Liquid [story]

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

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

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

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

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

*tick tock*

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

*tick tock*

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

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

*tick tock*

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

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

*tick tock*

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

*tick tock*

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

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

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

*tick*

Weightless.

Breathless.

Gestalt.

*tock*

Collision.

Confusion.

I hit the floor.

*tick tock, tick tock*

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

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

*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*tick tock, tick tock, tick tock*

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


*tick*

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

*tock*

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

*tick*

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

*tock*

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

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

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

*tick tock*

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

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

*tick tock, tick tock*

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

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

*tick tock*

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

*tick tock, tick tock*

*tick tock, tick tock*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck you".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I kneel to him.

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

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

"Yes, Sir".

"Streams full of stars, like skies at night"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's all worth it.

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

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

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

Shaking. Is this sickness?

Held. Comfort. Light. Warmth. Home.

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

Yes.

Metamorphosis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE NEXT TWO WEEKENDS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beauty in Violence

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He punches me in the stomach.

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

Before it stops hurting, he punches me again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hits me in the face again. And again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I. Need. This.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am so very lucky.

Integrity

I have been thinking about choice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Softly, Slowly, Speaks the Soul

Sometimes I expect too much of myself.

I get frustrated and angry sometimes, because there are moments when I am affected by things which happened in the past - bad things, which hurt me, but which I've healed from, completely, or am healing from, now. Transient moments of feeling unsettled - fleeting, an evanescent glitch in the system.

My mind, my heart - the very layers of personality which make me, *me* - my soul - has suffered injury, in the past. I've been burnt, broken; cut, crushed.

I've worked hard, endured, repaired. The work was long and painful, exhausting.

So when these moments come, when for a little while, I feel damaged still - I have to remember quite how damaged I once was, and give myself permission to not be 100% healed and baggage free. I am allowed to not be perfect. I am allowed to still be healing.

It does not mean that the work was all for nothing. Just because an old injury flairs up like a long-forgotten weakness in a limb during a cold winter, it does not mean the wound is still open and ragged. It's a twinge in the scar tissue. A momentary ache in a bone once broken.

The soul takes time to recover. Nothing can hurry the process, save soft kindness at the right time. And I am wrapped in that, from all the people that I love. I am lucky.

So today, I am celebrating the road journeyed so far. I am celebrating how far I've come - the distance I've travelled, the success I've made of my life. I'm celebrating the person that I am - because I wouldn't be me; interesting, unusual, strange, fucked up and dirty, and all those wonderful things - if my soul wasn't twisted into strange shapes and scarred.

I look at what I have, who I am. And I smile. And nothing and no-one can take that away from me.

Today - I am proud of myself.

"Something wicked this way comes"

Reading back over the last year's blogs, it's hard to recognise some of the urgent longing, the unfulfilled yearning contained within them, as mine. It's fascinating, and enlightening, for me to look back and see the crushing loneliness, need, compulsion and impulsion which was ruling me. No wonder some of my friends were concerned about me - I was going off the rails a little. Being who I am, it was in a slow and fairly constrained fashion, but I know myself; my thoughts, emotions, and eventually behaviour often spiral quite quickly downwards once they pick up speed. I was still holding onto the wheel, so to speak, but increasingly having trouble keeping control and finding it slipping more and more often out of my grip, as I went into an uncontrolled skid which may well have ended in a metaphorical ditch.

All my life, I have felt like the black sheep that didn't belong. I often feel a sense of 'waiting to get caught out', that it's only a matter of time before someone will notice, and realise I don't belong here. I'm mostly okay with that, I've found other black sheep to huddle with against the cold, and we've taken delight in living a different kind of life from the one which those in the centre of the flock must have. But it does mean my sense of loneliness is finely honed and lives close to the surface.

For many years, my husband (R), was my defence against that loneliness. Him and me together against the world - a team, that's how I felt. But it's difficult to maintain that feeling of team spirit in the face of something huge and unspoken which is missing from your life. A yawning gap so wide that you can't even name it, for fear it will swallow you whole.

