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I feel so safe in your arms I am not. Every time you strike me, I know the blow is coming, and I am still shocked when it does. You take care to line up your fist, your knee, your foot, against my ribs, my stomach, my jaw, my cunt. The pain comes in two waves: the initial suddenness of the impact, and then the throbbing ache that follows. I love/hate the pain/you/the bruises/myself. I worry that there is something wrong with me that I dream about you breaking my ribs, bruising me so visibly I can't explain it away, knocking out a tooth, making me throw up from the shock or the pain. You are so beautiful. I don't know if that is why. I think about how beautiful you are a lot though. You do make me throw up this time. It doesn't take anything as dramatic as a punch. Just the usual throat-fucking, taken to its inevitable conclusion. I feel so ashamed at the mess I have made. You laugh at my embarrassment and have me bend in half so you can insert speculums in my cunt and in my arse. This is just as awful as I imagined it would be. Painful, yes, but the intrusive violation is worse. It's hard to understand how it is possible to feel more exposed than simply naked, but this is something else. Even my insides are open to you now. More laughter. The smell of the cigarette does strange things to my brain. It's been years since I quit. I still crave the nicotine. You don't want me to smoke it though. You kneel between my thighs. I desperately want/can't bear to loo I think that the fear of what will happen is worse than the moment you press the burning tip to my cunt will be. It isn't. I don't know how long you burn me for. There is more than one cigarette in the glass when you're done. Your arm around my neck occupies this confusing place of being both comforting and threatening. As you squeeze, I feel embraced and afraid, dizzy with love and fear. As my head swims and my vision blurs, I am so grateful to you for your arm around my throat holding me up. Later still, the needles pushed through my skin are a surprise. Not because I didn't know they were coming, but because the sharp pain is followed immediately by a blissful euphoria. I didn't know it would feel like this. You look at my wonder with satisfaction. You did, of course. Is this why you wanted to do this, or would the hurt have been enough on its own? But more than any of these - all horrific in their own right - being made to degrade myself with my own voice breaks me a little. Tell me you're worthless. I am worthless. Tell me you're unlovable. (Sobbing) Tell me you're unlovable. I'm unlovable. Of course you are. Who could love you? Look at you. (Hiding behind my hands) Tell me you're disposable. I am disposable. At least you can be useful to me. For now anyway. (I can't speak for crying so uncontrollably. It all feels/is so true.) Tell me you love me. I love you, Daddy. Of course you do. Of course I do. You tell me I am your gorgeous girl and a stupid little cunt with exactly the same tone, the same emphasis. Until, in the end, they sound the same to me. Being both to you is enough though, if it means I get to be anything to you at all. |
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wow, that is very well written. So well, in fact, that it is deeply disturbing to my sensitive mind. Thanks for the view into a painwhores (if I may call you that?!) experiences. When you come to a fork in the road, take it. __Yogi Berra
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