deadly nightshade.

I’ve added some nifty widgets to the blog, my favorites thus far being my last.fm for Wordpress and my Quotes Collection, both of which help showcase my over adoration for music.

I also finally got around to adding some blogs to my blogroll that I read via RSS. I figure it’s unfair of me to not link what I tend to read on a (semi) regular basis.

After a few more tweaks, I think I’ll have everything the way I plan it to be!

Two weeks and two days. It was misery.

Busy work schedules mean Richard and I see each other one night a week. Gas prices contribute to this as well, as does the fact that he lives an hour away on his university’s campus. Still, despite this, we usually find time for one another once a week.

Not so for the past two weeks (and two days). His job piled more hours on him than normal, and I was working an uncommon amount of early shifts, making it impossible for us to see one another. Being the dependent person that I am, those two weeks and two days were spent in either bouts of inconsolable misery or dull apathy. I’m sure I was far from pleasant to be around, and I no doubt worried Richard with my teary calls and sullen texts.

Our schedules did finally line up, though, as he came over last night, which saw me into ecstatic glee. Our visits are very ritualistic: we eat dinner, we watch a movie, and then we degenerate into things of a particularly sexual nature.

Because I’m a fool, I got it into my head that I would watch Saw – what with the new Saw V coming out, I figured I would watch the first four and Richard and I could see the fifth in the theaters. Despite a strong love of horror flicks, however, Saw was something I simply could not stomach; the gore and the mental torture were far more than I could bear, and I spent the better part of the movie with my head buried beneath the covers against Richard’s side. Ironic, really, coming from someone with a bloody play fetish, a penchant for knives, and an addiction to mind games. Still, I could not enjoy it at all.

Terrible movie aside, I was far too elated to be bothered by something as trivial as a bad movie, especially when I felt Richard’s hand creeping up over my breast, his fingers digging into my already-hard nipple. Of course, I’d already been lost in arousal since he’d arrived – two and a half weeks will do that to you – so I was more than welcoming.

Work was ever-so-tiring, though, after a night and morning of being viciously pounded, slapped and spanked. But it was such a lovely, warm ache. I’m sure I had more than a few of my coworkers wondering as to my unwavering smile.

On a completely random note, I’ve been completely addicted to the soundtrack to The Dark Knight.  Hans Zimmer is a genius.

Oddly enough, the thing I love the most about when he fucks me isn’t the rough manner in which he handles me, tossing me about like a rag-doll, a toy.

It isn’t the sudden crack of his hand against my flesh, or his teeth grazing my throat, or his fingers bruising my wrists as he holds me down.

It isn’t the way he tangles himself in my hair, guiding me like a dog to the floor, nor the carpet burns on my knees.

It isn’t the way he splits my cunt, pounding it until it’s raw, nor the way he twists my nipples until I arch up, crying out, tears shimmering on my cheeks.

It’s not even the smooth head of his cock as it slides over my lips, or the way it throbs against my palm, an unsteady rhythm of heat and arousal.

It’s the way he leers down at me when he’s rising up over me, his hair a shadow over his face. It’s the way his lips curve up in the darkness, and that quiet mocking tone his voice takes when he tells me what a rotten slut I am.

—

And yes – I’m back!

I’ve been very insatiable lately - to a point of where I find myself mentioning it to Richard almost constantly. Exhausting myself with him is only a temporary fix - in the end, it just leads me back to him an hour or two later with whining words on my lips and a craving for cum to an almost overwhelming degree. It just doesn’t stop.

Needless to say, lots of begging ensues. Well, it does once I get over my pride and stop acting coy and actually get to the blunt admissions of my need. While this is not an entirely necessary step, as he is often very adept at reading even my most vague of allusions, it is usually required of me to actually tell him straight out for him to actually act on it. I think he just likes turning me into a foul mouthed whore. Of course, I rather like that too, once I’m bothered enough to lose all sensibilities.

I think my sexual neediness, though, is a product of how clingy and selfish I am once all the sadomasochism is peeled away. Bondage is not something that draws that out of me; rather, my tendency towards masochism and being owned all stem from the fact that I am overly dependent and I like dependent people. This has cost me relationships (vanilla ones, but still) in the past - most people do not want to deal with someone who needs them to a constant, extreme degree, and this is understandable. Of course there was a bitterness in me that I was too much for someone to handle, but I also realize why this is such a turn off. Most people don’t want that kind of responsibility.

Richard’s probably the first person to not only accept my need in all the forms I’ve thrown at him (I still restrain myself sometimes, but that’s because of being burned so much in the past) but also return it. He’s easily made jealous, he’s greedy, he’s possessive. And I really love that about him, because it makes me feel loved and it establishes that ownership. When it comes to favorite things to have whispered in my ear as I drowse off to bed, him whispering “Mine,” in that quiet, heavy voice that holds its meaning to a brutal extent. It isn’t something he says to me to placate me or follow some pretend role play - he means it. And god, hearing him say it makes me wet.

But I’m always afraid of someone burning out on me - and him, especially, because of how utterly perfect he is on so many different levels. It’s happened more times with past relationships than I’d like to count, either because I’m an emotional brat sometimes or because of how dependent I become. Usually that fear is something that’s buried within me to a point I don’t think about it much, but there are things that bring it to the surface.

I read a lot of blogs - and this post from A View From the Floor made me think about it. The discussion of the way relationships evolve has always been one to fascinate me. I guess there is some truth to what she is saying - that eventually two people can know each other well enough to cut out the heavy communication you start out in relationships needing. That sometimes, the words do nothing more than weigh you down. That they become cumbersome, annoying, frustrating.

Perhaps that was part of my problem, in the past; and while I know that she was talking about it in a mostly BDSM sense, it is still something that can be applied to vanilla relationships. There comes a point where communication is redundant, and thus annoying to some people. Combine that with my tendency to be over dependent and I bet I’m a fucking nightmare to deal with.

I’ve mentioned these fears to Richard; he dismisses them and says he likes me as I am. He says he’d never get bored of me, that I don’t frustrate him but on the rare occasion when something arouses his jealousy. And having been with him almost a year, it’s something that I tend to feel comfortable with.

