future. Something threatening.
I am about to close on the feeling, pounce on the sensation and dig in my claws, when something stops me. There is pain in my shoulder, a sharp, stinging throb. I turn to look, feel something scratch, a buzzing, noise, the light is too bright, then – nothing.
Grey. The floor is grey. Cold. It drains my heat from me. Cement again. I want to go home. Please, won’t you let me go home?
Black now.
Grey again, tinged with light this time. Not from a natural source – everything here is hard and cold and uncomforting. Fluorescent strip lights overhead drain the shadows from everything. I strain for clarity, and the world comes back into focus. The floor beneath me, and the ceiling above, is unpainted, uncarpeted cement. Four glass walls surround me. The only feature of this room is the hole leading to a sewer in the corner – it reeks of bleach and old, odd scents. There is no furniture – no bed, no mattress or even a blanket. There is just the cement, the glass, and me. I am not where I should be. Staring out through the glass I see men walking up and down corridors between little glass boxes like this one. Some have women in them. Some are empty. The empty cells have troubling stains on the floor. I can’t smell anything – the glass has completely sealed the room. There must be an air conditioner somewhere, although I can’t see it. I am naked, except for a thin, short silk robe, in black, with Japanese patterns painted on it.
Understanding comes in a sudden wave, ripples green and white.
I have been stolen.
Time passes. I’ve no way to mark it, but I am closely connected to my body. I know I’ve been here for a day. My pack will be in frenzy. I am the only female wolf, although several of the pack members have human girlfriends. I am the one who answers their need to mount a bitch – the only one with whom they do not have to hold back their strength. They cannot damage me; I am as strong as they are. I take pleasure in the pain that comes from fucking, biting, clawing. They can be free, free to ram inside me as hard as they want to with their cock, draw bloody furrows down my shoulders with their claws, gouge ripped teeth marks in my neck – and I will only moan in pleasure.
But they will not be in a frenzied rage because of this. They will be angry and distraught because they love me. We are pack. I feel a tie with all of them, an invisible cord linking me to each one – stretched thin right now due to time and distance since we last marked each other, all becoming one, group scent mingling. And the greatest tie of all, is with my alpha male. My beautiful, strong, dominant leader. As a human, he is smooth-skinned, where he is not covered in dense, thick, curly black and silver hair. It hides his muscular body – wiry, not overly developed; a body meant for love and pleasure as well as hard physical work. His lips are made for suckling on, licking, biting, so smooth and plentiful. His hazel green eyes drown me in lust for him, before his mouth kisses air back inside me. His cock is hard for me, it draws me to it, I can’t not touch, lick stroke. I need him in me. When soft he is delicious, the texture and sensation in my mouth beyond ecstasy, beyond comfort – he is home made flesh.
When in wolf form he is black and silver light in motion; fast, powerful – so much more so than me, than any of the pack. His tail curls back on itself, his tongue falls out of his mouth in a wolfy grin when he sees me. He is as muscular, maybe a little more so, in this form. His cock is huge, pointed; the knot widens and stretches him, the shaft thick and scarred. It becomes angry red and veined when he is mounting me. One thing is unchanged – my need to touch him, scent along him, and be close and intimate with him.
He is my pack leader and mate. My love. My Max.
And Max will come for me, with the pack. And it will be terrible. But the knowledge gives me something to hold to – a reason not to let my mind fracture into a thousand pieces.
My reverie is interrupted by a need for movement - to be in motion. I can never be still for long. I pace back and forth along the glass cage’s floor. Then I stop myself – breathe – re-centre. I begin to move again, but under control this time; stretching, letting my body go where it will, falling into basic dance shapes, holding the pose, releasing. I feel the silk moving seamlessly over my body. It calms me. I feel something pulling on the thread inside me, which leads to the pack. They are coming. I am comforted.
The door opens, startling me. A near invisible split in the glass, let a panel move inward as a man puts his security card against it. He holds a tranquiliser gun casually against his shoulder. I don’t move – I don’t want to risk attacking and being knocked out again. It is gradually occurring to me that I’ve been stolen for a reason, and what that might be. There are too many things that could happen to me while I’m unconscious, for me to chance it.
“You know. I can tell. I can see it in your eyes”. It’s part statement, part command – he expects me to reply and say yes, I know why it is that I’ve been taken and brought here, why I’m in this cage. I ignore him. My silence fills the room. I won’t even look at him. He disgusts me. He’s not an ugly man, but a violence emanates from him that repulses me. His nose is thick; it’s been broken more than once.
Suddenly, I am on my knees. He’s grabbed me by the hair and forced me down onto the floor. Two more men come in the room, stand behind him, holding guns as well. They are dressed in military black, shaven headed. They reek of thug - hired muscle. This one though, has an authority about him, a sadistic, unkind, authority though it is.
I am strong – I am resilient – I heal quickly. I can change form, become wolf, but I am no stronger as my unnatural wolf than the natural creature is. I have no super abilities, no special powers. My gift, if I have one, is to love many, deeply. To give pleasure, to share passion, to release the tension inside others and allow them to play, to be free. I am not a person who knows, understands, violence. To harm another willingly is anathema to me. I feel their pain far too much. But I will protect myself if I can, and defend my pack when needed, with every last ounce of muscle, human or wolf, in my body.
Still and all I am weak from the tranquiliser, weak with hunger and dehydration. He moves shockingly fast and suddenly there is blood – on the floor. On my face. He’s smashed my head into the cement underneath me. The world tumbles, twists.
He goes down on one knee, still holding my hair. “Why. Are. You. Here?” He speaks softly, on the edge of whisper smooth.
I turn my head slightly – he lets me. I meet his eyes. I know mine will be a little sad, as I answer him. “You are gone. All of you – everyone in this room, in this building – is dead. You’re still walking around, you think you’re alive, but you’re not. Your death was already in place from the moment you touched me”.
His eyes change now, too. They alter from arrogance, to incandescent rage. It lights both his face and mine, reflected from my own expression.
He slams my head into the floor again, and pins my arms behind my back. Motioning behind him, the guards obey his instruction and come close, holding me down. He is trembling with anger, so much so that his fingers fumble as he pulls at his belt, undoes it, doesn’t even try to undo the cord which holds my robe closed, just claws at the fabric until a tear forms, which he rips, wrenches at, seizes with both hands and slashes into pieces. The tatters lie around me – the two guards hold me down. He hits me with his belt – it burns, my skin is ablaze. This pain is not the same, as when my loving and excited pack mount me, bite me, claw at me. This pain fuels my temper, it is destructive, damaging. The heat from me increases, radiates out – my skin is almost painful to touch. Again he asks me, and with each word is a blow. “Why are you here? Why are you here you little fucking whore? You stupid BITCH!”
I thrash around, hurting myself, there is blood all over the floor, I am scratched and grazed everywhere, and still I won’t give him what he wants. I will NEVER give him what he wants. The three men hold me down so I am unable to pour out my anger where I want to – so instead I release my control, held threadbare anyway by the threat, the need. I bathe myself in change, it is over in seconds. It surges over me, waves on rocks, I am flooded, overcome.
Now the body held down is wolf in form. I whine, use my re-shaped jaws to snap at them, try and use my claws, wanting to inflict as much harm as possible. I know I’ve denied them the words they tried to force from me, whatever happens next, I know I’ve won. They think they’ll punish me with something even worse – they’re wrong. I will never give in, not to them. They can hurt me, beat me, rape me – they can’t get inside my head. Only my Max, my beautiful Max, can do that. I am only for him. And when he chooses to share me with the pack.
They are incensed by my change, and keep furiously hitting me, restraining me. In victory, I find the pain easier to take, but I know what’s coming next.
“That’s right, whore. Change into your little bitch form – like the stupid bitch you are. That’s what our customers will pay us for anyway. You know it already, you’re ours now. We will whore you the fuck out to whoever will pay us the most. They can fuck your cunt, arse or mouth; human, or wolf, or change you halfway through. You will fuck them, and you will do a good job because if you don’t, we will beat you pissless. Why don’t you enjoy a little taste now? We deserve something considering all the trouble you’ve caused us, you nasty fucking whore.”
He rips open his flies and pulls his dick out, shoves his trousers down slightly, and mounts me from behind, roughly, violently. With each thrust he groans, cries out, or moans. “Oh yeah, fuck yeah…I’ve got a little bit of bitch cunt on my prick. This is what they pay for and I’m getting it free. God she’s tight. I’m gonna fuck her whorish little bitch cunt until I come in her, and then, you are going to fuck her too. Perk of the job, I reckon. I’m in charge here, you’re gonna fuck her arse and mouth.”
He’s inside me for no longer than a minute before he comes, scalding hot cum pouring inside me, filling me up with pain. He collapses, sweaty and exhausted on top of me, and I whimper gently. I have gone to another place in my head – somewhere…not here. I hardly fight back at all as one of the guards pulls his cock out and shoves it in my arse, holding onto my tail as he slams into me over and over again. His balls slap against me, making a loud smacking noise heightened by the cum which covers them, left behind from the rape only moments before.
He rapes me, and yet somehow he is the one humiliated by the act – shamed, as he pounds into me, sweating, dishevelled, his balding head jerking back and forth, his face slack as he buggers me, the first hint of a beer gut blooming on his pale, unhealthy skin, which I feel press against me each time his cock slams into my arse. I smell his ripe, sour scent, the reek of the cum he spilt on his hands last night as his wife turned her back on him in bed, again. The stench of his teeth, rotting unbeknownst to him, in his mouth. His stinking, discoloured hands are stained from endless roll-ups outside the gates, I can feel them, as they clench my fur in handfuls tighter and tighter as cum boils up out of his balls, and he blows his load inside my tight little arsehole.
The remaining guard shoves him roughly out the way when he’s barely finished – he is putting himself in place at my mouth, when the change comes over me again. An evolutionary defence mechanism, a response to continued threat – if one form hasn’t worked, try another. Human again, but this time I am in no state to resist, no longer defiant, just a sobbing, shuddering wreck on the floor, my cunt and arse streaming with cum from two men, about to be violated, violently, by a third. And knowing that once he’s dumped his load in me, it’s only a matter of time before I’m whored out to a customer. I put all my energy into the hope that my Max will bring the pack, in time to save his bitch.
The last guard holds me up by two handfuls of my hair, forcing me to my knees. My whole face is wet – I’m not just crying, I’m howling – gasping, shrieking out wordless sounds, screaming in pain and rage, unable to stay in the distant space inside my head where I hide. Tears and more pour out of my face, as he stoppers my mouth with his dick, muffling some of the noise. He brutally fucks my throat – my screams change to choking sounds, I cough, gag, wheeze, spit drools freely from my lips, and as he pulls out, it pours out of my mouth like cum. He slaps my tits with his hand, and then slaps me in the face with his prick. “Oh god, you fucking whore, you fucking whore”, he says, over and over again as he thrusts. His balls hit my chin, he’s forcing his cock right down as deep as it will go, mashing my own lips against my teeth. I feel something split with the violence of his force, my body struggles – he looks down, sees the blood on my face, sees me broken, and comes, ejaculating wave after wave of salty, burning seed, down into my stomach, pulling out at the last moment, spilling violation over my lips, cheeks, throat, breasts – it coats me in sticky, hot fluid. I fall to the floor like a rag doll as he releases his grip on my hair.
They are gone now.
I’m sore. I try to scrape their scent off me with silk rags, but I can’t. It’s choking me, suffocating me – sweat, spit, cum. There is nothing to wash myself with. I’m shaking, cold even by human standards. There is not so much as a blanket to wrap myself in. I pull my arms around myself instead, and stroke my own skin gently.
I can feel the pack coming closer. They are nearly here now. Through the door I see a man in a suit, in close conversation with the guards. They take him round to look inside the cells, he is taking his time choosing. He pauses in front of mine. I am dirty, bloodied, but still he looks. He turns to a guard and starts to say something – it’s too late, I think. They won’t come in time. Then I feel a tug down the link that bonds me to the pack.
Please get here. Please get here soon. I can’t hold on for much longer.
The lights stop working. Dark, it’s so dark – there are no windows, no natural light at all. I can’t hear anything outside my cell – there is no space for the sound to carry through. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for – I leap up and search frantically for the edge of the door. It’s impossible to see, even with light, and my fingers only find the crack because my sensitive hearing notices an infinitesimally louder space in the glass, where a little noise is spilling through.
I put my hands either side of where I guess the lock to be, and change. Two things happen at once. The electrical energy inside me, generated by the heat and my body’s alteration of form, grounds itself in the nanolock holding the door closed. There is a blinding flash, then an eruption of sound and scent. Chaos – fighting, screams, breaking glass, metal on metal, gunshots – streams into my ears, made ultra sensitive by my change. The smell of blood and other viscera, sweat, humans and pack, hits me almost as hard. I shimmy out of my fur as quickly as possible and remake myself human again. I still stink of rape – the scents and fluids have gone with me through change and back again.
A body barrels into me and knocks me flying at high speed. I smell and feel immediately that he is pack – the scent and touch of home hit me and I can’t help myself, I sob helplessly, anguished, animal sounds issue from my human form as I wail over and over again. He gives me comfort as only pack can – licking my face, rubbing his scent over me, re-marking me as part of the group, letting me hold his fur as I rock back and forth. I can’t see anything, but I know exactly which of my family this is. I know he can’t change back to human right now –he’s not powerful enough to do it at will without the help of his alpha, but he stays with me, and just the line of his body against mine, the feel of his fur against my skin, soothes and calms me.
The fighting is starting to come to an end, parts of the room are clear of noise, and there’s some light, torches held by the pack as they secure sections of the prison. I gather myself together and look for Max – he is across the room, fighting a pitched battle with the man who raped me. Of course he would go straight to them, smelling my scent on them. The two guards are already dead at his feet, their throats bitten out, black blood already clotting on the floor. As an alpha, Max can change some or all of his body at will, and he’s fighting with five knifelike claws attached to each hand. As his body wheels into position for the final stroke, he sees me, bloodied and broken, and meets my eyes across the room. He’s holding the man up by the hair, across the front of his body. As he uses his claws to slice open the chest and eviscerate him, he smiles lovingly at me. He starts to pull the man’s intestines out of his body, accompanied by pain filled frenzied screaming – he lifts them up to his mouth, and starts to eat. He is the last to die, and Max tosses his carcass to the floor like so much carrion. The rest of the pack fall upon the dead body and consume it.
He stalks across the room and catches me as the adrenaline leaves me – I fall, I fall into him. He carries me, but I start to struggle and he lets me stand again. I want to release the others – we cannot leave anyone behind in the glass cells. I want to do it myself but don’t have the strength to – he asks the pack to see to it, using their energy from changing to short-circuit the locks. I feel his energy stream out and trigger the change in the weaker and younger pack members. They release the other women, see them safely outside, give them a mobile to call for help, some blankets – little things which will help without leaving evidence of the pack behind, or giving away information.
I get as far as the backseat of Max’s landrover, before I start shaking violently. I can’t get warm - I just can’t get warm. He gets in with me, leaving one of the pack to drive instead, and pulls a blanket around my still-naked shoulders. I’m covered in filth – blood, sweat, tears, spit and cum. We’re travelling in convoy – pack members in cars ahead, and behind. Max’s arms are around me, pressing me closely into his chest, under his arm – but I still don’t feel safe. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe again. He strokes me, whispers soft words, holds my hand to his chest to feel his slow breathing, his heart beating.
The car stops when we’re near home. I get anxious, scared of what’s happening. He soothes me – “sshhh, it’s okay, it’s okay baby. I’m going to make you better, my baby girl”.
He carries me out of the car and into the meadow. The pack follows, a strange procession, almost ritual.
He puts me down in the wild grass by the stream. There are poppies under me, crushed by my body, red petals falling to the earth. Max triggers another change - all of the pack are in wolf form now except for the two of us. He takes his clothes off, and holds me to his chest again, as he stands. We are both naked now. He settles me into the water, holding me so that we are both sitting up, my back against his chest. He takes handfuls of water, washing my body clean, washing all the dirt out of me. The water is cold, and my heat has not returned yet – I shiver, clinging to him, clutching at his legs. He holds me close, and I feel a little of his heat transfer to me. My energy is so depleted that the electrical charge normally created when our bodies come within reach of each other, barely creates a spark in the water.
He lets me drink from his hand – I gulp at it thirstily. Two of the younger members of the pack are sent to hunt – they will bring the kills to our home so we can feast, later.
The pack sings, as he cleans me of the scents of strangers, far from home. They sing of love, and mourning. The sun is setting, and the moon is coming up – it is full tonight. I feel a tug – some of my energy is returning. Before the sun goes down, part of this strange cleansing must begin before sunset – I know that, but I don’t know how I know it. I am following patterns laid down before I was born.