I am a deeply sexual, sensual, submissive person. It is fundamental to my personality, my core. And yet for almost all my life I've had no real outlet for it. I NEEDED, on a level so profound, so achingly wracking, and yet I did not get. There's a relief that I sense from R recently - a relief that I'm no longer trying to claw satisfaction from him of a need which he simply cannot fulfil.

I am unmistakeably, unquestionably, unrelentingly, in charge, in the relationship I have with R. I make the decisions. It's as simple as that. R gets to veto, yes, but I come up the plans, I arrange the details, I do what needs to be done to put the plans in action. I am the driving force - the ambition - the focus; in a way that is much more traditionally the preserve of the male partner. It is natural for me to do this, and I need an expression for this side of my character, which R has always allowed me to be completely fulfilled in.

And yet, equally, I need expression for the soft side of me, the half which is always warm, malleable, very very feminine, hopelessly sexual, which is not hard and controlled but moulds itself around something that is, which is allowed to lose that so very iron control, drop the barriers, disintegrate into something untidy and primal, unorganised, chaotic, implusive, spontaneous, free. It's soft as velvet, inky black, and lies puddled on the floor, not laid flat, straight. It's complex, dark, shadowed in the folds, and smells of musky, messy fluids, honey, vanilla and violets. And it's had no place to go, to be. Until now.

R is a little black sheep too, but his darkness is all on the outside. He's a merry fellow, pure, and an innocent; he doesn't like to play in the dirt like I do. I need R, I need his sweetness, his light. But I also need someone who can get down and dirty in the dark places with me. Someone who can pour their dominance over me like treacle, who speaks to that bottomless depth of yearning in me and answers the call that my loneliness screams out into the night. Someone like M.

It's almost as if that desperate calling, my aching hunger, drew him to me. And I know that I ease his own thirst, too; that he was searching for me, as I was searching for him, is clear. We were drawn to each other, we must have been, even before we met. How else could two so impossibly complicated pieces of a puzzle fit so exactly, so perfectly together, as if the molecules we are made from slide minutely aside to make it possible for us to occupy the same space in time, even while we move.

I needed to be fucked. I needed dominance. I needed nurturing. I needed love. I needed pain. He gives me all these things, and so much more besides. I never even imagined someone like me could hope for so much to be given. He violates me, he abuses me, he tears me apart - and then he makes me whole again. Not just glueing the pieces back together, but creating something which is better than it was before. It's like re-breaking a broken limb that has healed crooked, in order for it to set straight again. My tears are the molten steel which he folds in the forge of his rage; creating something with greater flexibility but not sacrificing the hardness of the cutting edge.

If my neural pathways are an overgrown forest; the habits of thought, well-trodden paths; then the force of his passion smashes me away from the rutted ground I'm stuck in. My bare feet turn the ground underneath me, walking along paths which hurt my feet. The soles are tender, they bleed from deep scratches, and still I can't seem to stop hurting myself, can't stop walking through this dream landscape which takes me further and further away from where I want to be, and yet is also looping back on itself so that I can't break away. I am used to being hurt, then neglected, then abandoned. I am used to fixing myself. He hurts me, abuses me, and my feet find this familiar path. But then he soothes away the hurts, wraps me in his love, his care, dries my tears, and with his solid, continued presence in my life, the knowledge that I can rely on him, lean on him, he gives me the tools I need to cut myself a new path. I can journey somewhere new, somewhere else, somewhere 'other'; somewhere I'm just beginning to explore.

Last Weekend
It's friday night. I'm waiting for him to come for me - I'm standing at the bar chatting to aquaintances. I'm completely comfortable here, I feel happy and excited to be waiting in my favourite local for him to arrive. I just happen to be wearing a school uniform. And not just any school uniform. Fishnet tights, with knee high white socks over them. The highest of mary jane patent black platform heels. Little ruffled white knickers (which, let me just establish here, are the ONLY item of white underwear I own). Short (obscenely so) black wool skirt. Lacy black bra showing clearly through the tight white tailored shirt with only one button done up. Skull and crossbones tie. My dreadlocks extra blonde, in bunches. Little fence net gloves to match my tights. Innocent, nasty.