But not always. I guess sometimes it’s just hard to completely quell those inner fears. I don’t want to lose him.

—

On a happier note, while complaining to Richard that was I needy today, he offered to satiate me but under the trade that I’d have to give him my ass. “But what of my cunny?” I whined in response - because that’s where I’ve been most hungry lately. He told me a dildo would have to do, which in turn brought up my asking him about my mouth despite knowing the answer. Or the usual one, anyways.

Most commonly it’s yet another dildo (a very realistic one - I just love sucking on the head of a cock), and I ask because I like hearing his response. However, today he responded with “Ever seen one of those gags that has a cock instead of a ball?”

Having never seen one (I am so naive sometimes!) he showed me this lovely piece of equipment. Now I am stricken with lust - I must have one! This coming from me - someone who doesn’t like gags very much! (I love noises - making them, hearing them, from him or myself. It’s an addiction, I swear.)

Time to spend some quality time over at Eros Boutique.

She squirms under his gaze, uncomfortable. His eyes bore into hers, moving every so often to flicker downards, slow and painstaking in their observation. She hates this, hates the flush blossoming in her pale cheeks, hates the nervous clench of her small hands, hates the way her nipples seem to harden as his eyes brush over them like cool fingers. Her breathing is strained, catching in her throat - her mouth is dry, and her head thick and heavy with a dizziness she can’t seem to push away. She wants to look away, wants to close her eyes, but that would be a surrender, and she is not ready for that. Not yet.

There is a wavering in her expression though, a flickering moment where the determination she fights to keep in her eyes falters. He smiles, the corner of his lips rising in a curl that strikes her as malicious. A cat with a mouse, in the corner. He takes a step towards her, and she wants to slip away, vanish, melt into the floor… but the carpet biting into her knees, the rope at her wrists nipping at her skin, her clasped ankles - all remind her that any escape would be graceless and futile.

He looms over her, his smirk reflecting in his eyes, a strange sort of affection, a kind of victory, the promise of something she isn’t sure she wants. She keeps her eyes to his face, afraid to let them travel down - across his chest, down to his belly, to the erect cock that juts out, hard and thick, before her. In her mind, she debates her choices, however few - beg, surrender, resist. But as she feels the caress of leather across her cheek - rough in texture, gentle in motion - every rational thought scatters from her mind. She sucks in her breath through tense lips, her eyes closing tight as her body quivers in anticipation.

“Slut,” he tells her, his voice savoring the word. The silence after is heavy, strong, and she feels that warmth between her legs, that soft tingling, the sweet trickle of lust against her legs.

But then - there is a sharp crack of leather against hot flesh, the fall of the crop against her cheek. Her head snaps sharply to the side, more from the shock than the force. The blow, anticipated though it was, still stings, a hot little bolt of pain up the soft flesh of her cheek. She does not cry out, but nor does she lift her head, a whimper squeezing itself from her lips.

His hand replaces the crop, holding her face firmly, his thumb trailing across the mark slowly, pressing into it. It hurts, but it feels good - and she nuzzles her face into his hand, a quiet sigh escaping her.

“Did that hurt you?” He voice is careful, devoid of any mockery.

She softens, looking up at him with liquid eyes. “It did,” she says, her teeth biting her lower lip momentarily as she searches for the right words.

“A lot? Does it ache?”

Her eyes seem heavy, her lips parting, then closing, as if lost, for a moment. “It stings.” She says the words slowly. “But… I like it.”

“Do you?” It creeps back into his voice, in just those two words. That delicious cruelty.

The look she gives him is pleading, her voice spilling out of her in a choked breath. “I like it when you hurt me.”

His fingers move upwards, into her hair, tangling in the soft spill of dark red. He turns her face to the side, and she feels something warm and wet slide across her cheek, across the red stain rising across her flesh. His cock. She shudders, a moan resounding in her throat, as he smears her cheek with his precum, warm on hot, the air teasing it to a delicious chill. She tilts her head into it, moving her head in time against it, her face melting into an expression of pure adoration.

“Look at you,” he laughs, his fingers tightening painfully in her hair. “One second acting like you have some sort of diginity, pretending you have some kind of self restraint. Such bullshit, and you know it. You’re like a kitten in front of a warm saucer of milk - you can’t help but lap it up eagerly.” He turns her head sharply, so she can see his cock before her - the bubble of his cum on the tip of the head, the slight bob to his shaft, and she almost cries out.

“Taste it,” he tells her. And she does.

She pulls against his fingers with an eagerness that makes him grin, ignoring the pain as she strains against her own hair. Her lips find the head of his cock with a reverence that he finds amusing, kissing it in an almost frantic manner. They are wet, suckling kisses, up across his head, against the hole, her tongue teasing the precum out like a starving creature seeking water. He watches her with careful eyes that register a kind of smug pleasure; but he maintains his calm, even as her tongue eases up and down his shaft, even as her lips split around the head, taking it into her mouth. He lets her toy with him in her mouth, lets her tongue play across the hole; he savors the feel of the swollen head brushing against the ridges of the roof of her mouth. But when her cheeks squeeze in to suck, he jerks her head back, sharply, his cock pulling free of her lips with a wet pop.

The room is filled with the sound of her cry, her mouth open and smeared with the wet of her saliva, thick with his precum. She looks up at him with the eyes of a child devoid of a piece of candy, a favorite toy.
“Why?” she asks, her voice broken and mewly. “I’m so hungry…”

“I know you are, Toy,” he says gently, his hand patting the top of her head. His hand drops to her chin, catching a string of her cum-thick saliva on a finger, easing it back into her mouth. She suckles it from his finger, eagerly, her eyes sliding closed as she savors the taste.

This is something I wrote for Richard a bit ago - it was a short story based on something we’d been talking about. Not only does it feature a bizarre, almost historical setting - cause I’m big on fantasy erotica! - but as I was writing it both for and to Richard, it’s in 2nd person, which isn’t used very often. As he writes from that point of view for me, I decided to return the favor. It certainly isn’t my best work, especially because 2nd pov for me is difficult (I personally think I’m far better at 3rd person, then 1st person, then 2nd… but!). I’m always up for experimentation. I had fun, and Richard enjoyed it, so it was all that matters.

