There is a darkness that lurks in us all. Sometimes, he lets me get a glimpse of that darkness inside of him.
I woke with his hands on me, pushing, pulling, “mauling”…not an unusual occurrence when I sleep over with the Mean Guy. I was in my shackles and heels, and later that day I would be confined in the cage…but at the moment I was sleepy, half-awake, half-aroused, anticipating slipping back into sleep as we often do after morning play.
Going back to sleep was apparently not an option, though.
I remember the exact moment the “switch” flipped. He’d been sort of sleepily manhandling me, telling me in a low voice about this dream he’d had. “You were sting-y and I was thud-y,” he’d said. “I need to get us in sync.”
Which made no sense to me, since I wasn’t actually dreaming his dream, but I liked his hands on me, I like being pulled about, handled like a piece of fuckmeat, like something he owns and can mold and push and use. My body as an “it” as he had said in a harsh whisper only the night before, as he told me dirty stories of sending me–my body, “it”–out to others, to strangers, to use. His dirty fantasies have filled my head lately to the point of pushing out my own. I masturbate to his voice in my head, to his stories, his words, his visions. I see myself, an “it” to be used by the stranger that opens the door, told that I am just a body W has sent for this stranger’s use as he pushes me across the hotel room to the bed, shoves me face down and pulls aside my panties, not even undressing me before he shoves his cock inside me and fucks me, anonymously: a hole to be filled.
On this morning I didn’t have any of that in my head, there was only the feel of his hands and an almost frantic desire to open myself to him, which the chains/shackles don’t allow easily, even if he’d been in the mood for it.
I figured out quickly that he wasn’t.
One minute he had his hand cupped around my ass, pinching me, pulling me, his weight heavy on me, his other hand around the chain that links the implacable metal collar from my neck to the wrist shackles. The next he had grabbed one heel and pulled my leg up, his hand on my shoe, bending me, forcing me to arch against him. There was…a vehemence to this action…a suppressed violence that hadn’t been there a moment before. Instantly, like a button pushed, I felt the change in him.
He stood up and looked down at me. His other partner calls that look his “tell”. Oh yes, I know that look well.
“Oh shit,” I thought, “I’m in for it.”
Without a word he hauled me up by the chains and a hand in my hair and drug me into the other room. He pushed me roughly to the floor and held me pinned there while he chained me down by my neck and ankles. I was still, incredibly, half asleep, but I woke quickly when I felt the first slash of the cane.
For the next hour, in silence except for my whimpers and our breathing, the rattle of the chains on the floor, and, oddly, the sweet sounds of birds waking up outside, he used a cane, a paddle and his hand on me. At one point he shoved a buttplug into me, then returned to the beating.
It was incredible: brutal and silent and aggressive…and yet it was all surreal…I felt myself, even with the thud of the paddle, the sting of the cane, his hand in my hair, the invasion of the buttplug…floating. Drifting. Just waking up. I found myself wanting more…harder…faster. I could feel his suppressed violence, could feel him holding back. His violence called to something in me, something that wanted–needed–to taste that darkness inside him. What would have happened if he had unchained that part of himself as he had chained me? What darkness would have been revealed?
Later, a hand in my hair, he lifted my mouth to his for a kiss. “I think we’re in sync now,” he said.