On slipping.

They said they weren’t sure if they could come over. They said we wouldn’t likely have sex. They’re sneaky. I like that. Our original plan was dinner and drinks, but one White Russian led to another and my petulant side came out. I’m rarely bratty, but relish the occasions when I feel jaunty and relaxed enough to let myself go. I wheedled them into the bedroom, not knowing they’d been texting each other with plans to play before I’d started. I slip and turn.

Tipped. Stripped. Pinstruck and tipsy, caffeinated on lust with coffee breath and ice-cold teeth. They ease me onto my stomach. I’ve got a little fight left in me so I rail against them, little faggy limp-wristed slaps as if warding off a fly, not a lion. Four hands are stronger than two and I’m pinioned by a well-placed elbow and watching Red shuck her belt, one loop at a time. Hers is flat and wide, rough at the edges. I know its sting like I know the piercing in my belly when she licks her lips. It’s an innate smack to my core, it reddens and flays the heat from my skin. The Photographer’s is thin and bites at the softest muscles, the arches of my feet and curls around the insides of my wrists. They work me until I’m backed up against the bed, just watching them, waiting for them to strike. 

Flames. I’m taken to a place where my skin’s in summer and respite never comes. Each blow thuds and shakes, threatens to jerk me down and let them devour me. It always scares me to realize how silent they are. It’s like they communicate from some clever telepathy, or maybe they just operate on a different frequency than I. Red hooks a finger into the lacy band of my panties and smooths the velvet skin of my lips. I shudder around her, and she smiles. Her finger leaves and I’m manhandled, wrangled around and pinned with the rough leather of the belt looped around my elbows. Red’s just watching. I forgot how cruel The Photographer’s hands were, and how lovely they felt when dragged across my skin. She has rough working palms from examining elements in the woods, strong, big hands that I can lean back on. They excite when they slap across my shoulders, but her nails make me scream. She digs them deep, clawing out the cries that I’ve stored deep in my belly. She doesn’t stop until I have two jagged epaulets of dark scratches down my shoulders. 

The punches come quickly, and I just sink into them. There’s no way to get out, no escape but to fall back and let the body absorb it. When I’m alone, after the excitement dies down and I’m sitting in the dark gnashing my teeth and slipping into hours of listlessness I remember how satisfying it feels to explode like that, to set myself afire and just let it burn. The pain increases. She switches to slapping. The slaps will ache and bloom into bruises, like flowers tattooed across my shoulder blades. When I’m sullen and surrounded by radio silence, I’ll tap into that energy. When I’m tired and curled up and putting off what’s good for me, I’ll remember that I can stretch. She chomps down on my bicep, curls her jaw around the beating muscle. Days later, it will throb like an inoculation, swollen with a tiny bit of poison running through my veins. 

My face is in the sheets, my ass is in the air. Later, she’ll tell me that she was so, so close to fisting me, but now I’m wracked with pain, gritting my teeth and grasping for the bottle of poppers omnipresent on my bedside table, sharing top billing with the bottle of cognac and hand-crafted lure. fag, fag, fag thrumming inside my head as I jerk against rough-padded fingers. The chemical knocks me upside the head. It takes a moment to set in but then I’m high flying, the fight ebbing first from the tips of my fingers and releasing my tightly locked tear ducts and letting them fall from my eyes. I’m a tough crier. They tease it out of me, two pistons working at full force inside of my body. They savage and tear. I can feel the fingers brush against each other, sending stars across my eyelids. I tighten my fists so hard there are four moon-shaped imprints ridged in my palm for days. 

Surround sound laughter in my ear, I am urged, pushed to come and hold them in and force them out and let them coax that plush touch oozing down my thighs in milky, clear sublimity. Give me that ache in my footsteps. Give me that shiny-dirty filth in between my legs and wiped across my face. Gimme, gimme, gimme, and let me take it.


On demons and the damned.


In the brief moment before the flogger comes down, I do wonder if my priorities are aligned.

They’re standing above me in the bright chill of the morning. We’ve just finished brunch. We’re buzzed from bloodies and bogged from biscuits but my head is clear enough that I can tell that I am fucked. The flogger comes down. I’m remarkably pain-sensitive today and it makes me feel silly and frail. But they’re good at testing me. They’re old pros. They’ve opened me up and thrust their hands inside and know how my brief, golden-laced mechanics work. They dance around me, their footsteps inaudible on the hardwood. The flogger dances past my ear. The rubber quirt flays the angles of my upper back, the broad, elegant curves that remind me of a vase made by Frank Lloyd Wright. The lashes make me scream when they hit bone and quiet as they work at the muscle, eat at the skin.

Two strong hands drag me to the ground. Two pliant fingers twist into the stretch of skin between my shoulder blade and muscle. Two sharp claws open up my mouth and thrust themselves inside, down to the soft underbelly of my throat. Two scuffed workboots dig their snubbed noses into my flesh and close their jaws over my joints, testing the strength of bones hidden ‘neath flesh. Two hands punch in succession, on the front and the back, and two hands pinch my nose and chin and slap me across the cheek.

We pile in a warm puddle in the center of the bed, adrift in a nest of blankets and skin.

When teeth play over my skin, when nails pinch and fists drive their way into my hollow core I think I’ve had enough until I’m done and realize that I’m craning for more. The body craves what the mind needs. The mind eats what the body breeds.

IV. Me

She asks me what I’m thinking about as I squirm around the vibrator between my legs. She is little more than a looming alabaster shadow between my legs, the tails of the whip raised high above her head.

“Balance,” I tell her, and I breathe. “I’m trying to find a balance between the sensations, and stay as long as I can stand.”

In therapy this week, I was crying like I was drowning; gasping for air around the syllables when I told her

I have paced thousands of miles,

But I feel so static.