+++

It is still dark when I open my eyes – indeed, it is but a few seconds before I can be sure my eyes are actually open, so long does it take for them to adjust to the shadows. Even then, everything is murky at best: the sharp black spires of our bedposts against the darker grey of the room, the inky splotches of what should be our furniture. It is an even longer moment before I am full enough awake to push away the noises of my dreams to recognize that it is raining outside. I cannot see it – there are curtains, heavy and thick, across the windows, but I can hear it, the droplets hitting the glass. I sit motionless, for a moment, listening to the heavy rain, making out the various other noises as they come to me.

Mostly your breathing.

I sit up, the thick blankets easing off my body as I rub my eyes, attempting to further the remnants of my drowsiness from them. It does not really take me long to wake up, unlike you, but I suppose that is something that stems from the details of our personalities – it never surprised me that you would be the one easing after me in the morning, slow and marked with early frustrations.

Still, this morning does not have me eager to wake as I normally am. There are things to be done that I don’t wish to do, people to see that I don’t wish to speak with. Of course, life is always like this, but something about the rain and the fact that my eyes still cannot make much out of the dim and blurry shapes of the room indicate that today is not a day I want to be awake for. The bed is so warm – the sheets so enveloping, and I find myself wishing for nothing more than to sink back into the pillows and fall asleep to the sound of your breath.

The cold air that slithers over my skin draws goose bumps in its wake, and I draw my arms up around myself, mumbling a quiet curse under my breath. I know – I know. I’m supposed to be cheery, but I just can’t do it right now. There are no smiles on my face as I send a glower out into the darkness, hating all the responsibilities that pull me from this comfort.

I turn to look at you, at where I know your body is. After a moment, I see you, the faint outline of your body, the rising and falling of the blankets to the rhythm of your breath. Impulsively, I lean down, close to your face, letting my eyes adjust to the small details, bathed in shadow. Your nose. Your lips. Your eyes – closed. I kiss them, your eyelids, then your eyebrows, through the mess of your dark hair. So close am I that I can feel the warmth of your breath on my face. So close am I that when I pull back, I think I see you smiling.

I blink, but it is no longer there – that expressionless mask you wear when you sleep has replaced it, that fleeting, waking dream. I watch you for a few moments more, puzzling. But it is nothing, surely. I am over tired. I won’t wake you.

Easing slowly out of bed, I am careful to move in such a way as to not disturb you. I hold my breath as my bare feet touch the cold floor, trying so hard to be quiet even as it seems like my blood is freezing within my veins. I can’t help the vague hiss that escapes my lips, but I feel no movement behind me, no indication that you are awake. Turning, I attend to the blankets, easing them up over my absence, not wanting the chill to slip beneath the sheets and disturb you.

With attentive steps I move through the room towards the door, opening it discreetly, with just the right amount of pressure to avoid its usual squeal of protest. To my relief, it opens without a sound, allowing me passage without so much of a whisper of noise. I close it behind me, satisfied even through the slight click of the hatch.

The hallway isn’t dark, like our bedroom – long and drafty, it is spotted with small tables, set in no particular order of no particular fashion. There are candles on them, lit, and I chide myself mentally for having forgotten to put them out the night before. But not all of them are lit with the dancing flames – two seem to have gone out, no longer licking the air with heat, both spread apart at either ends of the hall.

Though there is no real need to light them, I move towards the farthest one, grabbing the box of matches off one of the tables as I pass it, careful not to bother the knife beside the box that you’ve left for cutting wicks. Not really sure why I am bothering, I fish a match from the box as I come to the first unlit candle. I strike it against the box, savoring that scent of warmth as it lights before sharing the flame with the empty wick. It is a few seconds before I am certain the wick has caught, but it does indeed catch. Absently I shake the flame from the match before dropping it, extinguished, on the table. I’ll clean it up later.

Turning to fix my attention upon the other candle, I am a bit alarmed to see it is lit, at least until I see that you are awake, the extinguished match you must have used to light it still in your fingers. I can’t tell what I am more surprised at – seeing the candle lit or you standing there, your posture indicating you are far more awake than usual in the obscure light.

“What do you need them all lit for?” Your voice is quiet, but you’re smiling. I can’t quite place the emotion, not in this light.

“I think a better question would be what the hell you’re doing up at this time.”

You raise your eyebrows at me, shifting so that you’re leaning against the wall. I realize, suddenly, that you haven’t bothered to put on anything since you’ve pulled yourself from bed, and I imagine, idly, that you must be cold. But you’re not acting it.

You shrug at me, and I am careful to keep my eyes to your face. “What are you doing up?”

“I have things I need to do; you know that. I told you last night. But there’s nothing calling for you today.” I frown. “You should be sleeping in.”

“Jealous?” Your voice is somewhere between teasing and taunting, but I can’t quite place it. Whether or not this is because my head is fuzzy with lack of sleep or because you are being deliberately difficult I am unsure. “Anyways,” you shrug again, a mock pout on your face, “you woke me up.”

I roll my eyes at you, glowering. “Please. You must have already been awake. I was perfectly quiet, and you’d sleep through an earthquake. The house could catch fire and you would be oblivious.”

You flick the match still in your fingers towards me; it flies in a graceful arc before hitting the ground silently, right before my curled toes. I bend to retrieve it, only to stand, my eyes even with your chest. I nearly stumble backwards in surprise at your sudden invasion of my space, but your hand is against my arm, steadying me.

But the gesture is not exactly gentle – your fingers dig into my skin, almost painfully, and I tug my arm from your grip with the faintest hint of a whimper. I lean my head back slightly, my eyes up to question you. It is moments like this that I am well aware of our height difference, when that foot between us seems almost threatening. I can tell by your mocking grin that you are entertaining the same thought, and I cannot suppress a shiver.

“Hello there,” you whisper, your fingers moving to pluck the match from my hand, twirling it gently in your fingers before dropping it to the ground once more. “You look cold.”