Max stands, and takes my hand – I follow him and he lays me in the meadow. I smell loosestrife, rue and woundwort as the flowers are crushed underneath me. He gathers speedwell and mashes the leaves in his hands, then rubs my body with the pulp. I want to push him away, I feel suddenly conscious of my nakedness, and his hands on me bring me close to tears again. But I submit to his care, I want his scent on me again. I need it.
The grass scratches and tickles against my back, as he presses firmly down against my white skin with the palm of his hand. He mounds each breast and squeezes it, rubbing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He digs his thumbs into my shoulder blade, and smoothes out the knotted muscle. Light touch on my neck – my hairs start to rise and goose bumps form as he gently pets me there. He runs his hand down my arm to my wrists, lifts them, kisses them, and speeds kisses up into the palm of my hand. He takes each finger into his mouth and sucks it, licks, bites. My body begins to respond to his – I am unable not to.
His hands grasp firmly again as both palms slide down the inside of my legs. He rubs around my calves and then slowly, slowly, his hands come up between my legs. My breathing comes faster, my heat is rising. He puts my arms above my head, and lets me spread my legs – but still, he doesn’t touch me there, not where I want him to. And I do want him to. I feel the lips of my pussy plumpen with need, I know they must glisten with wetness.
His fingers rub closer and closer, but still he does not touch – then I feel a single light brush. My whole body shudders – my back arches, I sigh. He knows then, that I am ready for him, and without any more prelude, he takes me. His cock slips inside like it was made to be there, I close around him, velvety, warm, wet and tight. I instantly feel safer, and clutch him closer to me, my nails digging into his buttocks. He growls gently into my neck, and nips me a little. I bite him back, little tiny nibbles, and then his teeth sink into me hard. I tip my head back and cry out. He holds my face in his hand, and murmers soft bonds of love, each word a kiss.
He pulls out and turns me then, and slides back inside, as deep as he can go. Slow, deep and hard thrusts, his hands on my shoulders. Then, just as the sun’s last light fades out, and the world turns to moonlit monochrome, he changes inside me. The thick shaft becomes pointed, skin changing shape – suddenly the hands on my shoulders are heavy, thick-furred paws. His rhythm changes, as his haunches balance differently, he jabs into me fast – his hindquarters slamming his thick, heavy, cum-filled balls, against my still human creamy thighs.
I feel a knot develop on his thick, scarred, reddened cock – no matter how many times he stretches me, no matter how I practice and try for him, I still have to try just as hard every time when in human form and he is wolf. My pussy is still as tight, still resists his knotted size just as much, when he mounts me. My back bows with the pressure of his weight above me, my legs are spread as wide as I can, and still when I look between my thighs I can see my pussy stretched out, opening up so that he can force that large knotted mass inside me.
He drives the last of it inside me with one final thrust, and the pain is cleansing. He plunges himself in and out of me with an intense, rapid assault on my cunt. I feel his cum scorch me as with each thrust yet more surges out – more than ever before. He is burning me from the inside out – I feel my heat return, as if he is pumping energy inside me with each gush of creamy liquid. There is so much – so much cum; a glut of it. With the last few spurts as he empties out his balls inside me, he bites, deep and hard, into my neck. I feel instant marks form, and I’m glad of them. I want, need, am compelled and crying out for, his mark on me – his scent, his cum, his bruises all over my body. I need to be made pack again. I need to be home. To be safe.
As his red, softening cock flops out, cum gushes out after it, like a cork has been pulled from an upended bottle, pouring out over my thighs, the crushed flowers beneath them. I collapse, roll over onto my back, and he moves forward to stand over me. He gently bites down on my neck, rubbing the bruises in deeper. His muzzle rests against my face, he breaths out gently, then signals to the rest of the pack.
In moments they are on me. The sun is down now, and the moon full in the sky. And so I choose to keep my human form, control returning to me with each act of power. Our two biggest in size after Max, bound forward, eager for their turn. It is rape, the way they take me. I would not have chosen it this way, and yet I am wet for them, wanting them. I kneel in the meadowgrass as the huge wolf stands on his hindlegs, rubbing his heavy, meaty cock over my swollen, stretched pussy, covering it in cum from his alpha. As soon as he’s covered himself in it, he rams it into my arse, but holds himself still with great effort while his packmate mounts me from the front, sliding his cock with relative ease until my still soaked pussy.
They move in unison, violating me, cunt and arse, violently slaking their need to re-establish a bond with their submissive pack female, covering her in their scent, and cum. He fucks me hard – brutally pounding my asshole, stretching me out, slamming me into his packmate who fucks just as hard into my cunt. I feel myself widen, and eventually snap back into place around their dual knots. As they tie with me and begin to release their heavy load, they both howl and claw in a frenzy at my back, each sinking fangs into my neck. Blood pours from me, it soaks into their fur, their claws are red with it. I scream – they fuck harder. I scream more, they fuck and bite and claw more deeply. As the last of their boiling seed fills me up to the belly, they pull out simultaneously and I fall, ravished, unable to hold up my own weight any longer.
But the rest of the pack want their turn – there is no stopping, not until the last one of our forty strong pack is done, each using the their predecessor’s spunk to ease their entry. And still, there is no rest, no surcease for me.
My Max returns to me as human. He reaches between my legs, scoops up a palmful of cum accumulated from the whole pack, and lets me gratefully lick it from his hand. Then he takes another handful and rubs it over my tits; smears the last few sticky drops in my face.
“I love you so much, my little bitch. You are safe now. You are ours. Mine. My bitch, to mount whenever I want. Get into wolf form. I’m going to just fucking mount you again, one more time – because I can”.
I change for him – my body dissolving and coalescing around itself, furred and strong. He changes too, his cock already beginning to knot, his balls just as heavy even though he’d blown his load into me only two hours before. He gets behind me and just sticks his cock straight in, I’m still stretched and sloppy with the cum of the pack. I feel him swelling, and have to open even wider to take his knot one last time. Just before he ties with me, he pulls out, and takes my arsehole instead. His angry, knotted cock, ties my body with his – I can’t be taken from him now. I howl in joy. He pants heavily, growls softly, bites the back of my neck – hard, and rakes his claws over and over on my skin. Even with fast healing, I will be wearing these scars for a while. With one final slam he drains himself dry, leaving me with torrents of cum from him, pouring out to join the messy remains of the pack’s violations.
He curls around me like a huge furry blanket, and all of the pack, even the two youngest back from the hunt, join us. Safe in a pile of densely muscled bodies, my pack scent is restored to me, I am safe. I am home again.
The mist is uncomfortable. Somehow it makes the town seem uglier - cement, pavement, cold and wet. I feel a moment of yearning for the forest - home - and dream of running, running through thick woodland dressed in fog, in the early morning dawnlight. Hairs rise on me a little - I feel unsafe in urban spaces. I make a conscious effort to settle - I am the monstrous thing that walks in this dark place, my fear is not required and I don't want to risk bringing on a change, this close to the full moon. Something has unnerved me though - it's not just the mist and the lack of earth underneath my feet. I feel the shape of something, a foreshadow of the future. Something threatening.
I am about to close on the feeling, pounce on the sensation and dig in my claws, when something stops me. There is pain in my shoulder, a sharp, stinging throb. I turn to look, feel something scratch, a buzzing, noise, the light is too bright, then – nothing.
Grey. The floor is grey. Cold. It drains my heat from me. Cement again. I want to go home. Please, won’t you let me go home?
Black now.
Grey again, tinged with light this time. Not from a natural source – everything here is hard and cold and uncomforting. Fluorescent strip lights overhead drain the shadows from everything. I strain for clarity, and the world comes back into focus. The floor beneath me, and the ceiling above, is unpainted, uncarpeted cement. Four glass walls surround me. The only feature of this room is the hole leading to a sewer in the corner – it reeks of bleach and old, odd scents. There is no furniture – no bed, no mattress or even a blanket. There is just the cement, the glass, and me. I am not where I should be. Staring out through the glass I see men walking up and down corridors between little glass boxes like this one. Some have women in them. Some are empty. The empty cells have troubling stains on the floor. I can’t smell anything – the glass has completely sealed the room. There must be an air conditioner somewhere, although I can’t see it. I am naked, except for a thin, short silk robe, in black, with Japanese patterns painted on it.
Understanding comes in a sudden wave, ripples green and white.
I have been stolen.
Time passes. I’ve no way to mark it, but I am closely connected to my body. I know I’ve been here for a day. My pack will be in frenzy. I am the only female wolf, although several of the pack members have human girlfriends. I am the one who answers their need to mount a bitch – the only one with whom they do not have to hold back their strength. They cannot damage me; I am as strong as they are. I take pleasure in the pain that comes from fucking, biting, clawing. They can be free, free to ram inside me as hard as they want to with their cock, draw bloody furrows down my shoulders with their claws, gouge ripped teeth marks in my neck – and I will only moan in pleasure.
But they will not be in a frenzied rage because of this. They will be angry and distraught because they love me. We are pack. I feel a tie with all of them, an invisible cord linking me to each one – stretched thin right now due to time and distance since we last marked each other, all becoming one, group scent mingling. And the greatest tie of all, is with my alpha male. My beautiful, strong, dominant leader. As a human, he is smooth-skinned, where he is not covered in dense, thick, curly black and silver hair. It hides his muscular body – wiry, not overly developed; a body meant for love and pleasure as well as hard physical work. His lips are made for suckling on, licking, biting, so smooth and plentiful. His hazel green eyes drown me in lust for him, before his mouth kisses air back inside me. His cock is hard for me, it draws me to it, I can’t not touch, lick stroke. I need him in me. When soft he is delicious, the texture and sensation in my mouth beyond ecstasy, beyond comfort – he is home made flesh.
When in wolf form he is black and silver light in motion; fast, powerful – so much more so than me, than any of the pack. His tail curls back on itself, his tongue falls out of his mouth in a wolfy grin when he sees me. He is as muscular, maybe a little more so, in this form. His cock is huge, pointed; the knot widens and stretches him, the shaft thick and scarred. It becomes angry red and veined when he is mounting me. One thing is unchanged – my need to touch him, scent along him, and be close and intimate with him.
He is my pack leader and mate. My love. My Max.
And Max will come for me, with the pack. And it will be terrible. But the knowledge gives me something to hold to – a reason not to let my mind fracture into a thousand pieces.
My reverie is interrupted by a need for movement - to be in motion. I can never be still for long. I pace back and forth along the glass cage’s floor. Then I stop myself – breathe – re-centre. I begin to move again, but under control this time; stretching, letting my body go where it will, falling into basic dance shapes, holding the pose, releasing. I feel the silk moving seamlessly over my body. It calms me. I feel something pulling on the thread inside me, which leads to the pack. They are coming. I am comforted.
The door opens, startling me. A near invisible split in the glass, let a panel move inward as a man puts his security card against it. He holds a tranquiliser gun casually against his shoulder. I don’t move – I don’t want to risk attacking and being knocked out again. It is gradually occurring to me that I’ve been stolen for a reason, and what that might be. There are too many things that could happen to me while I’m unconscious, for me to chance it.
“You know. I can tell. I can see it in your eyes”. It’s part statement, part command – he expects me to reply and say yes, I know why it is that I’ve been taken and brought here, why I’m in this cage. I ignore him. My silence fills the room. I won’t even look at him. He disgusts me. He’s not an ugly man, but a violence emanates from him that repulses me. His nose is thick; it’s been broken more than once.
Suddenly, I am on my knees. He’s grabbed me by the hair and forced me down onto the floor. Two more men come in the room, stand behind him, holding guns as well. They are dressed in military black, shaven headed. They reek of thug - hired muscle. This one though, has an authority about him, a sadistic, unkind, authority though it is.
I am strong – I am resilient – I heal quickly. I can change form, become wolf, but I am no stronger as my unnatural wolf than the natural creature is. I have no super abilities, no special powers. My gift, if I have one, is to love many, deeply. To give pleasure, to share passion, to release the tension inside others and allow them to play, to be free. I am not a person who knows, understands, violence. To harm another willingly is anathema to me. I feel their pain far too much. But I will protect myself if I can, and defend my pack when needed, with every last ounce of muscle, human or wolf, in my body.
Still and all I am weak from the tranquiliser, weak with hunger and dehydration. He moves shockingly fast and suddenly there is blood – on the floor. On my face. He’s smashed my head into the cement underneath me. The world tumbles, twists.
He goes down on one knee, still holding my hair. “Why. Are. You. Here?” He speaks softly, on the edge of whisper smooth.
I turn my head slightly – he lets me. I meet his eyes. I know mine will be a little sad, as I answer him. “You are gone. All of you – everyone in this room, in this building – is dead. You’re still walking around, you think you’re alive, but you’re not. Your death was already in place from the moment you touched me”.
His eyes change now, too. They alter from arrogance, to incandescent rage. It lights both his face and mine, reflected from my own expression.
He slams my head into the floor again, and pins my arms behind my back. Motioning behind him, the guards obey his instruction and come close, holding me down. He is trembling with anger, so much so that his fingers fumble as he pulls at his belt, undoes it, doesn’t even try to undo the cord which holds my robe closed, just claws at the fabric until a tear forms, which he rips, wrenches at, seizes with both hands and slashes into pieces. The tatters lie around me – the two guards hold me down. He hits me with his belt – it burns, my skin is ablaze. This pain is not the same, as when my loving and excited pack mount me, bite me, claw at me. This pain fuels my temper, it is destructive, damaging. The heat from me increases, radiates out – my skin is almost painful to touch. Again he asks me, and with each word is a blow. “Why are you here? Why are you here you little fucking whore? You stupid BITCH!”
I thrash around, hurting myself, there is blood all over the floor, I am scratched and grazed everywhere, and still I won’t give him what he wants. I will NEVER give him what he wants. The three men hold me down so I am unable to pour out my anger where I want to – so instead I release my control, held threadbare anyway by the threat, the need. I bathe myself in change, it is over in seconds. It surges over me, waves on rocks, I am flooded, overcome.
Now the body held down is wolf in form. I whine, use my re-shaped jaws to snap at them, try and use my claws, wanting to inflict as much harm as possible. I know I’ve denied them the words they tried to force from me, whatever happens next, I know I’ve won. They think they’ll punish me with something even worse – they’re wrong. I will never give in, not to them. They can hurt me, beat me, rape me – they can’t get inside my head. Only my Max, my beautiful Max, can do that. I am only for him. And when he chooses to share me with the pack.
They are incensed by my change, and keep furiously hitting me, restraining me. In victory, I find the pain easier to take, but I know what’s coming next.
“That’s right, whore. Change into your little bitch form – like the stupid bitch you are. That’s what our customers will pay us for anyway. You know it already, you’re ours now. We will whore you the fuck out to whoever will pay us the most. They can fuck your cunt, arse or mouth; human, or wolf, or change you halfway through. You will fuck them, and you will do a good job because if you don’t, we will beat you pissless. Why don’t you enjoy a little taste now? We deserve something considering all the trouble you’ve caused us, you nasty fucking whore.”
He rips open his flies and pulls his dick out, shoves his trousers down slightly, and mounts me from behind, roughly, violently. With each thrust he groans, cries out, or moans. “Oh yeah, fuck yeah…I’ve got a little bit of bitch cunt on my prick. This is what they pay for and I’m getting it free. God she’s tight. I’m gonna fuck her whorish little bitch cunt until I come in her, and then, you are going to fuck her too. Perk of the job, I reckon. I’m in charge here, you’re gonna fuck her arse and mouth.”
He’s inside me for no longer than a minute before he comes, scalding hot cum pouring inside me, filling me up with pain. He collapses, sweaty and exhausted on top of me, and I whimper gently. I have gone to another place in my head – somewhere…not here. I hardly fight back at all as one of the guards pulls his cock out and shoves it in my arse, holding onto my tail as he slams into me over and over again. His balls slap against me, making a loud smacking noise heightened by the cum which covers them, left behind from the rape only moments before.
He rapes me, and yet somehow he is the one humiliated by the act – shamed, as he pounds into me, sweating, dishevelled, his balding head jerking back and forth, his face slack as he buggers me, the first hint of a beer gut blooming on his pale, unhealthy skin, which I feel press against me each time his cock slams into my arse. I smell his ripe, sour scent, the reek of the cum he spilt on his hands last night as his wife turned her back on him in bed, again. The stench of his teeth, rotting unbeknownst to him, in his mouth. His stinking, discoloured hands are stained from endless roll-ups outside the gates, I can feel them, as they clench my fur in handfuls tighter and tighter as cum boils up out of his balls, and he blows his load inside my tight little arsehole.
The remaining guard shoves him roughly out the way when he’s barely finished – he is putting himself in place at my mouth, when the change comes over me again. An evolutionary defence mechanism, a response to continued threat – if one form hasn’t worked, try another. Human again, but this time I am in no state to resist, no longer defiant, just a sobbing, shuddering wreck on the floor, my cunt and arse streaming with cum from two men, about to be violated, violently, by a third. And knowing that once he’s dumped his load in me, it’s only a matter of time before I’m whored out to a customer. I put all my energy into the hope that my Max will bring the pack, in time to save his bitch.