He walks in the door, I greet him. We laugh, talk, kiss. Shortly he asks, 'Are you wearing a tie?!'

'Happy birthday', I say, and open my coat. It's only one of his birthday presents, but he likes it. A lot. A girl always likes to be appreciated. He made me feel like the sexiest woman on the planet. Such things are balm to the soul. Soul noms. Nom nom nom.

We saw a comedy show - I sat with my cotton-clad legs in his lap, while he finger fucked me. I came all over his hand - fortunately during a bout of laughter, as I cried out quite loudly.

He took me to a deserted carpark in the countryside. He terrorised me - threatened to let the next man who pulled up, fuck me over the bonnet of his car. Pushed me onto the back seat while he stood outside, yanked down my white knickers and fucked his prick into me like a maniac, shoved my legs as far apart as they would go so they were painfully wide while he slammed into me, passion-ridden, spreading me on his cock as far as he was able. But the angle meant he couldn't get that deep into me, and he wanted more. He ripped aside more of my clothing, yanked me along the seat so my little school skirt rode up, my white shirt open, torn, my socks around my ankles, dishevelled and dirty. He forced piss out of his hard cock and urgently, painfully, hosed me down with it. As his hot piss splashed onto my smooth, hairless cunt, we met each other's eyes - shocked, bare, open, raw with emotion. An act of trust, and of love. He marked me as his, claimed my pussy as belonging to him, his territory. He stuck his dick inside and pissed IN me, before finally spraying the last few drops over my thighs.

He fucked me then, urgently, as if, should he not do so, the stars would fall from the sky. Slapped me, again and again. Spat in my mouth. I fell, unsteady, to the floor, and stained my clothes with dust made into mud by his piss. On all fours, my hands and knees grazed by the rocky ground, he violently buggered me. My anal violation only ceased when I collapsed, and clambered, dizzy and faint, back into the car. He covered me in blankets, drew me onto his lap, but could not even speak clearly, he was so shaken with ardor. Still, he continued to fuck me in the arse, until I was ragged.

We were staying at our friend's house, who has a dungeon in his bedroom. We only used one piece of equipment that whole weekend - the doctor's table, and even that, only for him to get a greater angle of penetration so he could get his dick even deeper into my arsehole. Only when he had finished ruining me, did we finally collapse in sleep.

The whole of the next day, we barely paused for eating, drinking, going to the toilet, sleeping. We didn't even stop to shower, we weren't willing to give any more time up than was actually necessary for us to keep going. We spent all the remaining time, fucking - cunt, arse and mouth. He buggered me harder than I've ever taken before - he tried to drive his hips through my body and into the bed. He's powerfully built - his hindquarters thrust downwards, skewering me on his dick. I had no way to escape, I was crushed underneath him, mewling with pain, trying to scrabble away, but with no possibility of escape.

He put me so thoroughly, so completely, into submission, that when he lay on top of me, stroking my face, allowing his weight to press heavily downwards, whispering soft pride in me and then a command, I came for him, I came without his touch between my legs. For him - always for him. When I cum, I cum for him. My orgasm is his, my pain is his. And he does give me so much of both.

He takes great pleasure in wrapping me up warm and tight in layers of soft blankets, and then gifting me with food, drink, or whatever else I need. He is the most generous of lovers, in many ways.

And I, who so always loves to please, take an astonished delight in being pleased. And in this new kind of family, in which we are all black sheep either inside or out. In which I feel so safe.

"Nothing says 'I love you' like subcutaneous bruising" Part 3

I woke in the morning so sore, stiff, softened by his arms still wrapped around me. Little murmured, muted sounds without words, just as sometimes we tell each other words without sounds. Like oriental lacquer, love is built of moments like this, built up over much time with many layers, to create something both strong, and beautiful.

His fingers played over my body, re-shaping me, re-making me.

We still lay there when our friends dropped in to collect something from their flat. As I lay nearly naked in their bed, I showed off my bruises with pride. "Nothing says 'I love you' like subcutaneous bruising", said one of them.
'Too right' I thought.