And I can hear it in your voice – that edge, that meaning, and suddenly, with the force of a hammer to my chest, it hits me, what this is all about. I fight the scream bubbling up in my throat, my hands to your chest to push you away, to throw myself backwards, but -

I feel the breath leaving my lungs as you slam me up against the wall, both your hands tucked under my shoulders. My feet dangle like those of a puppet, unattended, unsupported. My face is level with yours as you hold me up, and I see you grinning at me, your brows drawn in the barest hint of a scowl. I do not struggle – the blow has surprised me, stunned me, and I let my head fall back, my head resting against the wall. Your body is up against mine, and I can feel the heat of it seeping into my skin. I can feel your erection through the fabric of my gown, against my thigh.

I choke back a sob as you lower me slowly, as my feet find the floor, unsteady. One hand moves up from under my shoulders to fix on my chin, forcing me to look back up at you. I blink the tears from my eyes, determined to put on a braver face than this. I catch the smirk – the movement was not wasted on you.

“Going to be good, Toy?”

That panic sets in as your words float through my brain and I am struggling again, uprooting myself from your grasp. My lack of complacency surprises you, just enough that I manage to wrench my head from your fingers, slip out from under your arm. I hear you hissing, feel your fingers curled at my back as I bolt, acknowledge the scream that is ripping itself from my throat as your nails rake through the gown down my skin. There is no grace in this escape – I catch my foot upon the rug and stumble, my body hitting the floor, knocking once more the air from me. I go to pull myself up, but your foot is in the small of my back, pushing me back down.

I feel you bending over me even as I throw my arms up over the back of my head, pressing my face into the rug. Instinct commands my movements now, that hysteria that rips through my body, that sense of helplessness as I feel your fingers catching the neckline of my gown. There is a faint tearing noise, and you are moving your foot – I feel my gown being pulled out from under me, split in half, and you are rolling me over to my back to ease the removal.

Wide eyed, I lay, unable to move, paralyzed by the panic mounting in my throat. You hold the remains of my nightgown in one hand, the knife that had earlier been on the table in the other, a leer painted across your face. You plant your foot once more upon me, this time between my legs, drawing a whimper from me as you grind it against me, the fabric of my panties pressing roughly into my cunt.

The air, the floor – all are cold, and I draw my arms across my self to better stave off the warmth, to shield myself from your eyes. I feel fear and chill writing goosebumps across my skin, my nipples hardening as the cool air kisses them. You drop my gown to the floor, a ghost of white as it falls, beside my thigh. The silky feeling of the cloth against my skin is nothing more than a reminder of my nakedness, and I cannot strangle the sob before it forms upon my lips, tears tracing down my cheeks.

I close my eyes against it, the shadow of your form as you bend down, hazy in the candlelight. I bite my lip to silence myself as I feel you lifting the hem of my panties to cut them from my supine form, trying to will myself to move but finding my limbs unwilling. With a tug, the cloth of my panties too, is gone, pulled out from under my bottom. I squeeze my eyes closed tighter, as if by pretending this is not happening it will not be, but the sound of your laughter and the dull sound of the knife as you drop it upon the table are the pinch that pulls me from my fantasy.

Then – your fingers are between my legs. You press against my lips, against the folds – against my slit, feeling. I start to move, but your other hand is on my stomach, holding me down as your fingers search. Over the smooth, shaved skin of it, and then - I feel your fingernail scrape my clit, and I cannot hold back the gasp. You are laughing again, and then your fingers are gone from my cunt, against my lips. Wet. They are wet. My sobs deepen and I shake my head against your fingers, but they press, incessant, into my mouth.

“Slut. Taste yourself. You’re wet.”

With a dizzy sort of acceptance, I realize that I am. Not from your finger in my mouth, scraping against the inside of my cheeks, pressing into my tongue – but from that heat between my thighs, that eager kind of yearning. My head is full of screams of self-loathing, this disgusting realization of my weakness, and I thrash beneath you. You pull your finger from my mouth, wiping the saliva covered digit across my cheek before both your hands are digging into the flesh of my hips. I go to tug at your wrists but you have flipped me over, again, on my stomach, tugging me up onto my knees.

My hands go to claw at the floor, as if to drag myself away, but you have captured my wrists, pulling them tightly behind my back. Damp fabric pulls against them, and with a sick feeling in my stomach I realize you are tying them with my panties.

“You should have been good,” I hear you scolding me, as if scolding a small child. Your tone is playful, but marked with irony.

It pulls tight, tight, and I whimper again through the tears that are streaming down my face. The fabric cuts into my skin, digging into it, hurting – sore. I couldn’t have expected it to be anything but, of course; there is not enough fabric for any lose binding, not that you would have considered the kindness anyways. I know this mood of yours.

My toes are curled tight into my feet, almost achingly so, all my muscles tense. I feel your fingers once more about my hips, tugging my bottom up, pulling me to my knees. With one hand you press my rising head back down to the rug, my shoulders and face pressed against the scratchy material, the wet skin of my cheek agitated as I turn my head to the side, trying to find as comfortable a position as possible. Instinctively I go to move my arms to steady myself, but they are caught, still, behind my back.

“Please, stop this,” I hear my voice before I realize I am speaking, my body violently shaking. I am aware, suddenly, of the sweat that has dewed upon my skin, with the heat that has built up somewhere within my core. Aware of that dry, choking feeling in my throat. I am begging, pleading, the words breathless on my lips. “Please, please – please…”

I feel your fingers dance across my back, gentle, almost as if in comfort. Your hands leave me but for a moment as you move over my restrained arms, then press into the flesh of my bottom, digging your nails in sharply. I flinch, the slightest thrashing at that shadow of a shock – but… your erection is against my skin, suddenly, hot and damp against the back of my leg as your hands slip around my thighs to pull them slowly apart. Your fingers probe me there once more, teasing me, the faintest of feather touches at my clit. I moan into the carpet, turning my face in to it, muffling the noise as my hair falls across my cheek.

You lean forward slightly, over me, to draw my hair back, tucking it behind my ear in a gesture that is almost affectionate were it not for that dreadful smile playing across your lips that I can see from the corner of my eye. “No hiding. I want to see your face,” you chide, returning your hand to its place about my thigh.