The last guard holds me up by two handfuls of my hair, forcing me to my knees. My whole face is wet – I’m not just crying, I’m howling – gasping, shrieking out wordless sounds, screaming in pain and rage, unable to stay in the distant space inside my head where I hide. Tears and more pour out of my face, as he stoppers my mouth with his dick, muffling some of the noise. He brutally fucks my throat – my screams change to choking sounds, I cough, gag, wheeze, spit drools freely from my lips, and as he pulls out, it pours out of my mouth like cum. He slaps my tits with his hand, and then slaps me in the face with his prick. “Oh god, you fucking whore, you fucking whore”, he says, over and over again as he thrusts. His balls hit my chin, he’s forcing his cock right down as deep as it will go, mashing my own lips against my teeth. I feel something split with the violence of his force, my body struggles – he looks down, sees the blood on my face, sees me broken, and comes, ejaculating wave after wave of salty, burning seed, down into my stomach, pulling out at the last moment, spilling violation over my lips, cheeks, throat, breasts – it coats me in sticky, hot fluid. I fall to the floor like a rag doll as he releases his grip on my hair.
They are gone now.
I’m sore. I try to scrape their scent off me with silk rags, but I can’t. It’s choking me, suffocating me – sweat, spit, cum. There is nothing to wash myself with. I’m shaking, cold even by human standards. There is not so much as a blanket to wrap myself in. I pull my arms around myself instead, and stroke my own skin gently.
I can feel the pack coming closer. They are nearly here now. Through the door I see a man in a suit, in close conversation with the guards. They take him round to look inside the cells, he is taking his time choosing. He pauses in front of mine. I am dirty, bloodied, but still he looks. He turns to a guard and starts to say something – it’s too late, I think. They won’t come in time. Then I feel a tug down the link that bonds me to the pack.
Please get here. Please get here soon. I can’t hold on for much longer.
The lights stop working. Dark, it’s so dark – there are no windows, no natural light at all. I can’t hear anything outside my cell – there is no space for the sound to carry through. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for – I leap up and search frantically for the edge of the door. It’s impossible to see, even with light, and my fingers only find the crack because my sensitive hearing notices an infinitesimally louder space in the glass, where a little noise is spilling through.
I put my hands either side of where I guess the lock to be, and change. Two things happen at once. The electrical energy inside me, generated by the heat and my body’s alteration of form, grounds itself in the nanolock holding the door closed. There is a blinding flash, then an eruption of sound and scent. Chaos – fighting, screams, breaking glass, metal on metal, gunshots – streams into my ears, made ultra sensitive by my change. The smell of blood and other viscera, sweat, humans and pack, hits me almost as hard. I shimmy out of my fur as quickly as possible and remake myself human again. I still stink of rape – the scents and fluids have gone with me through change and back again.
A body barrels into me and knocks me flying at high speed. I smell and feel immediately that he is pack – the scent and touch of home hit me and I can’t help myself, I sob helplessly, anguished, animal sounds issue from my human form as I wail over and over again. He gives me comfort as only pack can – licking my face, rubbing his scent over me, re-marking me as part of the group, letting me hold his fur as I rock back and forth. I can’t see anything, but I know exactly which of my family this is. I know he can’t change back to human right now –he’s not powerful enough to do it at will without the help of his alpha, but he stays with me, and just the line of his body against mine, the feel of his fur against my skin, soothes and calms me.
The fighting is starting to come to an end, parts of the room are clear of noise, and there’s some light, torches held by the pack as they secure sections of the prison. I gather myself together and look for Max – he is across the room, fighting a pitched battle with the man who raped me. Of course he would go straight to them, smelling my scent on them. The two guards are already dead at his feet, their throats bitten out, black blood already clotting on the floor. As an alpha, Max can change some or all of his body at will, and he’s fighting with five knifelike claws attached to each hand. As his body wheels into position for the final stroke, he sees me, bloodied and broken, and meets my eyes across the room. He’s holding the man up by the hair, across the front of his body. As he uses his claws to slice open the chest and eviscerate him, he smiles lovingly at me. He starts to pull the man’s intestines out of his body, accompanied by pain filled frenzied screaming – he lifts them up to his mouth, and starts to eat. He is the last to die, and Max tosses his carcass to the floor like so much carrion. The rest of the pack fall upon the dead body and consume it.
He stalks across the room and catches me as the adrenaline leaves me – I fall, I fall into him. He carries me, but I start to struggle and he lets me stand again. I want to release the others – we cannot leave anyone behind in the glass cells. I want to do it myself but don’t have the strength to – he asks the pack to see to it, using their energy from changing to short-circuit the locks. I feel his energy stream out and trigger the change in the weaker and younger pack members. They release the other women, see them safely outside, give them a mobile to call for help, some blankets – little things which will help without leaving evidence of the pack behind, or giving away information.
I get as far as the backseat of Max’s landrover, before I start shaking violently. I can’t get warm - I just can’t get warm. He gets in with me, leaving one of the pack to drive instead, and pulls a blanket around my still-naked shoulders. I’m covered in filth – blood, sweat, tears, spit and cum. We’re travelling in convoy – pack members in cars ahead, and behind. Max’s arms are around me, pressing me closely into his chest, under his arm – but I still don’t feel safe. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe again. He strokes me, whispers soft words, holds my hand to his chest to feel his slow breathing, his heart beating.
The car stops when we’re near home. I get anxious, scared of what’s happening. He soothes me – “sshhh, it’s okay, it’s okay baby. I’m going to make you better, my baby girl”.
He carries me out of the car and into the meadow. The pack follows, a strange procession, almost ritual.
He puts me down in the wild grass by the stream. There are poppies under me, crushed by my body, red petals falling to the earth. Max triggers another change - all of the pack are in wolf form now except for the two of us. He takes his clothes off, and holds me to his chest again, as he stands. We are both naked now. He settles me into the water, holding me so that we are both sitting up, my back against his chest. He takes handfuls of water, washing my body clean, washing all the dirt out of me. The water is cold, and my heat has not returned yet – I shiver, clinging to him, clutching at his legs. He holds me close, and I feel a little of his heat transfer to me. My energy is so depleted that the electrical charge normally created when our bodies come within reach of each other, barely creates a spark in the water.
He lets me drink from his hand – I gulp at it thirstily. Two of the younger members of the pack are sent to hunt – they will bring the kills to our home so we can feast, later.
The pack sings, as he cleans me of the scents of strangers, far from home. They sing of love, and mourning. The sun is setting, and the moon is coming up – it is full tonight. I feel a tug – some of my energy is returning. Before the sun goes down, part of this strange cleansing must begin before sunset – I know that, but I don’t know how I know it. I am following patterns laid down before I was born.
Max stands, and takes my hand – I follow him and he lays me in the meadow. I smell loosestrife, rue and woundwort as the flowers are crushed underneath me. He gathers speedwell and mashes the leaves in his hands, then rubs my body with the pulp. I want to push him away, I feel suddenly conscious of my nakedness, and his hands on me bring me close to tears again. But I submit to his care, I want his scent on me again. I need it.
The grass scratches and tickles against my back, as he presses firmly down against my white skin with the palm of his hand. He mounds each breast and squeezes it, rubbing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He digs his thumbs into my shoulder blade, and smoothes out the knotted muscle. Light touch on my neck – my hairs start to rise and goose bumps form as he gently pets me there. He runs his hand down my arm to my wrists, lifts them, kisses them, and speeds kisses up into the palm of my hand. He takes each finger into his mouth and sucks it, licks, bites. My body begins to respond to his – I am unable not to.
His hands grasp firmly again as both palms slide down the inside of my legs. He rubs around my calves and then slowly, slowly, his hands come up between my legs. My breathing comes faster, my heat is rising. He puts my arms above my head, and lets me spread my legs – but still, he doesn’t touch me there, not where I want him to. And I do want him to. I feel the lips of my pussy plumpen with need, I know they must glisten with wetness.
His fingers rub closer and closer, but still he does not touch – then I feel a single light brush. My whole body shudders – my back arches, I sigh. He knows then, that I am ready for him, and without any more prelude, he takes me. His cock slips inside like it was made to be there, I close around him, velvety, warm, wet and tight. I instantly feel safer, and clutch him closer to me, my nails digging into his buttocks. He growls gently into my neck, and nips me a little. I bite him back, little tiny nibbles, and then his teeth sink into me hard. I tip my head back and cry out. He holds my face in his hand, and murmers soft bonds of love, each word a kiss.
He pulls out and turns me then, and slides back inside, as deep as he can go. Slow, deep and hard thrusts, his hands on my shoulders. Then, just as the sun’s last light fades out, and the world turns to moonlit monochrome, he changes inside me. The thick shaft becomes pointed, skin changing shape – suddenly the hands on my shoulders are heavy, thick-furred paws. His rhythm changes, as his haunches balance differently, he jabs into me fast – his hindquarters slamming his thick, heavy, cum-filled balls, against my still human creamy thighs.
I feel a knot develop on his thick, scarred, reddened cock – no matter how many times he stretches me, no matter how I practice and try for him, I still have to try just as hard every time when in human form and he is wolf. My pussy is still as tight, still resists his knotted size just as much, when he mounts me. My back bows with the pressure of his weight above me, my legs are spread as wide as I can, and still when I look between my thighs I can see my pussy stretched out, opening up so that he can force that large knotted mass inside me.
He drives the last of it inside me with one final thrust, and the pain is cleansing. He plunges himself in and out of me with an intense, rapid assault on my cunt. I feel his cum scorch me as with each thrust yet more surges out – more than ever before. He is burning me from the inside out – I feel my heat return, as if he is pumping energy inside me with each gush of creamy liquid. There is so much – so much cum; a glut of it. With the last few spurts as he empties out his balls inside me, he bites, deep and hard, into my neck. I feel instant marks form, and I’m glad of them. I want, need, am compelled and crying out for, his mark on me – his scent, his cum, his bruises all over my body. I need to be made pack again. I need to be home. To be safe.
As his red, softening cock flops out, cum gushes out after it, like a cork has been pulled from an upended bottle, pouring out over my thighs, the crushed flowers beneath them. I collapse, roll over onto my back, and he moves forward to stand over me. He gently bites down on my neck, rubbing the bruises in deeper. His muzzle rests against my face, he breaths out gently, then signals to the rest of the pack.
In moments they are on me. The sun is down now, and the moon full in the sky. And so I choose to keep my human form, control returning to me with each act of power. Our two biggest in size after Max, bound forward, eager for their turn. It is rape, the way they take me. I would not have chosen it this way, and yet I am wet for them, wanting them. I kneel in the meadowgrass as the huge wolf stands on his hindlegs, rubbing his heavy, meaty cock over my swollen, stretched pussy, covering it in cum from his alpha. As soon as he’s covered himself in it, he rams it into my arse, but holds himself still with great effort while his packmate mounts me from the front, sliding his cock with relative ease until my still soaked pussy.
They move in unison, violating me, cunt and arse, violently slaking their need to re-establish a bond with their submissive pack female, covering her in their scent, and cum. He fucks me hard – brutally pounding my asshole, stretching me out, slamming me into his packmate who fucks just as hard into my cunt. I feel myself widen, and eventually snap back into place around their dual knots. As they tie with me and begin to release their heavy load, they both howl and claw in a frenzy at my back, each sinking fangs into my neck. Blood pours from me, it soaks into their fur, their claws are red with it. I scream – they fuck harder. I scream more, they fuck and bite and claw more deeply. As the last of their boiling seed fills me up to the belly, they pull out simultaneously and I fall, ravished, unable to hold up my own weight any longer.
But the rest of the pack want their turn – there is no stopping, not until the last one of our forty strong pack is done, each using the their predecessor’s spunk to ease their entry. And still, there is no rest, no surcease for me.
My Max returns to me as human. He reaches between my legs, scoops up a palmful of cum accumulated from the whole pack, and lets me gratefully lick it from his hand. Then he takes another handful and rubs it over my tits; smears the last few sticky drops in my face.
“I love you so much, my little bitch. You are safe now. You are ours. Mine. My bitch, to mount whenever I want. Get into wolf form. I’m going to just fucking mount you again, one more time – because I can”.
I change for him – my body dissolving and coalescing around itself, furred and strong. He changes too, his cock already beginning to knot, his balls just as heavy even though he’d blown his load into me only two hours before. He gets behind me and just sticks his cock straight in, I’m still stretched and sloppy with the cum of the pack. I feel him swelling, and have to open even wider to take his knot one last time. Just before he ties with me, he pulls out, and takes my arsehole instead. His angry, knotted cock, ties my body with his – I can’t be taken from him now. I howl in joy. He pants heavily, growls softly, bites the back of my neck – hard, and rakes his claws over and over on my skin. Even with fast healing, I will be wearing these scars for a while. With one final slam he drains himself dry, leaving me with torrents of cum from him, pouring out to join the messy remains of the pack’s violations.
He curls around me like a huge furry blanket, and all of the pack, even the two youngest back from the hunt, join us. Safe in a pile of densely muscled bodies, my pack scent is restored to me, I am safe. I am home again.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Even the Heart Must Pause to Breathe
"Then I will tell you a great secret, Captain. Perhaps the greatest of all time. The molecules of your body are the same molecules that make up this station, and the nebula outside, that burn inside the stars themselves. We are starstuff. We are the universe made manifest, trying to figure itself out. And as we have both learned, sometimes the universe requires a change of perspective." - Delenn, Babylon 5
Moments of transition, caught in amber...
He stripped me down to underwear - bra, stockings and suspenders, heels. Knickers roughly pulled down to mid-thigh. He likes to leave them there. Sometimes while he's fucking me. Sometimes just to look at me while I blush. He shoved a crumpled note in my bra, called me a whore. Told me to earn my money. Told me he wanted change. He took me bent over a table in the window of the cheap hotel - lights on, curtains open, dark outside. He likes to fuck me where other people can see. Sometimes he is proud of his whore.
He buggered me. Hard. I learned I like it really rough. I moan the loudest when he's hammering his cock into my ass. It hurts. I relish the pain.
He forced a brutal dildo into me - not far, it was too big, I couldn't take very much. He violated me, I was open, stretched. I tried - I tried my best. I wanted to please him.
We slept. We slept through hunger, physical needs, pain - for hours and hours and hours. Held in his arms, re-breathing his breath. He breaks me, then remakes me, soothes my tears, returns me to his perfect whore, his fucktoy, his beloved, his cherished and treasured precious thing. I am loved. I am protected. He shelters me from myself - keeps my heart warm and safe.
There were things I wanted to call him - words that came to mind while we were fucking; not at any other time. Strange, unsettling. Something seen through a mist. Glimpses. I said things - things I shouldn't, or thought that I shouldn't. Later, it terrified me. Veins full of bleaching, burning cold, thirsting, yearning, uncomfortable. I slept, talked, breathed, recovered.
We went to the Club With No Name together. He broke me into pieces. I was drunk with pain, delicious, like being smashed on champagne.
Very late at night. I need to sleep with his cum inside me. In the darkness, silence, muffled sounds. We shouldn't be doing this - if we get caught it'll be hell to pay. I can't not - I need him.
How strange that I should seek this out, this recreation of a source of damage. Quiet, I strain to see clearly, struggle to make sense of the images refracted through dense black fluid - a shadowgraph. Words pour out from us both, words I never thought to hear, speak, relearn. Photographs on an inky lake float to the surface, stained and torn. I collapse into myself - my implosion is not catastrophic, but chaotic.
I need space to re-order, reflect. Tell myself to stop, breathe, take perspective. It doesn't work - I fall, I fall hard. Pieces of myself fly outward, shattered. I try to collect them, but there are too many - I can't hold them all in my hands. I need time and space to curl up into, so the broken pieces won't fall too far from where I'm laying. I'm afraid that when I hit the bottom of this rocky cave, more will smash, and it will take time, too much time, to remake me. I'm frightened. I'm damaged, filled with fault lines, I smash more easily, more explosively, than others. I'll never be whole, unbroken. I'll always be at risk of falling.
It doesn't matter. I find I have a safety net. I have two loved ones who catch me. Neither of them give a damn that I am breakable. At such times I fear their love - I fear my tears will wash it away, like drawings in the sand, transitory, ephemeral. I fear to tread on it in case I fall into quicksand. But instead, their care is a wall made of diamond rock. A strong, shining thing, in which I shelter for a while. They see my fault lines as a reason to hold me for longer, not push me away. Instead of a flawed thing to be discarded, a mistake, I become like pottery with crackle glaze.
It still takes me some time to make repairs. We do quiet things. Hold hands across the restaurant table. I sleep, curled up against him, while he watches a film. I am shaky, still. He guards the den while I lick my wounds.