After they left, we lay in bed for a long time - stroking, feeling each other's skin, sharing thoughts, memories, feelings. We talked about the way we had played the night before - deep things clenched inside my flesh as I remembered. My heartrate picked up as I thought of him, on top of me, holding me down, his hands on my arms, leaving fingermark bruises, purple and perfectly round. His eyes stare so intently into mine, so open, so unguarded, so full of things normally hidden - fear, anger, intense love, need, yearning, and also hope - 'You are mine', he says. 'Tell me who you belong to. Tell me you love me'. The joy in me, the simple, uncomplicated joy in me as I can bring pleasure, just by pulling forward the truth and tasting it on my tongue, letting it roll into my mouth and become words. 'Yes, I am yours. I am in love with you. I belong to you'.

As thoughts became expression, I needed to express my thoughts in ways other than with my mouth...I needed to use all of me, so my movement could mirror my mind. He is so powerfully present in his body, his muscles swell and fall with his breath, his light dusting of silver and black coarse fur inviting more intimate touch. As he moves above me he feels so intoxicatingly forceful, compelling. He is muscular without seeming brawny, deliciously hard without being stiff. He is so full of life, so vivid, that I feel fragile and overpowered, beneath him. As he fucks me, I moan, gasp, sob his name, plead. I feel like paper wrapped in stone. His voice is rock hard - the cliff that I plummet off, vibrations wreathed with energy as he tells me, over and over again, that I belong to him. 'I fucking OWN you', he says, as he slams his dick into me. I cry out, cum, again and again. 'You are my property. You belong to ME. You. Are. MINE'. I can't stop cumming. I just cannot stop.

He puts me on top of him, he forces me to ride his cock. He tells me to pour my love over him. I soak him - I soak his cock in my cum, my juices flow over his balls, down his thighs, they make the bed wet. And still I cum. My voice is hoarse from screaming.

Taking pity on me he allows me to slide off and take him in my mouth. I suck happily, greedily, like the slutty whore I am. In my heightened state of arousal, he tells me one last time to cum. 'Cum for me baby, cum for me. I OWN you. Cum for me, now. NOW'. And I do. I cum without a touch, from sucking his cock, and hearing his ownership of me poured out in words like cream. Like song.

Later, much later, we played again. I was bruised and sore to begin with. I was his toy, his plaything. He possessed me - inside and out. He could do anything, anything to me. He could tell me to do anything, and I would do it. He could do anything with me, and I would not only comply, not only be malleable in his will, but seek to go one step further. Whatever pleasure he wanted to take from me I would, without even consciously trying, desire to enhance. If he wanted me scared, I would be not just afraid, but terrified. If he wanted to hurt me, I would be first in agony, then beyond pain. If he wanted my anger, I would show him fury, then rage. If he needed my submission, I would not just give in, I would give up. If he wanted to stick his prick down my throat, I would make sure my head was angled so I could take in as much as he wanted to give me, and suck well, without grazing him with my teeth. And all without even knowing I sought to do that. I just do it that way. It's what I am, what I need to be. It gives me something which I cannot - I CANNOT - live without. To be perfect. To be his perfect whore. To be - to exist - to be real - to be a thing of pleasure, treasured. To wholly offer up myself, to give ALL of me, holding nothing back. Without barriers, without walls. To become a purity of one single way of being. To give, to yield, to bend, to follow his will. To be the willow which bends in the wind, not the oak which snaps under it's own strength.

This is what I need.

And more than this - I need to give this to someone who I love, adore, respect, desire, hold in such high esteem yet also consider my equal.

I lay quietly when he started beating me. He placed me on the medical table, padded leather and chrome. I breathed deeply as the pain began. Soon the sharp stings wrung harsh intakes of breath from me, becoming cries, my fists clenching, flickers of ember fire flash through me, quickly doused in the tide of rage lapping close to shore behind his eyes. I knelt up, I writhed, I lay on my side, choking, I pulled my own hair - the only relief was when he turned me on my back, my head hanging down at just the right angle for him to pump his cock in my throat, fucking my mouth, hard and so deep he stopped my breathing with his dick, only allowing me to gasp in when he chose to.