“No… no, no.”

It is the only word that forms in my head, the only word that forms on my tongue. This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair at all. I cannot find the energy to speak any louder than a whisper, even though inside I am screaming it, even though inside my lungs are on fire with the need to cry it out.

“My poor little toy,” I hear you saying as your fingers press sharply into my skin, your fingernails biting into my flesh, feel you tensing behind me, my own body tensing in turn.

And then -

I am on fire, screaming, being ripped apart as you thrust yourself into my cunt. My body buckles with the force of it, arching sharply, painfully, my aching breasts pressing harshly into the fabric of the rug. All the way in, deep, deep, you bury yourself within my wet slit, the violence of it shaking me to my very center. My sobs pour out of me at the feeling, at the invasion, even as you pause to savor the feeling of my walls pressing against you. I can feel my blood against your fingertips where your nails have broken the skin, feel the wet of my own arousal against my inner thighs.

The arch of my back falls, slowly, and I am so careful not to move, not to further this feeling, as if by stillness I could pretend that this is not happening. But I am so conscious of it, of your cock buried deep within me, of the throbbing of my clit, of that perfect and wrong feeling of fullness – I moan even as I sob, even as my face is stained with my tears.

“Were you saying no?” I hear you ask me, your voice smug, but I have closed my eyes, closed them against the dancing of the candle flames, against that arrogance written across your face. I feel you pulling yourself out of me, slowly, slowly, oh god, so slowly – that slick feeling as your length leaves me empty where once it had filled me, and my greedy cunt is weeping, greedy, insatiable. I hate it – I hate it.

“No,” I reiterate it, not caring to what I am saying it, not really answering you. “No.” I am telling you – telling this terrible need building within me. No, no, no. Stop this, please…

“No?” You are laughing at me. “Really? I think you like this. I think your poor, starving cunt wants this.”

And you have pulled out – and then, you are back in, slamming into me, my shoulders crashing into the floor so roughly the rug does nothing to cushion the pain. I scream as my bones shudder beneath me, as my cunt stretches to take you, as my nipples rub, burning, across the carpet. My face is on fire, where the tears and the salt and the scratchy surface agitate the skin, simmered with the flushing heat of my own humiliation. Oh, god, please -

But there is no pause this time, nothing as you pull back and push back in, your movements starting slow but gaining speed, momentum. One hand moves from my thigh to curl around my neck, pressing in against the flesh there as I cry to feel the vibrations from my throat…

And that ripping sensation, that tearing sensation, that aching deep withing me, stretching and giving way to this violation. Against me, against me, over and over again, thrusting, and I am screaming myself hoarse, choking on my own sobs, my body a struggle of surrender and resistance. I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t.

I have to keep saying it, those words, in my head – have to keep imagining my resistance as I feel you fill me up, to the hilt, your cock snug as my cunt strains around it, tugging on you as you pull out again to push back in. I have to keep thinking it. Form the words in my head. Form them, the letters. Know them. I don’t want this. I don’t want this…

You’re laughing again, and I realize I am pressing back against you, to meet your thrusts half way. The head of your cock sliding past my slick lips, pressing into my slit, and my thighs are moving back to ease you into myself. What? What? No! Those words, and I’m screaming, screaming and crying because the words in my head are blurred and messy, because they are nothing. Don’t. I don’t want this. I don’t want you to stop.

And it hurts, hurts – and I am crying because it hurts, screaming because that helpless feeling writhing about in my body so good. Because that pain is an addiction, that violation perfect, because I need it, because that building heat in my belly that spreads an inferno beneath my skin, all over, is both hell and heaven. I can hear it now, the change in my noises, in my mewlings, the anger drained from it to form some detestable noise of surrender. Even as I feel that need building in me, that need that pulls me to press back into you, to take your cock hungrily into my cunt, I feel that level of my own self-loathing building. Oh god, I need this. I need you. I hate this, but I need you so much.

Now I am pressing into you almost as violently as you are into me – my breasts moving almost obscenely with my movements, I am sure, their weight pulling against me when I am not arched so definitely as to press them to the floor. Every part of my body is straining, pulling, pressing, agonized, in building, longing ecstasy. Oh god. Oh god, please…

And suddenly, you stop. Stilled, within me. I nearly shatter at the lull, my cunt throbbing about your cock. I feel a moan draw from my lips as that ecstasy starts to recede, as that pain whispers its way through my body, delicious, taunting.

“No…” I hear myself whisper. “Please…”

Your fingers are teasing the wounds on my thigh, where your nails have marked them, smearing the blood there, cold. How sharply it contrasts with the heat of my wet lust, between my legs.

“Do you surrender, Toy?” I hear your voice, somewhere, in the back of my head. You seem so far away, and yet so close, all over, inside of me. Inside of me… oh god… please!

I am whimpering even as I am trembling, as I am shaking with it, the need and the rejection. But the words in my head, they are gone, filled instead with words of longing, of surrender. Yes. I surrender.

“Please,” I hear myself, mewling, begging. “Please, please…! I need it – I need it, I surrender, I surrender!”

Your fingers are in my hair, suddenly, pulling me backwards, upwards, against you. Your arm about my waist, you maneuver me, still tightly sealed around you, so I am sitting in your lap, bent slightly over that you might tug free the binds on my wrists. The cold air feels foreign as it traces over the tormented skin of my wrists once you pull my panties free, dropping them disdainfully to the floor as you push me back into yourself, the slick skin of my back sticking to the similarly damp skin of your chest.

I moan, my head rolling back against you as I feel your cock stirring within me, as your head drops to my shoulder, your teeth finding my skin roughly, biting. My hands hang limply by my sides as your arms slip around my waist, your fingers trailing to my cunt, where your length still sits within me, hot, throbbing.

“Prove to me that you want it,” I feel your breath cascading over my skin, heat on heat. “Bounce on it.” Your fingers brush my clit and I am arching up and away from you, my hair falling against your chest, my head pressing into your skin. I feel you shake with your laughter. “Cum on it, Toy.”