I am regathering myself like drumming tatters wrapped tight. He makes me ride him, he makes me use his cock like a dildo. He fucks me in the arse while I hold another dildo in my pussy. I can barely take it - the shame is stretching me more than the physical act. I hate to engage actively in my own pleasure, when I am with him. I hate to touch myself in front of him, use toys on my own body, hold things in place. My body was made for pleasure, yes - but his pleasure, not my own. When I am with him I should be, want to be, touching him, not myself. To do otherwise draws deep on my shyness, makes me feel shamed and mortified. Yet I am able to endure it because he is in charge - forcing me to abuse myself, strangely I take my satisfaction from his, which he takes from mine, yet he knows I hate it so. It is the same when he tells me to just let him look at me. Standing with my skirt pulled up to my waist, knickers pulled to the side or level with my stocking tops, slutty, dishevelled, flushed - I cannot even look back at him, I just want to hide, but he won't let me.
We went to Sweet Torments - I am feeling confident and go in my underwear, not even bothering to put on the dress I had brought with me, whore that I am. He chooses to cuff me to a bar which is then winched above my head. He hits me, he spanks me, he takes what he wants from me, with fingers and tongue. The pain is cleansing, liberating. I am alive.
I want him - I can't stop touching him. I really want to fuck - I want it hard, deep, pounding. He lets me sit in the quiet space away from people, so I can have a little time for the chemicals flooding my body to clear. I am high still. He keeps my knickers in his pocket - I don't ask for them back. I want them, I am horribly exposed when we go to the bar, coat notwithstanding. I can't imagine asking him for them; he'll put them back on me when he wants them back on me. It's not for me to choose, no matter how I flush, knowing there are people, people who I know, who can see my pussy, see that I'm wet, that there's satin liquid on my thighs. Because of the man who stands next to me. And everyone knows. I'm filled with shame, hot with it.
When he's ready, he allows me to step back into my panties. We play again, harder this time. I am insatiable with rage, anger seems an endless supply, I wonder if it will ever wash me clean or if it will still leave a pool inside me. But his hand and his crop scourges me empty. Exhausted, I still want him. We have drained each other dry, and then fill each other again - vessels for the other's soul.
A last moment before travelling home tore me away: in the back of his car, a sweet treat for me, to comfort me because I'd been so sad. There wasn't time, there is never enough time, but still - I needed so badly to have him in my mouth. And he let me, he let me take that one last chance to have something of his, inside some part of me. A comforting thing, the taste and smell and texture of my loved one, a memory that that I wanted - needed - to carry home with me. I was so grateful he had listened to my pleading and begging, and given me what I asked for, what I needed. So very content and happy, and grateful, to be allowed to comfort myself in this way before leaving him.
Moments of transition, caught in amber...
He stripped me down to underwear - bra, stockings and suspenders, heels. Knickers roughly pulled down to mid-thigh. He likes to leave them there. Sometimes while he's fucking me. Sometimes just to look at me while I blush. He shoved a crumpled note in my bra, called me a whore. Told me to earn my money. Told me he wanted change. He took me bent over a table in the window of the cheap hotel - lights on, curtains open, dark outside. He likes to fuck me where other people can see. Sometimes he is proud of his whore.
He buggered me. Hard. I learned I like it really rough. I moan the loudest when he's hammering his cock into my ass. It hurts. I relish the pain.
He forced a brutal dildo into me - not far, it was too big, I couldn't take very much. He violated me, I was open, stretched. I tried - I tried my best. I wanted to please him.
We slept. We slept through hunger, physical needs, pain - for hours and hours and hours. Held in his arms, re-breathing his breath. He breaks me, then remakes me, soothes my tears, returns me to his perfect whore, his fucktoy, his beloved, his cherished and treasured precious thing. I am loved. I am protected. He shelters me from myself - keeps my heart warm and safe.
There were things I wanted to call him - words that came to mind while we were fucking; not at any other time. Strange, unsettling. Something seen through a mist. Glimpses. I said things - things I shouldn't, or thought that I shouldn't. Later, it terrified me. Veins full of bleaching, burning cold, thirsting, yearning, uncomfortable. I slept, talked, breathed, recovered.
We went to the Club With No Name together. He broke me into pieces. I was drunk with pain, delicious, like being smashed on champagne.
Very late at night. I need to sleep with his cum inside me. In the darkness, silence, muffled sounds. We shouldn't be doing this - if we get caught it'll be hell to pay. I can't not - I need him.
How strange that I should seek this out, this recreation of a source of damage. Quiet, I strain to see clearly, struggle to make sense of the images refracted through dense black fluid - a shadowgraph. Words pour out from us both, words I never thought to hear, speak, relearn. Photographs on an inky lake float to the surface, stained and torn. I collapse into myself - my implosion is not catastrophic, but chaotic.
I need space to re-order, reflect. Tell myself to stop, breathe, take perspective. It doesn't work - I fall, I fall hard. Pieces of myself fly outward, shattered. I try to collect them, but there are too many - I can't hold them all in my hands. I need time and space to curl up into, so the broken pieces won't fall too far from where I'm laying. I'm afraid that when I hit the bottom of this rocky cave, more will smash, and it will take time, too much time, to remake me. I'm frightened. I'm damaged, filled with fault lines, I smash more easily, more explosively, than others. I'll never be whole, unbroken. I'll always be at risk of falling.
It doesn't matter. I find I have a safety net. I have two loved ones who catch me. Neither of them give a damn that I am breakable. At such times I fear their love - I fear my tears will wash it away, like drawings in the sand, transitory, ephemeral. I fear to tread on it in case I fall into quicksand. But instead, their care is a wall made of diamond rock. A strong, shining thing, in which I shelter for a while. They see my fault lines as a reason to hold me for longer, not push me away. Instead of a flawed thing to be discarded, a mistake, I become like pottery with crackle glaze.
It still takes me some time to make repairs. We do quiet things. Hold hands across the restaurant table. I sleep, curled up against him, while he watches a film. I am shaky, still. He guards the den while I lick my wounds.
I am regathering myself like drumming tatters wrapped tight. He makes me ride him, he makes me use his cock like a dildo. He fucks me in the arse while I hold another dildo in my pussy. I can barely take it - the shame is stretching me more than the physical act. I hate to engage actively in my own pleasure, when I am with him. I hate to touch myself in front of him, use toys on my own body, hold things in place. My body was made for pleasure, yes - but his pleasure, not my own. When I am with him I should be, want to be, touching him, not myself. To do otherwise draws deep on my shyness, makes me feel shamed and mortified. Yet I am able to endure it because he is in charge - forcing me to abuse myself, strangely I take my satisfaction from his, which he takes from mine, yet he knows I hate it so. It is the same when he tells me to just let him look at me. Standing with my skirt pulled up to my waist, knickers pulled to the side or level with my stocking tops, slutty, dishevelled, flushed - I cannot even look back at him, I just want to hide, but he won't let me.
We went to Sweet Torments - I am feeling confident and go in my underwear, not even bothering to put on the dress I had brought with me, whore that I am. He chooses to cuff me to a bar which is then winched above my head. He hits me, he spanks me, he takes what he wants from me, with fingers and tongue. The pain is cleansing, liberating. I am alive.
I want him - I can't stop touching him. I really want to fuck - I want it hard, deep, pounding. He lets me sit in the quiet space away from people, so I can have a little time for the chemicals flooding my body to clear. I am high still. He keeps my knickers in his pocket - I don't ask for them back. I want them, I am horribly exposed when we go to the bar, coat notwithstanding. I can't imagine asking him for them; he'll put them back on me when he wants them back on me. It's not for me to choose, no matter how I flush, knowing there are people, people who I know, who can see my pussy, see that I'm wet, that there's satin liquid on my thighs. Because of the man who stands next to me. And everyone knows. I'm filled with shame, hot with it.
When he's ready, he allows me to step back into my panties. We play again, harder this time. I am insatiable with rage, anger seems an endless supply, I wonder if it will ever wash me clean or if it will still leave a pool inside me. But his hand and his crop scourges me empty. Exhausted, I still want him. We have drained each other dry, and then fill each other again - vessels for the other's soul.
A last moment before travelling home tore me away: in the back of his car, a sweet treat for me, to comfort me because I'd been so sad. There wasn't time, there is never enough time, but still - I needed so badly to have him in my mouth. And he let me, he let me take that one last chance to have something of his, inside some part of me. A comforting thing, the taste and smell and texture of my loved one, a memory that that I wanted - needed - to carry home with me. I was so grateful he had listened to my pleading and begging, and given me what I asked for, what I needed. So very content and happy, and grateful, to be allowed to comfort myself in this way before leaving him.
Thursday, 18 March 2010
"Quiero hacer contigo lo que primavera hace con los cerazos." - Pablo Neruda
When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us. - Helen Keller
The last two weeks have contained such significant steps on my journey into my sexuality, I can't not mark them by writing about them, but whether I can do justice to them, I really do not know.
When I reach back with my mind to a year ago, and meeting my first girlfriend, playing for the first time, I can see now that she didn't want me to go on a journey - it frightened, threatened her. She wanted to keep me in the same place, close to her - and it was stifling and claustrophobic. She wanted to clip my wings.
Being with M as I am now, I feel as if he's taught me how to fly. He doesn't want to keep me in a cage, he wants to show me things, show me the world, show me what my body is capable of - and my heart. He loves me unselfishly, generously - it is a love without walls or bars.
My heart stills fears, and my fear still tells my heart this happiness can't last, it's too good, I will lose it someday - but strangely, for once, instead of making me want to pull away in fright at what may come, I'm able to savour this for what it gives me right now, to treasure each moment while I have it. To roll in it, lick it up, smear it all over me, wear it like a dress, to not let the fear of future hurt taint the current joy.
I've had some novel, profound, and intense sexual experiences during the last year. I've made love with women, been raped with a strap-on, enjoyed pain, experienced bondage, played in public, had my clothes cut off with a knife, opened up my marriage, kissed, touched and played with men, been in a triad relationship and slept between two lovers, discovered rough sex, oral rape, and what it feels like when another person makes you come - but until two weeks ago, I had never been fucked by a man.
I've made love, I've had sex - good and bad, and I've never done either of these things with a man I wasn't in love with, and in a relationship with, and who I believed loved me. But I've never been...taken. I've never been used....fucked...I've never had anyone just stick their fucking dick in me and empty their balls into me, with their own pleasure forefront in mind.
I am his whore, and he can do anything, anywhere, anytime, however we wants to, with me. I trust in him not to abuse this. Through this power exchange, I am empowered. I have never felt so deliciously that I owned my own sexuality - instead of fighting against my body, I am centered within it.
I have, at many times in my life, felt disempowered. Out of touch with my body, as if my past is a wound, my body the enemy without, my mind struggling to wrench control and force it to do what I want it to do. Coming into my sexuality late as I have, allows me to appreciate the sense of joy in becoming one with my body. I learned to orgasm only a few years ago, and until recently each climax was a struggle to pull forth something which my body and the blank places in my mind sought to deny me.
To have a lover so skilled as to reverse this, is a revelation. To have one who loves me, who I love, who is so kind and gentle with me yet so violent and enraged (and engaged), and dominant in the best possible ways - is a wonder.
I knew that he would love me, whether he ever fucked me or not. I knew he would never pressure me, or ask, or demand. I wanted to give him my trust, and my body - I wanted there to be nothing he couldn't do to me, nothing he had to hold himself back from. I wanted to give him everything.
I was terrified. I've been with my husband (R) for nearly 15 years and this is the first full sex with a man I've had in all that time, outside of my marriage. R and I agreed limits when I first began playing with men, limits that, one by one, opened up. I don't go into detail about what level of intimacy I have with M, when discussing our relationships with R, because R has asked me not to. Despite knowing I had R's full permission to do whatever I chose to with my body, it was still a huge thing, a momentous thing, to offer myself to another man in this way.
M tried his best not to terrorise me, and succeeded, although I terrified myself quite successfully. We had a hotel room booked in london and plans to go to antichrist - my decision was quite a last minute thing, and when I met him there, seeing him again was like a physical blow. I needed - NEEDED - to touch him, I wanted to crawl inside his coat and melt into his skin. As we fell into each other, he began to take control of me - and I gave to him. I submitted to his choices of where to put me, how he wanted me. I reveled in it, relished it. At first I was fighting him, then I was moving with him, seeking to pour my heart and soul into moving my body so as to give him the most possible pleasure.
I was wet before I even got through the door of the hotel room, let alone by the time he touched me, and by the time he slid inside, I was soaking for him, just covered in sticky wetness all over my thighs. He was...AMAZING...and although I had already discovered how much, how easily, how quickly, he makes me come, I surprised even myself this night. I came four times on his cock, the last as he was shooting his spunk inside me. My pussy fought him for control, clutching at him so intensely it almost pushed him out. Still hard, he took my arse, slamming into me as I locked my gaze with his - shocked, adoring, wondering.
It was so new, so intense - there aren't words. The only way I can explain what happened to my mind, is to show you - this is what it must have looked like inside my head.
And completely unexpectedly, without understanding what was happening or noticing, as I sit here writing this, choosing that link, I find my eyes are wet. I am crying with the fierceness of the emotion, as my body remembers these profound and transcendent moments.
Afterwards, we held each other, mingled in sweat and cum, lust and love, his scent and a part of him, both inside me, to keep close and safe, and on me, to mark and wear with pride, I struggled to find the desire to tear myself away from him for long enough to get ready to go out.
I was so shaken and uninhibited in my happiness, my contentment, that I almost felt lost when I went into Club Antichrist. I clung to M, scent and fluid bonded to him; he was my shield from the noise and brightness and overpowering sense of people, crushed into a small room. I was so...open...that only he could protect me from the feeling of other people - their needs, desires, thoughts and feelings, scent, sound, touch - invading my personal space. I was happy and enjoyed myself all the time he was touching me, but when he was not, I felt...lost. He grounded me, providing a centre of gravity around which I could move.
The urge to play got the better of me - I had been fucked that night, fucked good and hard - but I needed a beating too. I batted my eyelashes at M until he was in the mood to deliver some violence to me. The dungeon was set up in a small room with two exits, both onto dancefloors, and no space to recover. In hindsight it wasn't a very good place to play, but we were both too overcome with lust to stop ourselves. The crowd pressed in on all sides, separated from the players by a ring of barriers. There was something almost gladatorial about it, or like high greek theatre.I was wearing the most touchable, strokeable, eye candy of wrist and ankle cuffs that M had bought me - patent black on the outside with soft purple suede inside. As he dragged me through the crowd, shouldering onlookers out of the way, he was more than capable of slamming me onto the st andrews's cross, and clipping my cuffs to each point, despite my struggles.
We played hard - he marked me well. With the onset of pain my anger erupted, as it always does. Each outburst was accompanied by some physical manifestation of my rage - I shook the cross, I spat in his face, I screamed at him, swore, told him to get the fuck off me and leave him alone. I tried to kick him, break out of the cuffs, and snarled at him. He met, matched, and exceeded each of my explosions of fury with his own - he sweated with passion, so heavily drops fell on me, he spat back in my face, he yanked my hair so far back I was nearly bent double. Veins stood out on his forehead as he smashed me, again and again, with his hands, with his whip. And still, my anger kept boiling over, despite the pain. And then he covered my face with his hand, closed my mouth and pinched my nose shut. After that I gave in to him, I slumped in the cuffs and took what he gave me. No-one watching was left in any doubt that I...was...his...
Afterwards M found the quietest place for me to be, and held me wrapped close in his arms, but the noise, the light - it was still too much. And I couldn't bear to me around people again, almost as if the play had destroyed the very last of my physical and emotional barriers. Gradually they rebuilt as I recovered, and at last I could sit and float, as he protectively sheltered me until I was ready to explore again.
I danced - only a little, and with some effort, as part of me was still floating. I danced with M, and we kissed...kissed some more...and then I wanted him. I indicated that I would like to explore inside the couples darkroom, and he took me there. He led me in by my hand, I was suddenly a little shy and felt gauche. I couldn't meet anyone's eyes, the room seemed a montage of fucking and sucking, low light and deep beat. Melting flickers of pornographic images met my view as I gazed around. He fucked me - then he chose to use his fingers in me. Again, and again, and again. Something happened to my body...I remember lying back in a leather chair, my legs apart, him between them. As I came, there was suddenly liquid everywhere - soaking into my dress, running into my fishnets, splashing with the force of his fingers smashing in and out of me, splashing into his face, splashing into mine! I looked at him, I don't remember asking but my eyes must have held so many questions. I didn't know what was happening to me, and I thought...I thought something incredibly humiliating had occured, something I can't even bear to write down here now. I expected him to look back at me with either concern, or possibly, pride, confidence, knowledge. Instead his face was...crackling with energy, determination, a kind of shock, longing, passion. He looked like the maniac who would come screaming into your home at night to tear you up with a chainsaw. But none of this could stop me from coming, and coming, and coming - it made me more drawn into the intensity of the climax, and I couldn't stop, I was ashamed and afraid and I just...could...not...stop...his fingers worked in me over and over and still, every time I came, this liquid...everywhere. He re-positioned me so that I was sat on his lap with my legs wide open, my knickers tucked in his pocket, his fingers in me, and still, although everyone could see my shame, he pumped me until even more liquid gushed out, soaking his leather trousers, the chair, the floor...I was beyond caring, and yet I did care, I was horrified, and yet, and yet...he stood me up, bent over a sofa, my legs spread as he told me to, and for the fifth and final time he made me come, as liquid splashed onto the ground. I was mortified, completely put to shame, I felt debased - and at the same time, liberated, swept up, flying.