He turned me over again, my body, and my mind too, as the blows started up so fast and intensely I couldn't breathe through this, either. I sucked in air, drowning in pain. My suffering spilled out of my body, through my mouth as I wailed, my hands as they clawed the bench, my eyes, streaming with tears, my back as I struggled to endure his torturous abuse of my body. The skin on my back throbbed long after each blow had stopped, merging into the next stroke of the whip, or cane. My desolate cries of distress slowed, then stopped, as I gave him all I had to give - he wanted to hurt me, I had endured the hurt, and now I was beyond pain.

Everything seemed distant, so far away - emotions, sound, sensation. I lay, knowing but not caring that my mouth was open and drool fell in thin lines of spittle down my face to the leather of the table. I knew that my eyes must appear vacant, because I knew I wasn't there, not truly seated within my body. A thought travelled through my mind - he must be worried, I ought to tell him I'm okay - but no action followed. I couldn't seem to motivate myself to speak, or move, or react in any way. There was no longer any feeling of pain, only pressure, or extreme sensation. I don't know how long I lay like that for, it seemed only moments, before one ultimately hard stroke brought a bubbling, fizzing sensation in my hands and head, I heard myself cry out, and although there was still no pain, I was more truly present. He finished with me then, and the light hurt my eyes. There was a bed, there was warmth against my bitingly cold limbs, there was a safety, a smell, touch, sound which soothed me, and there was sleep.

When I woke, it was dark outside. I ached - but I could feel that I ached. I was still wrapped in the warmth of his scent, his touch, but I needed more, chilled as I was. I had been somewhere very dark, and I was ice-cold to the touch. He brought me back to life by wrapping me in his darkness, which is burning hot, passionate and scalding, and forced it into me with his cum.

Later now. Dressed and woozy still, we sit in a pub that once would have been heavy with smoke, and is full of life and itinerants. Our corner is heavily guarded and close around us, he pulls me into him deeper, we whisper exchanges of memory - 'I loved it when you did that', 'I came because you did this'.

Stolen moments in his car, wary of the thief of time. We speak of small things, heavily laden, and I want him to be inside me again. He let me take him in my mouth once more, then he possesses me, cunt and mouth. I am held and he breathes me in. 'I love you baby, sleep now'. I slip, drunk with sleep and bodily harm, away from him but heart warm and wrapped up tight, into my house, climb into bed with my husband, kiss him goodnight, see him stir, warm and sleepy, as I nestle into him and sleep, dreaming of my blessings, my two loves, dreaming and thinking and more, of my dominant, my alpha male, of family, and of pack.

I am in love. And I am loved.

I am happy.

"Nothing says 'I love you' like subcutaneous bruising" Part 2

We were staying at a friend's house, they'd lent us the place for the weekend, knowing how much it would mean to us to be able to spend the night together in someplace other than a hotel. Even better - they have their own dungeon, which for the price of our eternal gratitude, was ours to use exclusively for 24 hours. It gave us the space, and time, and freedom, to unleash and explore as fully as we wanted to.

I imagined we would drown in each other's skin as soon as we got through the door. We didn't - we were too awestruck. We explored the dungeon, the other rooms, with amazement and delight and slight trepidation. Some of it was so beautifully arranged and perfect we were afraid to touch it. He does like to slam me around the place rather, and we do get so carried away...I was a little scared we might end up trashing the room and oweing my friend a little more than just our gratitude...

I started making dinner - he stood behind me, slid his arms around me, mauled my tits, fingers squeezing on each half covered breast, digging in, crushing...his hands moved to my buttocks, rubbing against the satin, slipping and sliding the paper-thin fabric over my skin, soft and scented with vanilla as it always is when I prepare myself for him - but unlike normal, this time there were no knickers to interfere with his exploration of my body. Last week, I let him tell me what to wear on a date with him - something I have never let anyone, work, society, friend, family, lover or husband do. I even told him once, that this was a hard limit! And yet when he instructed me the other day that I must absolutely not wear any knickers for our mid-week date, and then told me he liked my outfit so much that he wanted me to wear the exact same thing, with the exact same lack of underwear, then I found myself not only wanting to do it for him, but delighted at an opportunity to show how well I could obey him, what a good girl I was.