The hand that is not teasing my clit slides up my arm, finding its place behind my head. You push my head down, down, so that I can see your cock, impaling me. The sight of it terrifies me – but I can’t stop looking, transfixed, caught by it. I whimper finds itself freed from my parted, panting lips.

“And watch while you do it.” Your finger presses sharply into my clit, as if in warning. “If you stop, then you get nothing.”

No… no. I need it. I squirm in your lap, feeling your cock against my walls, so wet, so wet, as my eyes take everything in.

“Now.” Your voice is a command in my hair, demanding.

And I am pulling myself up, slowly, feeling your cock ease out of me as I do, the displacement of it inside of me driving me crazy. Your hand moves with me, still against my clit, your hand still atop my head, holding it down. Something about the sight of your cock as it comes into view, easing out of my cunt, fills every part of my being with both insane desire and self-disgust. I can’t be doing this. I can’t…

And just as I have almost pulled myself free, I let myself fall back down. The scream that echoes through the hallways comes both from that sudden feeling of fullness as much as from the vision of my cunt hungrily enveloping your cock, my lips parting eagerly to swallow it. Your finger digs into my clit, twisting it, and I writhe on your lap, squealing as you twist, even as I am lifting myself up again, watching, fascinated, addicted, your cock slick with my lust, flecked with the faintest hint of red – blood. Abuse. And yet how my abused cunt needs this – how everything in me needs this, as I push myself down on you again, filling myself up with you, moaning, sobbing.

I realize that I am still crying as my tears hit my breasts, as they fall onto my thighs as I lean over to watch myself pull up again to slide back down, up again, and back down. Crying – crying, with ever fiber of my being, with that building delirium that paints rapture in my head.

“Look at you,” you are part hissing, part groaning as I slide back down your cock. “Fucking me – fucking me, and I was raping you. What a helpless little slut you are. Getting off to this – wanting me to rape you.”

Your words bury into my skull as I bury you inside of me, my whole body violently shaking now, the energy from me rapidly draining as I rise and fall again, your cock so perfect inside of me. Oh god, but it’s true, even as I hear it, over and over again. Your hand is off my head now, at my breast instead, twisting at my nipple, and I’m screaming through the sobs, through the moans, all over again.

And there’s your voice again, sing song, mocking, strained with your own arousal. “You’re about to cum, Toy – about to cum on your rapist’s cock.”

And I am pulling myself up on it – up and up and up, so that the head of your cock is pressing against my lips, slick and wet and hot – and I fall upon it. Impale myself upon it. The impact when you fill me, when I defile myself upon it – and I shatter.

Everything about me breaks.

I am screaming, sobbing, screaming, sobbing, the waves of it crashing through me and pressing me apart in every possible way. Your teeth are in my skin again, biting, but I can’t feel it, no, can’t feel the pain of it, not through this, not through the heat that sears every part of me to ashes, through the hot, hot agony in my cunt, and I am cumming, everything meaning nothing as I stare, helpless, at the sight of you within me, at the sight of my swollen clit straining against your fingers.

I can feel myself writhing against you, a puppet with its strings severed, can feel you pressing yourself up into me, my cunt clenching around your cock. “Good girl,” I hear you whisper, even as you buck up against me, even as I feel you groaning against my skin, through the clenching of your teeth as you bite, again, at my bruised shoulder.

And as I throb around you, my cunt milking your cock, I feel you spill your release into me, hot, hot, easing between our combined flesh. My eyes barely open, I watch as some of it escapes from the folds of my cunt, easing past your cock, slick and thick, to smear across my thighs. Something in me moves my hands, pressing my fingers to my thighs, wetting my fingers with your cum. Something in me draws it up, makes me lick my fingers clean. This was in me. This belongs in me.

“Mine,” you are whispering into my hair, your teeth biting into my ear. “Mine, mine, mine.”

I am nodding as you move me, gently, in your arms, as I feel you slipping out of me. You are picking me up – broken, shattered, defiled, but you are you again, now, and you are kind. Every part of me is sore, and you are careful, as you rise, not to move me too sharply, not to draw any more attention to my aching muscles. My head finds your shoulder as you cradle me, moving back towards the bedroom with steady steps. I tuck my face against your throat, still crying softly, seeking comfort against your skin.

“I love you,” I say, my tears getting your hair wet as I press my lips against you. “I love you, I love you.”

You laugh, affection and arrogance both apparent, and I love you even more.

“I know,” you say. “I know.”

This is another one of those 15 min. exercises, but it’s the first one I did, and one I wrote for Richard back when we weren’t “together” but rather simply friends - except at the time I was too flustered to admit to him I had written it with him in mind.

The word at the time was candy cane as provided by a writing community @ Livejournal. It was around Christmas time, obviously.

+++

The room is dark, bleak, painted cold with shadows. The only light in the room comes still and soft from the white and red lights on the tree; an attempt at something festive, an attempt at something happy. Attempt? More like a mockery. It catches the balls of glass, the ornaments of grinning snowmen and reflects the colored lights like faded sunlight on the round and empty faced moon. Outside, snow falls, white against the black, a whisper of something she can’t quite reach.

In her mouth, that taste, that reminder. The taste of violation, of pain. Blood and something else. It is beautiful, but she almost gags. Reminders, of something rough against the back of her throat, that invasion, the stretching of her lips. She wants to flinch, but her whole body is traced with fingertips of agony. She breathes as quietly as she can, in an effort to maintain the least movement possible. From the corner of her eyes she sees a sharpened candy cane, slick with wet, hanging from the branch just above her head.

A broken toy, beneath the tree - he had used that candy cane, the point of it drawn by his tender lips, from smooth to sharp, the needle upon which a sleeping beauty might prick her finger and fall into a sleep beneath dreams of dark stick figure monsters. Red and white, red and white, like the lights on the tree, like the scarlet promises on her ivory skin.

“Merry Christmas,” he had said, as he pushed her down to the floor, his smile catching the colors, twisting like the fear in her heart. “Puppet,” he had said, as he had taken that carefully constructed candy cane and ran it across her lips, gently, that she might feel the sharp prick, a rose’s thorn, without the beauty. He had carved from her what he wanted, the precious puppet from white flesh, and her thighs were smeared with blood and her terrified adoration. She had cried, but so softly; she could not hear herself over his faint humming of some nameless carol, could not hear her thoughts, those things that told her of logic and disgust.