Then, he finally let me rest, and held me as I sat on his lap, struggling in as close as I possibly could, curling up into a ball, hiding my head in his shoulder. I wanted to ask - what was it? What just happened to me? What did you do to me? But I couldn't. I kept beginning the words, but then I couldn't, because asking met admitting what I was afraid had happened. It couldn't be cum - surely women just don't? I've heard of female ejaculation, but not that much, surely? It smelled, tasted, looked like cum - but...surely instead I had done something disgusting? In the end I found the courage to speak up. He petted me and reassured me and held me, told me that despite my fears, something amazing had happened, cuddled me until I felt safe again. I cannot remember the last time, as an adult, that I felt such a sense of...wonder. It was a revelation. A sexual epiphany.
It was like a dream, not real; a segment of time outside time where things were not as they seemed, and yet were more real than most of us ever get to experience. I was dazed, adrift in sensations from my body and mind, of pain, and pleasure, harmonising as one to create something so heart-touching my whole spirit responded by resonating in sympathy.
After a time of glorious contentment we rose, and made our way slowly home. As we walked through the streets, in the quiet time after sunrise, before most inhabitants of the city are awake, I felt that we'd somehow slipped into an altered world, where everything looks the same, yet is different, touched by meaning, changed because *I* was changed. Because *we* were changed.
My dress, slutty at best, rose even higher as we walked the pavements and the tube stations. I could have asked for my knickers back. I'm fairly sure M would have given them to me, had I done so. But I knew it would please him more if I walked along, dishevelled, barely clothed, exposed - and so I did. I walked along the street with my pussy on display, smeared in my own cum, for everyone to see. Part of me felt shame for being such a whore, part of me glowed with pride in how I had pleased the man I adored.
The journey was long, and took some time - it was so late, and I needed to sleep, I was so very tired. And I should have slept, but I couldn't until I had been given what I needed. He took me again, more gently this time, but still aggressive and rough by my normal expectations. It was...delicious. I slept with his cum inside me - it was still leaking out in the morning, which was a good excuse for him to rape me. Just a little bit. I wanted it to hurt more but I was still so slick with cum, that he slid straight in...
That evening, he took me dogging - he fucked me from behind in the car, in front of strangers, dirty drug dealers, desperate chavs, haggard losers, and the rest - they watched from outside and lit our scene by phone-light, as he marked his property. He turned me so that I lay on my back, on the seat, and took me with his fingers until I came, with more of that silky gushing liquid flowing out of me, onto my clothes, his clothes, the seat, his hands...
Drained, he wrapped me in a blanket he keeps in his car so he can make me warm and safe. He drove me home - an hour's drive at best, from where he lives. I could have caught the train but he wouldn't let me, not like that, not when emotionally vulnerable and needing care and comfort. He held me and touched me on the way, and then when we reached my home, I didn't want him to leave. Not without just one more fuck. I begged, pleaded, abased myself, used every possible means I could think of to try and persuade him.
I should have let him just drive home without draining his balls again, it was late at night and he had a long way to go. But I got my slutty way at last, he put me in the back of his car, stripped me naked, and made me ride his cock, bring myself to orgasm by working his dick back and forth inside me. I gushed on his cock, screamed his name, begged for release...he turned me and fucked me from behind - hard, very hard. I came again, I forget how many times. When he finally blew his load into me and filled me with his seed, we had a little time together to learn how to breathe again, and then I went home, content and clutching his cum inside me, a souvenir of the weekend...
The last two weeks have contained such significant steps on my journey into my sexuality, I can't not mark them by writing about them, but whether I can do justice to them, I really do not know.
When I reach back with my mind to a year ago, and meeting my first girlfriend, playing for the first time, I can see now that she didn't want me to go on a journey - it frightened, threatened her. She wanted to keep me in the same place, close to her - and it was stifling and claustrophobic. She wanted to clip my wings.
Being with M as I am now, I feel as if he's taught me how to fly. He doesn't want to keep me in a cage, he wants to show me things, show me the world, show me what my body is capable of - and my heart. He loves me unselfishly, generously - it is a love without walls or bars.
My heart stills fears, and my fear still tells my heart this happiness can't last, it's too good, I will lose it someday - but strangely, for once, instead of making me want to pull away in fright at what may come, I'm able to savour this for what it gives me right now, to treasure each moment while I have it. To roll in it, lick it up, smear it all over me, wear it like a dress, to not let the fear of future hurt taint the current joy.
I've had some novel, profound, and intense sexual experiences during the last year. I've made love with women, been raped with a strap-on, enjoyed pain, experienced bondage, played in public, had my clothes cut off with a knife, opened up my marriage, kissed, touched and played with men, been in a triad relationship and slept between two lovers, discovered rough sex, oral rape, and what it feels like when another person makes you come - but until two weeks ago, I had never been fucked by a man.
I've made love, I've had sex - good and bad, and I've never done either of these things with a man I wasn't in love with, and in a relationship with, and who I believed loved me. But I've never been...taken. I've never been used....fucked...I've never had anyone just stick their fucking dick in me and empty their balls into me, with their own pleasure forefront in mind.
I am his whore, and he can do anything, anywhere, anytime, however we wants to, with me. I trust in him not to abuse this. Through this power exchange, I am empowered. I have never felt so deliciously that I owned my own sexuality - instead of fighting against my body, I am centered within it.
I have, at many times in my life, felt disempowered. Out of touch with my body, as if my past is a wound, my body the enemy without, my mind struggling to wrench control and force it to do what I want it to do. Coming into my sexuality late as I have, allows me to appreciate the sense of joy in becoming one with my body. I learned to orgasm only a few years ago, and until recently each climax was a struggle to pull forth something which my body and the blank places in my mind sought to deny me.
To have a lover so skilled as to reverse this, is a revelation. To have one who loves me, who I love, who is so kind and gentle with me yet so violent and enraged (and engaged), and dominant in the best possible ways - is a wonder.
I knew that he would love me, whether he ever fucked me or not. I knew he would never pressure me, or ask, or demand. I wanted to give him my trust, and my body - I wanted there to be nothing he couldn't do to me, nothing he had to hold himself back from. I wanted to give him everything.
I was terrified. I've been with my husband (R) for nearly 15 years and this is the first full sex with a man I've had in all that time, outside of my marriage. R and I agreed limits when I first began playing with men, limits that, one by one, opened up. I don't go into detail about what level of intimacy I have with M, when discussing our relationships with R, because R has asked me not to. Despite knowing I had R's full permission to do whatever I chose to with my body, it was still a huge thing, a momentous thing, to offer myself to another man in this way.
M tried his best not to terrorise me, and succeeded, although I terrified myself quite successfully. We had a hotel room booked in london and plans to go to antichrist - my decision was quite a last minute thing, and when I met him there, seeing him again was like a physical blow. I needed - NEEDED - to touch him, I wanted to crawl inside his coat and melt into his skin. As we fell into each other, he began to take control of me - and I gave to him. I submitted to his choices of where to put me, how he wanted me. I reveled in it, relished it. At first I was fighting him, then I was moving with him, seeking to pour my heart and soul into moving my body so as to give him the most possible pleasure.
I was wet before I even got through the door of the hotel room, let alone by the time he touched me, and by the time he slid inside, I was soaking for him, just covered in sticky wetness all over my thighs. He was...AMAZING...and although I had already discovered how much, how easily, how quickly, he makes me come, I surprised even myself this night. I came four times on his cock, the last as he was shooting his spunk inside me. My pussy fought him for control, clutching at him so intensely it almost pushed him out. Still hard, he took my arse, slamming into me as I locked my gaze with his - shocked, adoring, wondering.
It was so new, so intense - there aren't words. The only way I can explain what happened to my mind, is to show you - this is what it must have looked like inside my head.
And completely unexpectedly, without understanding what was happening or noticing, as I sit here writing this, choosing that link, I find my eyes are wet. I am crying with the fierceness of the emotion, as my body remembers these profound and transcendent moments.
Afterwards, we held each other, mingled in sweat and cum, lust and love, his scent and a part of him, both inside me, to keep close and safe, and on me, to mark and wear with pride, I struggled to find the desire to tear myself away from him for long enough to get ready to go out.
I was so shaken and uninhibited in my happiness, my contentment, that I almost felt lost when I went into Club Antichrist. I clung to M, scent and fluid bonded to him; he was my shield from the noise and brightness and overpowering sense of people, crushed into a small room. I was so...open...that only he could protect me from the feeling of other people - their needs, desires, thoughts and feelings, scent, sound, touch - invading my personal space. I was happy and enjoyed myself all the time he was touching me, but when he was not, I felt...lost. He grounded me, providing a centre of gravity around which I could move.
The urge to play got the better of me - I had been fucked that night, fucked good and hard - but I needed a beating too. I batted my eyelashes at M until he was in the mood to deliver some violence to me. The dungeon was set up in a small room with two exits, both onto dancefloors, and no space to recover. In hindsight it wasn't a very good place to play, but we were both too overcome with lust to stop ourselves. The crowd pressed in on all sides, separated from the players by a ring of barriers. There was something almost gladatorial about it, or like high greek theatre.I was wearing the most touchable, strokeable, eye candy of wrist and ankle cuffs that M had bought me - patent black on the outside with soft purple suede inside. As he dragged me through the crowd, shouldering onlookers out of the way, he was more than capable of slamming me onto the st andrews's cross, and clipping my cuffs to each point, despite my struggles.
We played hard - he marked me well. With the onset of pain my anger erupted, as it always does. Each outburst was accompanied by some physical manifestation of my rage - I shook the cross, I spat in his face, I screamed at him, swore, told him to get the fuck off me and leave him alone. I tried to kick him, break out of the cuffs, and snarled at him. He met, matched, and exceeded each of my explosions of fury with his own - he sweated with passion, so heavily drops fell on me, he spat back in my face, he yanked my hair so far back I was nearly bent double. Veins stood out on his forehead as he smashed me, again and again, with his hands, with his whip. And still, my anger kept boiling over, despite the pain. And then he covered my face with his hand, closed my mouth and pinched my nose shut. After that I gave in to him, I slumped in the cuffs and took what he gave me. No-one watching was left in any doubt that I...was...his...
Afterwards M found the quietest place for me to be, and held me wrapped close in his arms, but the noise, the light - it was still too much. And I couldn't bear to me around people again, almost as if the play had destroyed the very last of my physical and emotional barriers. Gradually they rebuilt as I recovered, and at last I could sit and float, as he protectively sheltered me until I was ready to explore again.
I danced - only a little, and with some effort, as part of me was still floating. I danced with M, and we kissed...kissed some more...and then I wanted him. I indicated that I would like to explore inside the couples darkroom, and he took me there. He led me in by my hand, I was suddenly a little shy and felt gauche. I couldn't meet anyone's eyes, the room seemed a montage of fucking and sucking, low light and deep beat. Melting flickers of pornographic images met my view as I gazed around. He fucked me - then he chose to use his fingers in me. Again, and again, and again. Something happened to my body...I remember lying back in a leather chair, my legs apart, him between them. As I came, there was suddenly liquid everywhere - soaking into my dress, running into my fishnets, splashing with the force of his fingers smashing in and out of me, splashing into his face, splashing into mine! I looked at him, I don't remember asking but my eyes must have held so many questions. I didn't know what was happening to me, and I thought...I thought something incredibly humiliating had occured, something I can't even bear to write down here now. I expected him to look back at me with either concern, or possibly, pride, confidence, knowledge. Instead his face was...crackling with energy, determination, a kind of shock, longing, passion. He looked like the maniac who would come screaming into your home at night to tear you up with a chainsaw. But none of this could stop me from coming, and coming, and coming - it made me more drawn into the intensity of the climax, and I couldn't stop, I was ashamed and afraid and I just...could...not...stop...his fingers worked in me over and over and still, every time I came, this liquid...everywhere. He re-positioned me so that I was sat on his lap with my legs wide open, my knickers tucked in his pocket, his fingers in me, and still, although everyone could see my shame, he pumped me until even more liquid gushed out, soaking his leather trousers, the chair, the floor...I was beyond caring, and yet I did care, I was horrified, and yet, and yet...he stood me up, bent over a sofa, my legs spread as he told me to, and for the fifth and final time he made me come, as liquid splashed onto the ground. I was mortified, completely put to shame, I felt debased - and at the same time, liberated, swept up, flying.
Then, he finally let me rest, and held me as I sat on his lap, struggling in as close as I possibly could, curling up into a ball, hiding my head in his shoulder. I wanted to ask - what was it? What just happened to me? What did you do to me? But I couldn't. I kept beginning the words, but then I couldn't, because asking met admitting what I was afraid had happened. It couldn't be cum - surely women just don't? I've heard of female ejaculation, but not that much, surely? It smelled, tasted, looked like cum - but...surely instead I had done something disgusting? In the end I found the courage to speak up. He petted me and reassured me and held me, told me that despite my fears, something amazing had happened, cuddled me until I felt safe again. I cannot remember the last time, as an adult, that I felt such a sense of...wonder. It was a revelation. A sexual epiphany.
It was like a dream, not real; a segment of time outside time where things were not as they seemed, and yet were more real than most of us ever get to experience. I was dazed, adrift in sensations from my body and mind, of pain, and pleasure, harmonising as one to create something so heart-touching my whole spirit responded by resonating in sympathy.
After a time of glorious contentment we rose, and made our way slowly home. As we walked through the streets, in the quiet time after sunrise, before most inhabitants of the city are awake, I felt that we'd somehow slipped into an altered world, where everything looks the same, yet is different, touched by meaning, changed because *I* was changed. Because *we* were changed.
My dress, slutty at best, rose even higher as we walked the pavements and the tube stations. I could have asked for my knickers back. I'm fairly sure M would have given them to me, had I done so. But I knew it would please him more if I walked along, dishevelled, barely clothed, exposed - and so I did. I walked along the street with my pussy on display, smeared in my own cum, for everyone to see. Part of me felt shame for being such a whore, part of me glowed with pride in how I had pleased the man I adored.
The journey was long, and took some time - it was so late, and I needed to sleep, I was so very tired. And I should have slept, but I couldn't until I had been given what I needed. He took me again, more gently this time, but still aggressive and rough by my normal expectations. It was...delicious. I slept with his cum inside me - it was still leaking out in the morning, which was a good excuse for him to rape me. Just a little bit. I wanted it to hurt more but I was still so slick with cum, that he slid straight in...
That evening, he took me dogging - he fucked me from behind in the car, in front of strangers, dirty drug dealers, desperate chavs, haggard losers, and the rest - they watched from outside and lit our scene by phone-light, as he marked his property. He turned me so that I lay on my back, on the seat, and took me with his fingers until I came, with more of that silky gushing liquid flowing out of me, onto my clothes, his clothes, the seat, his hands...
Drained, he wrapped me in a blanket he keeps in his car so he can make me warm and safe. He drove me home - an hour's drive at best, from where he lives. I could have caught the train but he wouldn't let me, not like that, not when emotionally vulnerable and needing care and comfort. He held me and touched me on the way, and then when we reached my home, I didn't want him to leave. Not without just one more fuck. I begged, pleaded, abased myself, used every possible means I could think of to try and persuade him.
I should have let him just drive home without draining his balls again, it was late at night and he had a long way to go. But I got my slutty way at last, he put me in the back of his car, stripped me naked, and made me ride his cock, bring myself to orgasm by working his dick back and forth inside me. I gushed on his cock, screamed his name, begged for release...he turned me and fucked me from behind - hard, very hard. I came again, I forget how many times. When he finally blew his load into me and filled me with his seed, we had a little time together to learn how to breathe again, and then I went home, content and clutching his cum inside me, a souvenir of the weekend...
Monday, 15 March 2010
Unchained
This poet's heart's desire is overflowing;
This poor inadequate offering my gift.
I long to find the words to honour truly,
This sea of change on which I am adrift.
In lust, I dreamed of this before I chose it,
In love, I ached to feel my hips meet yours.