He hitched up my skirt, which was tight and short, and left it around my waist, knicker-less, with only stockings and my heels, and my top with cut-out hole to show off my cleavage. All in black of course, except for my hair, which was blonde, purple, black and red, this time. He threw me in the bedroom and fucked me, until he was done, and I had my own cum dripping hot and sticky down my thighs.

We settled down on armchairs with a meal we could eat with fingers, tearing bread apart, feeling the little plum tomatoes slip, silky and plump, luscious, inside our mouths, while we watched a dvd from the more violent end of my porn collection. Finished with our food, it seemed natural to move closer and closer to each other as I pointed out my favourite bits, and explained the abusively incestuous plots I had grafted on in my head, to the relatively innocent vignettes.

During my all-time favourite scene in the porn, I was unable to resist for any longer and slipped to my knees to take him in my mouth. I love the texture and the taste of him, the scent of his balls - soap, with an underlying maleness, a musky fragrance of arousal. I love the way his cock caresses the inside of my mouth, the texture of his silky skin, and how he feels so huge against my tongue, my lips. I love the sense of safety I find in burying my lips against the base of his cock where it meets his balls, and in sucking and licking at the very tip, as if it were a sweetie given to me as a treat for being such a good girl.

We both resisted for as long as possible, but at some point we were overcome - suddenly I was half-way up the corridor being jerked along by my hair, thrown onto the bed, cuffed, and attached to the whipping bench with my arms spread almost painfully wide along the front.

It had been a while since he'd smashed me up with such intensity. He rained blows down on me like a fucking tropical thunderstorm. His energy seared me, his rage boiling over my body, the door opens, the blackness inside spills out, washes everything away in a flood of pure emotion, unspeakable, given voice in my cries and screams, something inky dark and stained, depraved and hidden, showing itself at last, made manifest by the sound of my begging and pleading.

I poured my sorrow out, tears and spit and drool soaking the bench in front of my mouth. I howled with pain, I screamed, I writhed. He hit me - over, and over, and over, and over again. My skin discoloured in front of his eyes, blemished, damaged, spoiled.

He ordered me to suck him, over and over again. I refused, I was so angry, furious. Even though the pain was ruining me, I. Would. Not. Submit.

The last torrent of blows cracked my will, cracked open my mind, and brought me into the place I needed to be, so very much. I wanted to say yes - I wanted to, but I couldn't, held back as I was by anger, pride, all the hundreds of layers of barriers I wrap around myself to keep myself safe. With those last strokes of the cane, he ripped a hole through those final defences, and, sobbing brokenly, crying so hard I could barely breath, I sucked him, choking with tears though I was, drooling as I breathed through my mouth; my face, nose, puffed up and reddened with crying.

He stepped away in disgust and angrily strode over to the door, turned the light off, and slammed the door behind him. The blackout curtains in the room meant I could see - ABSOLUTELY NOTHING. I'm terrified of the dark - I used to sleep with a nightlight on in my room for years (he didn't know that - I'd never told him). It was pitch black, and I lasted seconds, which seemed like forever, before I panicked, and screamed. Just screamed - fucking WAILED - and then cut off abruptly as his hands lovingly wrapped around me from behind, where he'd been all along. He'd never left the room.

I thought I was alone in the dark. But I wasn't. I wasn't alone. I was safe all along. He was with me.

He untied me, stroked me softly, held me close, carried me to the bed and drew me in tight to him, where I was safe. He whispered soft things, rocked me and shushed me as my sobs tailed off. Then he fucked me, very deep, very hard, and I came, and came, and came. I was his prize, he had won me - I gave up everything to him. And he took me. He sprayed me with his cum, marking me as his. It dripped heavily into my open mouth, on my shoulders, my bruised tits, my hair, my neck...

It soaked my face.

I slept covered in him, and tucked in close to his body, safe inside his arms. I am always safe with him, even when he ruins me.