Adoration. Adoration.

I love you.

Her voice had been broken, shattered, her eyelashes trembling with tears. Please.

He fucked her, hard, like always. It hurt, like always. Her screams bubbled from her throat and tasted of blood and wronged desire. And when he was done, he left, his legs stained with her blood, mixed with his release. She watched him walk away, into some door, somewhere away from her, and idly wondered where he was going. But she had no real interest in where he had gone, only noticing that he was, in fact, no longer with her. She felt empty.

Now, laying here, dazed and hurt, naked; she closes her eyes. Has it been minutes since he left? Hours? She can’t tell, and she feels that faint hint of starvation, mixed with pain, that sweet sweet pain, between her legs. The snow, the lights that highlight her wounds. It’s all that matters. It’s all she is.

Quietly, she begins to hum a Christmas carol.

Your robes representing your position in the clergy sit haphazardly around your body, wrinkled and disarrayed. The front of the robes, torn open, leaves your bosom exposed as it heaves with each heavy breath from your chest. I grin wickedly at the look of wanton lust on your face, wondering what sort of punishment a priestess who defiles herself and forsakes her vows of chastity would earn; and in a holy place, no less. Oh, it will be such a sweet and sinful violation, I assure you. And maybe if you do not scream, your deity will not notice your naked and mewling form on the floor of its temple.

Grabbing your wrists and forcing them together behind you, I pluck the crimson cloth belt from your frilly robe and use it as a tie to bind your arms. As I push your warm, softly shivering body down onto the cold stone floor, you look up at me. Fear and desire play across your eyes. Such a pretty mixture of emotions, they are. And they come from such a pretty girl, too. What a waste it would be to leave you sacred only for some invisible god. I kneel down beside you on the floor, running my hand slowly up the inside of your leg, lifting the hem of your robe as I go. At last, my hand reaches the corner of your panties. Your robe is hitched up lewdly, leaving your legs uncovered for me to ogle. My fingers trace over the thin material of your panties and I feel you shiver more violently than before as you draw a sharp breath through your rosebud mouth. A tiny moist spot is visible on your frilly panties. I have won before I have even started my sweet priestess.

I smile, staring into your eyes as I slide the frilly fabric down your legs. The corners of my lips curl up farther as I drop the last defense of your sacredness into a wad beside you. Lowering my face to your naked, bare cunt, I breathe over it with my warm breath. Your hips buck ever so slightly, straining for anything to brush against your swelling clit. In unison with your body, your voice starts to beg. You cry out for my touch, not caring about the repercussions. My hands spread your legs further apart, leaving you open and completely exposed to me. Lowering my face, my lips touch yours and I can feel you tremble and gasp. My tongue slips out and traces circles around your mound, carefully avoiding the warm center. Your eyes close as your cheeks blush in a pretty shade of crimson. Your shameless begging is still rolling off of your tongue. Oh yes, you want it so badly. Your hips undulate against my mouth and soft whimpers rise from your throat. And again, you shiver; it’s more of a spasm, now. I drag my fingers down your legs, leaving faint red trails where my nails rake the flesh. I will make you mine, little dear. I will give you a new god.

I move my tongue finally to your fiery center, flicking it over your swollen clit. I am rewarded with another gasp, another shiver. I want to give you something to remember, though, love, something to remind you to whom you will belong, and I know just the thing. I lift my tongue from your throbbing clit and replace it with me teeth. I pause for a moment, my teeth around your clit and my fingers digging cruelly into your thighs. I bite down, pinching the sensitive bead of your clit roughly between my teeth. Immediately, your back arches and you let out a yelp of pain. And almost just as immediately, you press your cunt even harder against my mouth. Taking my teeth from your clit, I lap up the fresh lust seeping slowly from your slit, the evidence of my possession. The taste of your sex in my mouth excites me and my body strains as your own squirms in my grasp. I pull my fingers from the now-bruised flesh of your thigh and move my hands up to your chest, clawing at your breasts as my tongue ravishes your tender slit and my lips brush over your sore, sensitive clit. Surrender to me, my fallen virgin.

I pull my tongue from your damp cunt, again placing my teeth around your clit. I look up at you from between your legs to see you with your head up, looking down at me. Your lashes are damp and the makeup on your face so painstakingly applied to the orthodox specifications of your temple runs with your tears. Your haggard mewling stops suddenly, as you realize where my teeth are again, and your body freezes. And again I bite, my teeth torturing your clit. Screaming, you thrash wildly. Your cunt clenches once, twice, and again. Your scream melts into stuttering hiccups as your hips buck with a mind of their own into my mouth. Too loud, little girl, your god will hear you. Your bucking slows and your hiccups recede into heavy breathing. I lift my mouth from your used cunt, my smiling lips covered with the evidence of your lust, the proof of my conquest. You are mine, little one.

My erection throbs painfully in my pants, demanding satisfaction. My ears ring with the rhythmic pounding of my own unspent passion. I pick your wadded panties up from the floor beside you, wiping my lips off on them before stuffing them into your open mouth. You will have to be quiet now, darling, your clergy is preparing for the next mass. I roll you over on the floor, hiking your robes up and presenting your bare ass to myself. Your face grinds against the well-swept tile floor to your hands on the floor and your bottom rises obediently behind you as I tug at the buttons of my britches. A tiny bead of wetness rolls down the inside of your thigh, a beacon of your flesh’s desire. Resistance has long abandoned you. Finally, my wet and demanding organ is free. I kneel down behind you, tracing meaningless shapes upon the soft curve of your bottom with my fingertip as I bend over and whisper into your ear, informing you that my cock will soon become the altar upon which your ass will worship. You shake your face against the ground, apparently in disagreement, but I will show you otherwise, my pretty.