My heart, this fragile, damaged, fearful thing,
My body, impatient for the chance to be your whore.
A tumble of emotions spiralled through me.
As you caught the knotted threads and pulled,
Untangled every yarn and bade me wind it,
With me in shocked obeisance to your will.
By my hand you pulled me in towards the darkness
You lay me down and opened me by force.
You took me first with raping strength and power,
There was no indecision, no remorse.
With your fingers you degraded and abused me;
This virgin's pussy stretched into a whore's.
Your brutal penetration forcing from me,
Violent proof in heart and body I am yours.
Over and again you roughly took me,
The cries ripped from me merging to the beat.
The darkness veiling glimpses of my body,
You displayed me on your lap - I was in heat.
Confused, I felt the liquid gushing from me
Afraid, I saw the spasms of my limbs,
I begged for you to ease this degradation;
Yet I suffered gladly further for your whim.
When last I shuddered, crying out in shock,
My shame dripped wetly from me to the floor.
Exhausted, you drew me closer to you;
As you rocked me, I loved you even more.
You held me in your arms and I clung close to you,
I whimpered quietly for you as I sobbed,
Finally I gathered up my courage,
And dared to ask you if I was still loved.
Once my body held me prisoner inside it,
I struggled to break free from chain and lock.
I longed to find the key to my own freedom,
But no matter where I turned the way was blocked.
You found the key and gave it to me for release,
My desire no longer caged or clipped.
What was once so broken is now healed,
And love has broken every chain that did exist
It's not just your love and care that I need -
It's your rage, your violence and your seed.
Let these last words tell you what I know -
I am yours, in mind, in body and in soul.
This poor inadequate offering my gift.
I long to find the words to honour truly,
This sea of change on which I am adrift.
In lust, I dreamed of this before I chose it,
In love, I ached to feel my hips meet yours.
My heart, this fragile, damaged, fearful thing,
My body, impatient for the chance to be your whore.
A tumble of emotions spiralled through me.
As you caught the knotted threads and pulled,
Untangled every yarn and bade me wind it,
With me in shocked obeisance to your will.
By my hand you pulled me in towards the darkness
You lay me down and opened me by force.
You took me first with raping strength and power,
There was no indecision, no remorse.
With your fingers you degraded and abused me;
This virgin's pussy stretched into a whore's.
Your brutal penetration forcing from me,
Violent proof in heart and body I am yours.
Over and again you roughly took me,
The cries ripped from me merging to the beat.
The darkness veiling glimpses of my body,
You displayed me on your lap - I was in heat.
Confused, I felt the liquid gushing from me
Afraid, I saw the spasms of my limbs,
I begged for you to ease this degradation;
Yet I suffered gladly further for your whim.
When last I shuddered, crying out in shock,
My shame dripped wetly from me to the floor.
Exhausted, you drew me closer to you;
As you rocked me, I loved you even more.
You held me in your arms and I clung close to you,
I whimpered quietly for you as I sobbed,
Finally I gathered up my courage,
And dared to ask you if I was still loved.
Once my body held me prisoner inside it,
I struggled to break free from chain and lock.
I longed to find the key to my own freedom,
But no matter where I turned the way was blocked.
You found the key and gave it to me for release,
My desire no longer caged or clipped.
What was once so broken is now healed,
And love has broken every chain that did exist
It's not just your love and care that I need -
It's your rage, your violence and your seed.
Let these last words tell you what I know -
I am yours, in mind, in body and in soul.
Saturday, 27 February 2010
Whore [erotic fiction]
You stand in the doorway. Light from the streetlamp eludes you, your face is shadowed as you count the money dealt out to you by the stranger. The black, leather trenchcoat you wear gives you an air of menace, protected as you are by its thick, concealing folds. In contrast I am exposed, vulnerable - all my flaws unveiled as I stand under the harsh light, my back against the post, arms above my head; not because I am bound in that position by rope, chains or shackles, but because of you - because you told me to.
I am your whore. The man who searches through his handful of change to find the last twenty pence for the five pounds you have charged him, is eager, but drunk - or drugged. His crude, trying too hard, clumsy movements, seem to suit him though, and match his appearance. His clothes are label brands, stained with drops of food and drink from an evening on the piss. His baseball cap can't conceal how dirty his hair is, and the white t-shirt, blue jeans and trainers are a perfect match for those worn by his friends who stand a few feet away, drinking from cans and laughing, joking, and arguing over who gets to go next.
The transaction complete, you step forward, into the light for a moment. I look into your perfect eyes and you answer my unspoken question.
'No.'
You unbutton my coat, slowly, while you kiss me. You pull up the thin, satiny fabric of my skirt, and push my ruffled panties down. I step out of them, and you put them in the pocket of your trenchcoat. I'm left with only my top, cut low and revealing, heels, fishnet stockings and the coat that frames it all. You work your fingers inside me, step back and suck the silky wetness from them.
Turning, you nod your head at the man who just paid to fuck me. He grins in dazed fashion, and unbuttons his jeans with rushed haste. The air tastes of diamonds tonight, cold and bitter as I breathe in, quenching the sickness in me. His cock is of average size, but he holds it as if he were a club to hit me with. It's not yet fully hard, filled as he is with alcohol and amphetamines, and it looks and smells unwashed. I part my legs as he approaches me, and he rubs the plump lips of my perfectly clean and shaven pussy with his dirty, inadequate prick.
He shoves it in. I shift uneasily to gather balance. I look at you, standing watch in the doorway, and there's a warning in your gaze. I look up, instead, and watch the stars, falling in my mind, pieces of the sky inside my head, inside me. An empty place, now filled. The man grunts and shifts position. Now that he's worked his way in fully, I can feel he's becoming harder. He shouts over his shoulder to his friends. 'Fuck, this is brilliant! Her pussy's really tight. I'm gonna fucking come in a minute!' His buttocks thrust mindlessly, as he falls into a rhythm. He is a single speed thruster fuck - his sole aim being to shoot his load inside me as quickly as possible, using my cunt to jerk himself off, job done. I am surprised then, when he slows, and turns his face towards you, hands still on my hips, thrusting still but his focus on his question. 'I can stick it in her arse, yeah?'
'That costs extra', you reply. 'Two quid, pay up front before you do it'.
'No fucking way?! Two quid? Fucking hell!' He sighs, loudly. 'Oh, alright then...' He rummages in his pocket for change, his rhythm becoming erratic. He turns around and shouts out to his mates, who are laughing with almost hysterical amusement. 'Anyone got a couple of quid?' His friends come up with the money between them, and pay you the extra. Your face is utterly serious. You don't return their smiles. I know they disgust you as much as they disgust me. You are using them, like a whip, or a crop - as a tool.
He pulls out of me, and then feels between my legs for my puckered opening. He doesn't know that it's not necessary - you've trained me to angle my body for you perfectly, and my asshole splays itself for you on your first touch. He jams his fingers inside, awkwardly, and I wince with pain. He doesn't notice - but you do. I see your cock twitch inside your jeans, sensitive as I am to every aspect of your presence, however transient or trifling. More confident now, he brings his cock to meet his fingers and starts to push himself in. 'Ahhhh, yeah - fuck yeah', he sighs. He pushes in with force and falls into a rhythm again. With each assault on my body I feel myself come closer to sobs. I won't give in, I won't. Not to him.
He shoves roughly into me, jamming his prick as deep as it will go. His jeans are around his ankles now, and his pitiful buttocks twitch and clench as he pokes his dick into my arse relentlessly. His moans become closer together and louder, he cries out with shocking noise as his prick convulses inside me, shooting hot, scalding, plentiful cum into my body, into my arse, as he empties his anger at a world that he is too ignorant to understand, inside me.
He jerks away, not wanting to touch me, now that he's left me mired in filth like his own. Cum dribbles down my legs, soaking into my stockings, dripping in warm, creamy droplets onto the gritty pavement on which I stand, my legs apart still.
Before he's even buttoned up his jeans again, the next customer stands forward to trade with you for your whore.
And afterwards, after they've all taken what they paid for, you let me sink to the floor, stinking and fouled in mind and body. You clean me with soft words and rock me as I cry, I cry for you, sobbing into the leather of your coat as you cradle me.
'You fucking whore', you whisper, as you pull me closer still. 'You're mine. My whore. Mine'.
I am your whore. The man who searches through his handful of change to find the last twenty pence for the five pounds you have charged him, is eager, but drunk - or drugged. His crude, trying too hard, clumsy movements, seem to suit him though, and match his appearance. His clothes are label brands, stained with drops of food and drink from an evening on the piss. His baseball cap can't conceal how dirty his hair is, and the white t-shirt, blue jeans and trainers are a perfect match for those worn by his friends who stand a few feet away, drinking from cans and laughing, joking, and arguing over who gets to go next.
The transaction complete, you step forward, into the light for a moment. I look into your perfect eyes and you answer my unspoken question.
'No.'
You unbutton my coat, slowly, while you kiss me. You pull up the thin, satiny fabric of my skirt, and push my ruffled panties down. I step out of them, and you put them in the pocket of your trenchcoat. I'm left with only my top, cut low and revealing, heels, fishnet stockings and the coat that frames it all. You work your fingers inside me, step back and suck the silky wetness from them.
Turning, you nod your head at the man who just paid to fuck me. He grins in dazed fashion, and unbuttons his jeans with rushed haste. The air tastes of diamonds tonight, cold and bitter as I breathe in, quenching the sickness in me. His cock is of average size, but he holds it as if he were a club to hit me with. It's not yet fully hard, filled as he is with alcohol and amphetamines, and it looks and smells unwashed. I part my legs as he approaches me, and he rubs the plump lips of my perfectly clean and shaven pussy with his dirty, inadequate prick.
He shoves it in. I shift uneasily to gather balance. I look at you, standing watch in the doorway, and there's a warning in your gaze. I look up, instead, and watch the stars, falling in my mind, pieces of the sky inside my head, inside me. An empty place, now filled. The man grunts and shifts position. Now that he's worked his way in fully, I can feel he's becoming harder. He shouts over his shoulder to his friends. 'Fuck, this is brilliant! Her pussy's really tight. I'm gonna fucking come in a minute!' His buttocks thrust mindlessly, as he falls into a rhythm. He is a single speed thruster fuck - his sole aim being to shoot his load inside me as quickly as possible, using my cunt to jerk himself off, job done. I am surprised then, when he slows, and turns his face towards you, hands still on my hips, thrusting still but his focus on his question. 'I can stick it in her arse, yeah?'
'That costs extra', you reply. 'Two quid, pay up front before you do it'.
'No fucking way?! Two quid? Fucking hell!' He sighs, loudly. 'Oh, alright then...' He rummages in his pocket for change, his rhythm becoming erratic. He turns around and shouts out to his mates, who are laughing with almost hysterical amusement. 'Anyone got a couple of quid?' His friends come up with the money between them, and pay you the extra. Your face is utterly serious. You don't return their smiles. I know they disgust you as much as they disgust me. You are using them, like a whip, or a crop - as a tool.
He pulls out of me, and then feels between my legs for my puckered opening. He doesn't know that it's not necessary - you've trained me to angle my body for you perfectly, and my asshole splays itself for you on your first touch. He jams his fingers inside, awkwardly, and I wince with pain. He doesn't notice - but you do. I see your cock twitch inside your jeans, sensitive as I am to every aspect of your presence, however transient or trifling. More confident now, he brings his cock to meet his fingers and starts to push himself in. 'Ahhhh, yeah - fuck yeah', he sighs. He pushes in with force and falls into a rhythm again. With each assault on my body I feel myself come closer to sobs. I won't give in, I won't. Not to him.
He shoves roughly into me, jamming his prick as deep as it will go. His jeans are around his ankles now, and his pitiful buttocks twitch and clench as he pokes his dick into my arse relentlessly. His moans become closer together and louder, he cries out with shocking noise as his prick convulses inside me, shooting hot, scalding, plentiful cum into my body, into my arse, as he empties his anger at a world that he is too ignorant to understand, inside me.
He jerks away, not wanting to touch me, now that he's left me mired in filth like his own. Cum dribbles down my legs, soaking into my stockings, dripping in warm, creamy droplets onto the gritty pavement on which I stand, my legs apart still.
Before he's even buttoned up his jeans again, the next customer stands forward to trade with you for your whore.
And afterwards, after they've all taken what they paid for, you let me sink to the floor, stinking and fouled in mind and body. You clean me with soft words and rock me as I cry, I cry for you, sobbing into the leather of your coat as you cradle me.
'You fucking whore', you whisper, as you pull me closer still. 'You're mine. My whore. Mine'.
Thursday, 25 February 2010
A Quick Drink [erotic fiction]
My pussy glistens, soaking wet, as my body prepares itself for you to enter me. Pushed down onto the red leather of the sofa, my wrists grasp each other, arms stretched out in front of me, exactly as you have told me to put them. My buttocks are raised, ready for you to choose where you want to fuck, my back arches, my legs are spread obediently on your command, without question, for you - and only you.
As your fingers slide with almost no resistance into my tight little pussy, your cock hardens. You should be familiar by now, with how drenched I become for you - not just moist or damp but sodden, slippery with silken liquid. But still, this time you are shocked at the dripping extent of the defiled plump lips of my puss.
You know you can take me, however, whenever, you want. Or not at all. Maybe you'll just keep me like that, waiting, bent over the sofa of the pub, while people walk past on their way to smoke, or piss. You know I won't move. Not until you tell me I can. Although you know, if you wait too long, I might start to whimper, or silently cry. You rub yourself through your jeans in anticipation, knowing I am fighting the desire to peek through my hair, to see what is happening, who is watching. You're controlling what I see...and what I fear.
Without a word you get your dick out, and rub it against my silky hole. This is the first time you've ever fucked me and you want me to know you can do whatever the fuck you want to with me, wherever, however, you want to. You yank me into a kneeling position and growl aggresively into my ear. ''Where shall I fuck you? Shall I fuck your arse, or your pussy?'
I suck air through my mouth, gasping, struggling not to cry out loud and draw any more attention to myself. You yank my head back even further. You jab your shaft painfully, violently, against my mouth, slapping me in the face with it, pushing, distorting my features as you shove it into the side of my cheek. You know I find this almost unbearably humiliating. 'Don't you know?', you rasp into my ear. 'You don't fucking know, where I want to put my fucking cock?'
I can barely speak with the effort of trying not to sob out loud. 'You...you...you can fuck me...however you want to...please....please...I can't...'
You shake me like a rag doll. 'CAN'T FUCKING WHAT?!', you spit at me, 'Can't fucking stay there while I stick my cock in you? Don't fuck you? You don't want me to fuck you?!'
Your eyes are huge and furious, the pupils dilated.
'No....I don't...I can't...I don't know...please, please don't be mad at me... I'll do whatever you want me to...I'm sorry...please...PLEASE! I'm yours, you can do whatever you want to, to me'. My voice is high and frightened.
'You're fucking right I can do what I fucking want to with you. Now get your face in that fucking leather and spread your legs further apart. NOW'.
I obey, instantly. Only because you know me so well can you see the reluctance, confusion, shame, in my body.
'Where?', you ask me, a fraction calmer. You're giving me the chance to redeem myself. Just one word - but I know exactly what you are asking. And I'm happy...so happy because I know the right answer and I can give it to you.
'Anywhere', I whisper.
'When?', you ask me.
'Whenever you want to. However you want to'. I'm calm now, too. I've given in. Given up. To you. Whatever happens now, it's you who will make the decisions. My soul is naked to you but I'm clothed in the confidence that your commanding presence gives to me. You run your hands up and down my body, lifting my skirt, tugging with your fingernails on my stockings. You slowly, deliberately, pull on one of them. The fabric strains against my thighs, then gives as your strength overpowers it. You hear a ripping sound as you tear it off my body. My skin reddens, and you know you're hurting me, but I'm too far gone to voice protest. Gone too far, into that space in my mind in which you have chosen to put me, in this place. In this time.
'That's right', you softly tell me. 'Good girl'. You sit back on the sofa and for a moment I imagine a reprieve. Shock...relief...confusion...disappointment...anxiety. Have I done something wrong? Do you not want me anymore? But then, you put both arms around me and lift me, positioning me on your lap, facing you. You arrange my skirts so that no-one can see, and tell me to kneel up. Your fingers slide inside me - you start to push, pulling, using, stretching out my pussy. I don't last long...I can't...it is only moments before I start to come, and as I gush over your fingers, you put your other hand over my mouth and pinch my nostrils closed. My eyes are huge...you see my distress...and you drink it in.