Raising my hand up over your upturned bottom, I let it fall with a sharp smack. You lurch and gasp, though it’s muffled by your makeshift gag. Again I slap you, and again you lurch and gasp. Again and again I repeat the assault on your ass, each blow seeming to increase the spill of lust from between your legs. At last, I relent, with both of your cheeks a bright red. I press up behind you, my cock throbbing and hungry. I grab it with my hand and brush it across your wet cunny, slicking its head down with your spill. Lifting it slightly, I bring the wet, swollen head up against your tiny, tight pucker. You try to lurch forward, you try to get away, but my free hand is still tight on your wrists and I hold you in place with a grin. I adjust myself, pinning your legs to the ground with my own and moving my hand from your wrists to the back of your head, pressing your tear-stained and dirty cheek to the floor. You struggle helplessly as I rub my cock up and down your tense pucker and I chuckle to myself, wondering if sodomy would count as a cancellation of your vestal virginity. Oh well, it isn’t like it matters anymore.

With that thought, I press the head of my swollen cock against your ass and you strain against the floor as your little hole begins to part and my head slides inside. As the head slips inside, your pucker closes tight behind its ridge, locking it inside of you. More and more of me slides into you and you struggle and writhe underneath my body, but you’re just too small and I have you pinned too well. You aren’t going anywhere.

Centimeter by agonizing centimeter I fill you, until at last I’ve forced my whole length into your sore and stretched bottom. You relax for a moment as I throb deep inside of you and you draw in a deep breath through your flared nostrils, the first full breath you’ve managed since I began forcing my cock into your pucker. Alas, it does not last. You grit your teeth again as I slowly slide out of you until only my swollen head remains inside of you, held tight by your clenched rosebud.

And without warning, I drive myself back inside, down to the hilt. Our bodies slap obscenely against each other and you yelp against the back of your panty-gag. And again, I slide out until your pucker catches my head, this time in a motion quicker than the last. And again I push myself inside. Again and again I pull and push myself in and out of you, faster and faster, each time the head of my cock being kept inside of your bottom by the tight clench of your battered pucker. As the pounding gets harder and faster, your cries and moans grow in length and pitch, until you’re practically screaming without pause into your gag.

In the midst of the fucking, I drop a hand to your slit and reach for your tiny swell. I find it, in spite of your constant writhing, and close my fingernails around it. As I did with my teeth before, I pinch it viciously, smiling as you lurch and shriek as the pain of the pinch overwhelms that of the relentless sodomy. Another pinch I give and another shriek I receive, but I also get something else. A trickle of your fresh lust rolls down my fingers. Wanting another of your sweet orgasms, I prick again at your sensitive clit with my fingernails, and then again, and again. At last, your sobbing screams catch in your breath and suddenly turns into a new kind of mewl, and I know what this one means. I slide my fingers into your cunt and I can feel it clenching around them. Do you see now, fucktoy? You cannot deny me.

This is an exercise I learned from some community back on Livejournal. Basically, the idea is to have someone give you a word that is related to absolutely nothing, after which you take 15 minutes, no more or less, and write as much as you possibly can. Obviously, what you are writing about has to be inspired by the word.

Initially, I asked Richard for a word, but everything he could come up with (go figure) was too obviously sexual. By the time he had come up with triangle, I had secured a word from Dan.

ashes says:
I’mma do a 15 minute writing exercise based on a word.
ashes says:
Give me a word.
ashes says:
Any word.
Dan II - Everybody’s at disadvantage, speaking with their second language. says:
Portmanteau
ashes says:
The hell does that even mean?!
Dan II - Everybody’s at disadvantage, speaking with their second language. says:
You expected it to be easy with me?
ashes says:
Actually.
ashes says:
This is great.
ashes says:
I can work with this.
Dan II - Everybody’s at disadvantage, speaking with their second language. says:
I’ll bug you again in 15 minutes then.

So the word is “portmanteau”. Here we go.

+++

He trails his fingers over the trunk slowly, and she can swear she hears the sound of his skin against the leather. From her vantage point on the bed, she can see his fingers as they fondle the lock with a gentleness she knows he won’t be kind enough to use on her. A turn of a key, the click of a latch, and the lid of the portmanteau falls back against the white wall with a soft thud. She finds herself trembling at the noise.

She wants to fall back, into the soft billowing blankets. Wants to sink into the mattress, wants to dissolve, unseen, into the air. But she can’t keep her eyes from his arms as they slip into the shadows of the trunk, riffling through items she cannot see.

She doesn’t need to. She knows well what comes from those dark depths; she’s been well acquainted with those demons, been beneath their laughing sting all too many a time.

She cannot say she does not anticipate it with some degree of desire; the smeared, damp skin between her bound legs is more than proof of that. But the fear that causes her breath to come sharp and awkward in her throat - a choking sensation that leaves her head dizzy - overwhelms the red lust that blossoms like a flower against her fair cheeks.

After what seems like an eternity, he pulls out something all too familiar, and a whimper escapes her vaguely parted lips. Cruel in it’s simplicity, a slender crop of leather and wood, he holds it firmly in his hand as he turns to face her with a look in his eyes that tells her this is not going to be easy.

She shakes her head at him, unable to form the words. Her thighs are still marked from the last time, still sore; the tiny criss cross abrasions of flesh, the places where the skin broke to spill small rivulets of blood across her flesh, they are all too fresh. No more. Please.

He smiles, almost apologetic. Apologetic, but mocking, and he crosses the space across the bare floor in a few quick steps to loom over her, his grin becoming something sinister.

She finds her voice, finally, as he slowly positions the crop in his hands. Finds it as the inevitable looms up before her, ugly and beautiful, promising things she isn’t really sure she wants.

“It hurts, already. No more.”

The firmness of her voice surprises her. It surprises him too, momentarily – or so it would seem by the slight movement of his right eyebrow.

“Since when did you have a choice?”

She opens her mouth, to respond, but he is quicker – the leather licks her cheek, so quickly that she is not sure at first whether or not it is real or imagined. But the pain follows, a ripple of thunder after the lightning, and the cry that pulls itself from her lips is the shattering of her mask.

He laughs, his fingers rising to trail across the welt that is forming across her flesh.

“Your cunt,” he says, leaning down to trail his tongue, hot, across her lips. “Is next.”