You position the fat head of your cock against the lips of my pussy. Lips that are dripping with my cum, and open like a flower...for you to pluck, or crush, as you choose. You rub against me, your prick so hard it hurts, and watch my face as I moan, seeing my expression move from lust, to fear, to shame. I think that you will use my pussy, but suddenly and shockingly, you slam your dick into my arse. Without warning you drive yourself deeper into me. It must hurt you a little - and for me, it's agonising. You see the pain in my eyes, as every thrust hurts me and causes me to cry out - you thrust deeper and harder. Your hands are on my hips, forcing me to bear down...your tongue in my mouth, is taking my kiss, stealing my breath. You are making me ride you...making me take your dick inside me so deep, as you fuck my arse savagely, here in this place, where everyone can see...where everyone can see I'm yours.
And those are the words that you say, as you slam yourself into me. Then without a word you lift me, and throw me down on the sofa. Automatically I assume the position of presenting myself to you.
'You. Are. MINE', you remind me, as your length drives in to my virgin pussy, for the first time. You fuck hard...and harder...deeper...I scream and cry your name, over and over and over again...my cunt throbs as it clenches around your cock, squeezing, as I come so intensely I lose all control.
You cry out once, then pull out. You know I want your cum inside me - need it inside me - but you choose instead to soak me in it...my back...my torn and tattered stockings...my pussy lips and used holes...and after you empty your balls over me...drain yourself, pour yourself over me...you collapse, and little sighs and words escape you, as you tell me that I'm yours, that you need me, that you love me. I'm crying again, this time because it hurt, and still hurts, that this moment will not last for all time, so much do I love you and want this completion to be now and forever.
You finally raise yourself, and sticky with your seed...soaked in sweat and cum, we see the gathered crowd and prepare ourselves to find a way to explain this mess.
You smile, and I return it. Neither of us can even begin to care. We only have space for thoughts of each other, and the intimacy, the intensity, or what has just passed between us.
As your fingers slide with almost no resistance into my tight little pussy, your cock hardens. You should be familiar by now, with how drenched I become for you - not just moist or damp but sodden, slippery with silken liquid. But still, this time you are shocked at the dripping extent of the defiled plump lips of my puss.
You know you can take me, however, whenever, you want. Or not at all. Maybe you'll just keep me like that, waiting, bent over the sofa of the pub, while people walk past on their way to smoke, or piss. You know I won't move. Not until you tell me I can. Although you know, if you wait too long, I might start to whimper, or silently cry. You rub yourself through your jeans in anticipation, knowing I am fighting the desire to peek through my hair, to see what is happening, who is watching. You're controlling what I see...and what I fear.
Without a word you get your dick out, and rub it against my silky hole. This is the first time you've ever fucked me and you want me to know you can do whatever the fuck you want to with me, wherever, however, you want to. You yank me into a kneeling position and growl aggresively into my ear. ''Where shall I fuck you? Shall I fuck your arse, or your pussy?'
I suck air through my mouth, gasping, struggling not to cry out loud and draw any more attention to myself. You yank my head back even further. You jab your shaft painfully, violently, against my mouth, slapping me in the face with it, pushing, distorting my features as you shove it into the side of my cheek. You know I find this almost unbearably humiliating. 'Don't you know?', you rasp into my ear. 'You don't fucking know, where I want to put my fucking cock?'
I can barely speak with the effort of trying not to sob out loud. 'You...you...you can fuck me...however you want to...please....please...I can't...'
You shake me like a rag doll. 'CAN'T FUCKING WHAT?!', you spit at me, 'Can't fucking stay there while I stick my cock in you? Don't fuck you? You don't want me to fuck you?!'
Your eyes are huge and furious, the pupils dilated.
'No....I don't...I can't...I don't know...please, please don't be mad at me... I'll do whatever you want me to...I'm sorry...please...PLEASE! I'm yours, you can do whatever you want to, to me'. My voice is high and frightened.
'You're fucking right I can do what I fucking want to with you. Now get your face in that fucking leather and spread your legs further apart. NOW'.
I obey, instantly. Only because you know me so well can you see the reluctance, confusion, shame, in my body.
'Where?', you ask me, a fraction calmer. You're giving me the chance to redeem myself. Just one word - but I know exactly what you are asking. And I'm happy...so happy because I know the right answer and I can give it to you.
'Anywhere', I whisper.
'When?', you ask me.
'Whenever you want to. However you want to'. I'm calm now, too. I've given in. Given up. To you. Whatever happens now, it's you who will make the decisions. My soul is naked to you but I'm clothed in the confidence that your commanding presence gives to me. You run your hands up and down my body, lifting my skirt, tugging with your fingernails on my stockings. You slowly, deliberately, pull on one of them. The fabric strains against my thighs, then gives as your strength overpowers it. You hear a ripping sound as you tear it off my body. My skin reddens, and you know you're hurting me, but I'm too far gone to voice protest. Gone too far, into that space in my mind in which you have chosen to put me, in this place. In this time.
'That's right', you softly tell me. 'Good girl'. You sit back on the sofa and for a moment I imagine a reprieve. Shock...relief...confusion...disappointment...anxiety. Have I done something wrong? Do you not want me anymore? But then, you put both arms around me and lift me, positioning me on your lap, facing you. You arrange my skirts so that no-one can see, and tell me to kneel up. Your fingers slide inside me - you start to push, pulling, using, stretching out my pussy. I don't last long...I can't...it is only moments before I start to come, and as I gush over your fingers, you put your other hand over my mouth and pinch my nostrils closed. My eyes are huge...you see my distress...and you drink it in.
You position the fat head of your cock against the lips of my pussy. Lips that are dripping with my cum, and open like a flower...for you to pluck, or crush, as you choose. You rub against me, your prick so hard it hurts, and watch my face as I moan, seeing my expression move from lust, to fear, to shame. I think that you will use my pussy, but suddenly and shockingly, you slam your dick into my arse. Without warning you drive yourself deeper into me. It must hurt you a little - and for me, it's agonising. You see the pain in my eyes, as every thrust hurts me and causes me to cry out - you thrust deeper and harder. Your hands are on my hips, forcing me to bear down...your tongue in my mouth, is taking my kiss, stealing my breath. You are making me ride you...making me take your dick inside me so deep, as you fuck my arse savagely, here in this place, where everyone can see...where everyone can see I'm yours.
And those are the words that you say, as you slam yourself into me. Then without a word you lift me, and throw me down on the sofa. Automatically I assume the position of presenting myself to you.
'You. Are. MINE', you remind me, as your length drives in to my virgin pussy, for the first time. You fuck hard...and harder...deeper...I scream and cry your name, over and over and over again...my cunt throbs as it clenches around your cock, squeezing, as I come so intensely I lose all control.
You cry out once, then pull out. You know I want your cum inside me - need it inside me - but you choose instead to soak me in it...my back...my torn and tattered stockings...my pussy lips and used holes...and after you empty your balls over me...drain yourself, pour yourself over me...you collapse, and little sighs and words escape you, as you tell me that I'm yours, that you need me, that you love me. I'm crying again, this time because it hurt, and still hurts, that this moment will not last for all time, so much do I love you and want this completion to be now and forever.
You finally raise yourself, and sticky with your seed...soaked in sweat and cum, we see the gathered crowd and prepare ourselves to find a way to explain this mess.
You smile, and I return it. Neither of us can even begin to care. We only have space for thoughts of each other, and the intimacy, the intensity, or what has just passed between us.
"Stars, hide your fires, Let not light see my black and deep desires."
Look, if you want to torture me, spank me, lick me, do it. But if this poetry shit continues just shoot me now please. ~ Lori Petty in Tank Girl
I almost don't know where to start. I've had so many new experiences...been to so many new places in my head in the last couple of weeks, that it's just blown my mind. I need a bit of time to reflect and process what has happened to me, in the best way I know how - write it out, pour it out, let myself organise and frame this personal history in a way in which I can understand it.
Back in November, I contacted M on informedconsent.com (IC) - because his profile struck a chord with me. Something about it, I don't even know what, spoke to me, and resonated. I contacted a few people from IC around that time, in the wake of a relationship break-up - I think it's very common to start searching for something to replace what you've lost, long before you're ready.
I never chat online with people I don't know. I prefer to memo back and forth, and within a few memos-worth of conversation I usually know whether I want to take it forward or not. I tend to go with my gut instinct, and all but a couple of IC'ers got excluded on the grounds of just not being what I was looking for, bad writing skills, bad attitude, or hideousness in the photo department.
M though, stood out right from the beginning. But I wasn't ready. I felt strongly drawn to him, but my instincts were saying 'no' - and I think now, that they were GOOD instincts, because if I'd gone forward with it at that time, I would have blown the chance to connect with someone, so damaged still as I was from the ending of my previous relationship. I needed to give myself time to heal, and let go. So I told him 'no'. He took this rejection in the most gentlemanly fashion, asking me only that I would promise to get in touch, should I change my mind.
A few weeks later, I was still going through a really tough time. I blogged on IC as normal, struggling to make sense of my messy head. He got in touch again - not in a predatory 'brilliant, you're a bit fucked up, can I have a go on you?' sort of way, but in a 'listen, I know you're not into me in *that* way, but if you want someone to vent to, or offer advice, or just be here for you to offload on, then I'm offering'. I was so desperate at the time, that the chance to pour my heart out, even to some random stranger on IC, was a lifeline. He wasn't the only one I memo'd about what I was going through, but he was the only one who offered advice that actually made a significant difference to my problems. In fact, I think it's quite possible that his advice might have saved my marriage, which is quite bizarre under the circumstances!
It was I, not him, who asked if we could meet in person. He treated me much as you might a scared rescue dog - with patience, gentleness, and kind generosity. And I responded to it - god, did I need someone to just carry my burdens for a little while, so I could rest. I was so lost. I got so lost. But I was so, so afraid. I'd barely lived through my previous break-up, and was terrified of being hurt again. I kept running scared...but still, that patience, gentleness and kindness, even in the face of being pushed away, time and time again, remained one of the few consistent things in my life, at that point.
Then the day came when I stopped pushing him away. And fuck - how I wanted him. Desired him. Needed him - not just sexually, but the person that he is, what he gives to me, how he makes me feel, about him, about myself, about the world. The world is...softer...because he is in it.
When we started playing, it was in a very different way from how I was used to. I worried we wouldn't be compatible, couldn't, or wouldn't, meet each other's needs. I couldn't have been more wrong. I have never felt such a perfect sense of 'match' in a partner, sexually. Over time, it has become less and less, something that can be described as 'play'. One scene merges into another, and suddenly - it's not sexual role-play anymore. It's just the way we are, together. And I have never, NEVER, felt such a burning desire to couple with someone.
A week or so ago, he came to see me at my house. It was only for the evening, I was tired, he was tired, we expected only to cuddle and maybe just talk, kiss, be soft with each other. He knocked on my door - I opened it, and he was wearing a thick leather trenchcoat. I've got....a bit of a 'thing' for leather trenchcoats, so my eyes lit up on sight. And frankly, seeing M in one...my god, the man *IS* sex personified. He came in, and before we'd even gone up the stairs in the corridor, he made me come, noisily, messily (in the echo chamber that is our corridor, right above the downstairs flat's kitchen). Twice.
We ended up in a sweaty, tumbled heap on my bed, via the sofa, the floor, the walls... Instead of fighting him, defiant shouting, swearing, kicking, slapping or shoving, this time I just...submitted. He took what he wanted from me - and I gave it. With difficulty. Some of the things he was choosing to make me do were hard - physically, and emotionally. Humiliating. Shameful. But I was so frightened that he would punish me more if I refused, or denied him - frightened that I wouldn't be able to take the punishment, and also frightened that I would displease him.
I don't think it's accurate to say that I have never truly submitted before this time - and yet, something new did happen. Perhaps there are levels of submission, and this took me deeper - far deeper into that space - than I had ever been before. It made something inside me be....not broken anymore. As I lay in his arms afterwards, and he put my pieces back together, I became something a little more whole than I was before.
Just a few days later, we saw each other again. In our fierce need for each other, we kissed, falling on each other with starved haste, and as we started to become more intense my anger flaired - never suppressed for long. Defiantly I shoved him off me - he shoved back harder. I fought and struggled - he overwhelmed me. He pinned me down, then let me go, free to move as I wanted to, while he spanked me. He struck me - I slapped him in the face. He struck me again - I slapped him again. Then the anger inside him exploded to meet mine - he held me down and beat me over and over again, his sweat hitting my face in droplets, along with the spittle from each expelled word. Shocked, I lay unmoving as he tossed me aside onto the floor, and walked away.
When he returned and put a knife to my throat, ripping my head back by the roots of my hair, a hot, burning fear jolted through me. I felt sick with terror, ill with it. A deep and primal dread pulsed back and forth through my body as he ran the knife over my back, and when he told me to stay still and not move, I had no thought other than to obey...there were no thoughts in me, only reaction. He beat me so hard I almost couldn't take it - it was pushing my limits, and the pain made me cry out, scream, beg, and then sob, soaking the fabric under my face with tears, hot and full of release. He held the knife to my throat one last time, and just as I thought I couldn't take any more, he held me, and stroked me, and made me safe again. I sobbed piteously for a long time - a very long time. And when it was all over, all gone, I felt....clean. Scrubbed new and shining. Light, and more than light - golden.
Later, as he took more of what he wanted, I gushed for the first time in my life. I used to find it so hard to come - I even warned him before we first played together, that it was hard for me, and infrequent, and took a long time. Now, I lose count of how many orgasms he's given me, every single time we're together. I felt safe enough this time, ready enough, to ask him if I could make myself come while he watched. Not only was I given permission, I was reassured that it was okay to ask, that it was a good thing, and I realised I would not be laughed at, or ignored, or that he would just tolerate it but be bored as I'd feared.
We went out for the evening, and were walking back through a little used side street when he pushed me up against a lamppost, kissing me. As we became more passionate, little flashes of consciousness that we were in a public place, intruded. Every time I looked around, to see who was in the alleyway, or walking past it, he turned my face back to him. He was controlling what I could see, and my mind played tricks on me, not knowing whether the echo of heels on the pavement was a few yards away, or in the next street.
He pulled my knickers down - fucked me with his fingers - pulled my knickers down MORE so they were below the level of what little modesty was preserved by my coat - finger fucked me again - took my knickers off completely and put them in his pocket - brought me to orgasm - very loudly - and finally, supported my body until the shudders left me. I asked him if I could pull my skirt down - I was clasped in his arms in my heels, fishnet stockings, yanked up skirt and no knickers, in a public street, curtained only from view by my undone coat, and his body. He said 'let me look', in a soft, firm voice, and backed away a few paces. I'll never forget the sight of him, his coat framing his muscular body, his eyes drinking in my naked and moistened thighs. My face was turned to one side, I couldn't meet his eyes, my cheeks burning. Then he let me cover myself, and we walked - with him holding me as I struggled to walk, my legs shaky, my face flushed, my eyes shining in the dark.
We made it to the pub for a quick drink, and curled up together on the sofas on which we had sat when we first met. We talked, stroked, kissed...he got hard, I got wet. I wanted him - and I told him so. He threatened to take me outside to the smoking area, and fuck me bent over the grimy table in the beer garden, if I wasn't careful, and didn't stop taunting him - but I continued to tease. And then with careful deliberation he folded our coats and tucked them out of sight, and led me by my hand to follow him. There was no thought in my mind to refuse - I could have as easily stopped my heart beating, as told him no.
Against my expectations, he led me into the toilets instead - the urinals stank of stale male urine, the floor was dirty, the walls scrawled with meaningless graffitied swearwords over the red paint. He took me into a cubicle, where I knelt on the floor at his will. Afterwards, he told me to stay there while he checked outside, then led me back onto the sofas again, to reclaim our seats. Then he held me - and my body sank into his like a physical manifestation of my submission. My very flesh submits to his. He told me once, that it's almost as though all of my body is submissive - that as he pushes himself inside me, his tongue into my mouth, his fingers into my pussy, he sinks in so easily, just taking what he wants. That's how it feels to me, as well.
And that is what he did to me, with me - as we sat on the sofas together, in full view of the foreign student couple seated at the sofa in the other half of the 'L-shape' from us. As they talked, the unknown words of their conversation provided a dream-like quality to this already surreal evening. He sat upright, I lay sprawled in his lap, facing him, his arms around me. Slowly he slid a hand under my skirts, encountering my soaked and slippery cunt. No knickers impeded his fingers - they were still tucked out of sight in his pocket from when he took them away from me earlier. Slowly and deliberately, he brought me to a silent climax that was almost unbearable, so hard did I have to work not to cry out. I gushed over his hand again...
Despite the intensity, the transcendent, all-encompassing nature of the experiences I have with him, unlike other lovers I have had, I do not find him draining or emotionally exhausting. I do not spend many hours in tears because of him, or troubled in my mind. He is so....*easy* to be with, someone I would want in my life as a friend, even if I never touched him again. But oh, how I need to touch him. It is almost impossible for me to be in his presence, and not to be touching him, and more. I cry less, I worry less, I angst less...because he is in my life. The only other person I've ever met who caused that effect, rather than the opposite, I ended up marrying. I wake up every day and think how lucky I am, to have two such special people give me their love, in such completely different ways, but ultimately two people I can hold in my heart to adore.
I almost don't know where to start. I've had so many new experiences...been to so many new places in my head in the last couple of weeks, that it's just blown my mind. I need a bit of time to reflect and process what has happened to me, in the best way I know how - write it out, pour it out, let myself organise and frame this personal history in a way in which I can understand it.
Back in November, I contacted M on informedconsent.com (IC) - because his profile struck a chord with me. Something about it, I don't even know what, spoke to me, and resonated. I contacted a few people from IC around that time, in the wake of a relationship break-up - I think it's very common to start searching for something to replace what you've lost, long before you're ready.
I never chat online with people I don't know. I prefer to memo back and forth, and within a few memos-worth of conversation I usually know whether I want to take it forward or not. I tend to go with my gut instinct, and all but a couple of IC'ers got excluded on the grounds of just not being what I was looking for, bad writing skills, bad attitude, or hideousness in the photo department.
M though, stood out right from the beginning. But I wasn't ready. I felt strongly drawn to him, but my instincts were saying 'no' - and I think now, that they were GOOD instincts, because if I'd gone forward with it at that time, I would have blown the chance to connect with someone, so damaged still as I was from the ending of my previous relationship. I needed to give myself time to heal, and let go. So I told him 'no'. He took this rejection in the most gentlemanly fashion, asking me only that I would promise to get in touch, should I change my mind.
A few weeks later, I was still going through a really tough time. I blogged on IC as normal, struggling to make sense of my messy head. He got in touch again - not in a predatory 'brilliant, you're a bit fucked up, can I have a go on you?' sort of way, but in a 'listen, I know you're not into me in *that* way, but if you want someone to vent to, or offer advice, or just be here for you to offload on, then I'm offering'. I was so desperate at the time, that the chance to pour my heart out, even to some random stranger on IC, was a lifeline. He wasn't the only one I memo'd about what I was going through, but he was the only one who offered advice that actually made a significant difference to my problems. In fact, I think it's quite possible that his advice might have saved my marriage, which is quite bizarre under the circumstances!
It was I, not him, who asked if we could meet in person. He treated me much as you might a scared rescue dog - with patience, gentleness, and kind generosity. And I responded to it - god, did I need someone to just carry my burdens for a little while, so I could rest. I was so lost. I got so lost. But I was so, so afraid. I'd barely lived through my previous break-up, and was terrified of being hurt again. I kept running scared...but still, that patience, gentleness and kindness, even in the face of being pushed away, time and time again, remained one of the few consistent things in my life, at that point.
Then the day came when I stopped pushing him away. And fuck - how I wanted him. Desired him. Needed him - not just sexually, but the person that he is, what he gives to me, how he makes me feel, about him, about myself, about the world. The world is...softer...because he is in it.
When we started playing, it was in a very different way from how I was used to. I worried we wouldn't be compatible, couldn't, or wouldn't, meet each other's needs. I couldn't have been more wrong. I have never felt such a perfect sense of 'match' in a partner, sexually. Over time, it has become less and less, something that can be described as 'play'. One scene merges into another, and suddenly - it's not sexual role-play anymore. It's just the way we are, together. And I have never, NEVER, felt such a burning desire to couple with someone.
A week or so ago, he came to see me at my house. It was only for the evening, I was tired, he was tired, we expected only to cuddle and maybe just talk, kiss, be soft with each other. He knocked on my door - I opened it, and he was wearing a thick leather trenchcoat. I've got....a bit of a 'thing' for leather trenchcoats, so my eyes lit up on sight. And frankly, seeing M in one...my god, the man *IS* sex personified. He came in, and before we'd even gone up the stairs in the corridor, he made me come, noisily, messily (in the echo chamber that is our corridor, right above the downstairs flat's kitchen). Twice.
We ended up in a sweaty, tumbled heap on my bed, via the sofa, the floor, the walls... Instead of fighting him, defiant shouting, swearing, kicking, slapping or shoving, this time I just...submitted. He took what he wanted from me - and I gave it. With difficulty. Some of the things he was choosing to make me do were hard - physically, and emotionally. Humiliating. Shameful. But I was so frightened that he would punish me more if I refused, or denied him - frightened that I wouldn't be able to take the punishment, and also frightened that I would displease him.
I don't think it's accurate to say that I have never truly submitted before this time - and yet, something new did happen. Perhaps there are levels of submission, and this took me deeper - far deeper into that space - than I had ever been before. It made something inside me be....not broken anymore. As I lay in his arms afterwards, and he put my pieces back together, I became something a little more whole than I was before.
Just a few days later, we saw each other again. In our fierce need for each other, we kissed, falling on each other with starved haste, and as we started to become more intense my anger flaired - never suppressed for long. Defiantly I shoved him off me - he shoved back harder. I fought and struggled - he overwhelmed me. He pinned me down, then let me go, free to move as I wanted to, while he spanked me. He struck me - I slapped him in the face. He struck me again - I slapped him again. Then the anger inside him exploded to meet mine - he held me down and beat me over and over again, his sweat hitting my face in droplets, along with the spittle from each expelled word. Shocked, I lay unmoving as he tossed me aside onto the floor, and walked away.
When he returned and put a knife to my throat, ripping my head back by the roots of my hair, a hot, burning fear jolted through me. I felt sick with terror, ill with it. A deep and primal dread pulsed back and forth through my body as he ran the knife over my back, and when he told me to stay still and not move, I had no thought other than to obey...there were no thoughts in me, only reaction. He beat me so hard I almost couldn't take it - it was pushing my limits, and the pain made me cry out, scream, beg, and then sob, soaking the fabric under my face with tears, hot and full of release. He held the knife to my throat one last time, and just as I thought I couldn't take any more, he held me, and stroked me, and made me safe again. I sobbed piteously for a long time - a very long time. And when it was all over, all gone, I felt....clean. Scrubbed new and shining. Light, and more than light - golden.
Later, as he took more of what he wanted, I gushed for the first time in my life. I used to find it so hard to come - I even warned him before we first played together, that it was hard for me, and infrequent, and took a long time. Now, I lose count of how many orgasms he's given me, every single time we're together. I felt safe enough this time, ready enough, to ask him if I could make myself come while he watched. Not only was I given permission, I was reassured that it was okay to ask, that it was a good thing, and I realised I would not be laughed at, or ignored, or that he would just tolerate it but be bored as I'd feared.
We went out for the evening, and were walking back through a little used side street when he pushed me up against a lamppost, kissing me. As we became more passionate, little flashes of consciousness that we were in a public place, intruded. Every time I looked around, to see who was in the alleyway, or walking past it, he turned my face back to him. He was controlling what I could see, and my mind played tricks on me, not knowing whether the echo of heels on the pavement was a few yards away, or in the next street.
He pulled my knickers down - fucked me with his fingers - pulled my knickers down MORE so they were below the level of what little modesty was preserved by my coat - finger fucked me again - took my knickers off completely and put them in his pocket - brought me to orgasm - very loudly - and finally, supported my body until the shudders left me. I asked him if I could pull my skirt down - I was clasped in his arms in my heels, fishnet stockings, yanked up skirt and no knickers, in a public street, curtained only from view by my undone coat, and his body. He said 'let me look', in a soft, firm voice, and backed away a few paces. I'll never forget the sight of him, his coat framing his muscular body, his eyes drinking in my naked and moistened thighs. My face was turned to one side, I couldn't meet his eyes, my cheeks burning. Then he let me cover myself, and we walked - with him holding me as I struggled to walk, my legs shaky, my face flushed, my eyes shining in the dark.
We made it to the pub for a quick drink, and curled up together on the sofas on which we had sat when we first met. We talked, stroked, kissed...he got hard, I got wet. I wanted him - and I told him so. He threatened to take me outside to the smoking area, and fuck me bent over the grimy table in the beer garden, if I wasn't careful, and didn't stop taunting him - but I continued to tease. And then with careful deliberation he folded our coats and tucked them out of sight, and led me by my hand to follow him. There was no thought in my mind to refuse - I could have as easily stopped my heart beating, as told him no.
Against my expectations, he led me into the toilets instead - the urinals stank of stale male urine, the floor was dirty, the walls scrawled with meaningless graffitied swearwords over the red paint. He took me into a cubicle, where I knelt on the floor at his will. Afterwards, he told me to stay there while he checked outside, then led me back onto the sofas again, to reclaim our seats. Then he held me - and my body sank into his like a physical manifestation of my submission. My very flesh submits to his. He told me once, that it's almost as though all of my body is submissive - that as he pushes himself inside me, his tongue into my mouth, his fingers into my pussy, he sinks in so easily, just taking what he wants. That's how it feels to me, as well.
And that is what he did to me, with me - as we sat on the sofas together, in full view of the foreign student couple seated at the sofa in the other half of the 'L-shape' from us. As they talked, the unknown words of their conversation provided a dream-like quality to this already surreal evening. He sat upright, I lay sprawled in his lap, facing him, his arms around me. Slowly he slid a hand under my skirts, encountering my soaked and slippery cunt. No knickers impeded his fingers - they were still tucked out of sight in his pocket from when he took them away from me earlier. Slowly and deliberately, he brought me to a silent climax that was almost unbearable, so hard did I have to work not to cry out. I gushed over his hand again...
Despite the intensity, the transcendent, all-encompassing nature of the experiences I have with him, unlike other lovers I have had, I do not find him draining or emotionally exhausting. I do not spend many hours in tears because of him, or troubled in my mind. He is so....*easy* to be with, someone I would want in my life as a friend, even if I never touched him again. But oh, how I need to touch him. It is almost impossible for me to be in his presence, and not to be touching him, and more. I cry less, I worry less, I angst less...because he is in my life. The only other person I've ever met who caused that effect, rather than the opposite, I ended up marrying. I wake up every day and think how lucky I am, to have two such special people give me their love, in such completely different ways, but ultimately two people I can hold in my heart to adore.
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
Blood, Sweat, Tears... and Cum
Before there is peace, blood will spill blood, and the lake will run red. ~ Erin Hunter
The body's own river, why is blood so bound up with emotion? The act of spilling my blood always increased the intensity of any play, tenfold. It has such power, is imbued with so much symbolism. The moment of being born, the imagined moment of our death, the very core of how we know we're alive - all these things are carried in our veins.
For women, blood spilt does not always mean an injury, or pain. We are comfortable with blood, in a way men are not, and can never be - just as we are comfortable with penetration.
But for blood to be taken in violence - that is taking away our power over our own bodies, something that should belong to us, and only us.
Don't feel entitled to anything you didn't sweat and struggle for. ~ Marian Wright Edelman
It's only in the last few months, I've become aware of what a visceral person I am. I've always known I'm a sensual, earthy person - I love to touch and be touched, to run my hands along the garden walls as I walk down the street, to feel the texture of leaves, bring my fingers close and breathe in the scent of rosemary, lavender, or rose. I want and need beautiful things around me, and I adore running my eyes over the curves of my female friends, drinking in their shape, their plump dimpled elbows, or slender pointed hip bones, with equal pleasure. The sound of my partner's orgasm can bring me to climax - voice and tone are essential to good sex, for me. I love to have texture and taste in my mouth, I want to experience my lover's body, I need to drink it in, drink it down.
I sometimes find myself 'scenting' people close to me, or those I'm drawn to. Something will trigger a need, and I will just rub my head, urgently, against them. I love it when people sweat - people who I want in my life. I want to cover myself in it, rub myself in it, sleep covered in it. I want to combine my scent with theirs, to make a group scent - pack.
What higher compliment can there be that someone thinks you are worth their toil, their sweat?
If I were to die and I could come back as anything, I would want to come back as one of your tears. What girl wouldn't want to be conceived in your heart, born in your eyes, live on your cheek, and die on your lips. ~ anon
Can there be any pleasure/pain more profound than being hurt by the one you love until you cry? Why are my tears so arousing to the one who's causing them? The vulnerability, the humiliation - shedding tears is normally something done in secret, a private thing, shared only with those most intimate with us. It is an action willingly chosen - crying..sobbing...these things are normally caused by events or people outside ourselves. We are not in control, when we cry.
I confess to sometimes putting on extra mascara and eyeliner in the knowledge that my eyes will start to run, as I choke on cock, or even better, my sobs and tears from pain will prettily blacken my face. I take an erotic pleasure from crying that is rooted in the sense of being exposed...opened...and not by choice.
When my friends and loved ones let me see them cry, I am honoured. They share with me a part of themselves that few others get to see, and I treasure it, and treat it with the respect it deserves.
The measure of your life will not be in what you accumulate, but in what you give away ~ Wayne Dyer
I am a cum whore. Unashamedly. I adore cum. Fresh, scalding hot spunk surging out of a man's balls, as he empties himself onto, or into me - if I haven't already orgasmed myself, there's a very good chance that will trigger it, just by sight and feel alone.
The taste of it - my god, why would anyone waste that? Spit or swallow - are you mad?! Who wouldn't want to drink down their lover's seed, carry it around inside them, deep in their belly, for as long as possible. Especially if you have to be apart afterwards...it's a way to keep a piece of your loved one with you, for a little longer.
I've never understood women who say they can't deep throat either. What does that mean? How can you not? Do they mean that they gag? Isn't that part of the fun?
I like to sleep clothed in a loved one's cum, wrapped in their sweat and their arms - the safest place I can be. It's beautiful - it's a beautiful thing.
The body's own river, why is blood so bound up with emotion? The act of spilling my blood always increased the intensity of any play, tenfold. It has such power, is imbued with so much symbolism. The moment of being born, the imagined moment of our death, the very core of how we know we're alive - all these things are carried in our veins.
For women, blood spilt does not always mean an injury, or pain. We are comfortable with blood, in a way men are not, and can never be - just as we are comfortable with penetration.
But for blood to be taken in violence - that is taking away our power over our own bodies, something that should belong to us, and only us.
Don't feel entitled to anything you didn't sweat and struggle for. ~ Marian Wright Edelman
It's only in the last few months, I've become aware of what a visceral person I am. I've always known I'm a sensual, earthy person - I love to touch and be touched, to run my hands along the garden walls as I walk down the street, to feel the texture of leaves, bring my fingers close and breathe in the scent of rosemary, lavender, or rose. I want and need beautiful things around me, and I adore running my eyes over the curves of my female friends, drinking in their shape, their plump dimpled elbows, or slender pointed hip bones, with equal pleasure. The sound of my partner's orgasm can bring me to climax - voice and tone are essential to good sex, for me. I love to have texture and taste in my mouth, I want to experience my lover's body, I need to drink it in, drink it down.
I sometimes find myself 'scenting' people close to me, or those I'm drawn to. Something will trigger a need, and I will just rub my head, urgently, against them. I love it when people sweat - people who I want in my life. I want to cover myself in it, rub myself in it, sleep covered in it. I want to combine my scent with theirs, to make a group scent - pack.
What higher compliment can there be that someone thinks you are worth their toil, their sweat?
If I were to die and I could come back as anything, I would want to come back as one of your tears. What girl wouldn't want to be conceived in your heart, born in your eyes, live on your cheek, and die on your lips. ~ anon
Can there be any pleasure/pain more profound than being hurt by the one you love until you cry? Why are my tears so arousing to the one who's causing them? The vulnerability, the humiliation - shedding tears is normally something done in secret, a private thing, shared only with those most intimate with us. It is an action willingly chosen - crying..sobbing...these things are normally caused by events or people outside ourselves. We are not in control, when we cry.
I confess to sometimes putting on extra mascara and eyeliner in the knowledge that my eyes will start to run, as I choke on cock, or even better, my sobs and tears from pain will prettily blacken my face. I take an erotic pleasure from crying that is rooted in the sense of being exposed...opened...and not by choice.
When my friends and loved ones let me see them cry, I am honoured. They share with me a part of themselves that few others get to see, and I treasure it, and treat it with the respect it deserves.
The measure of your life will not be in what you accumulate, but in what you give away ~ Wayne Dyer
I am a cum whore. Unashamedly. I adore cum. Fresh, scalding hot spunk surging out of a man's balls, as he empties himself onto, or into me - if I haven't already orgasmed myself, there's a very good chance that will trigger it, just by sight and feel alone.
The taste of it - my god, why would anyone waste that? Spit or swallow - are you mad?! Who wouldn't want to drink down their lover's seed, carry it around inside them, deep in their belly, for as long as possible. Especially if you have to be apart afterwards...it's a way to keep a piece of your loved one with you, for a little longer.
I've never understood women who say they can't deep throat either. What does that mean? How can you not? Do they mean that they gag? Isn't that part of the fun?
I like to sleep clothed in a loved one's cum, wrapped in their sweat and their arms - the safest place I can be. It's beautiful - it's a beautiful thing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)