Mar 102014
 

Snow hillHer love for him was fresh and untainted. It was a sunny day with a hill of untouched snow. It was delicate. It was a pretty picture.

Their tracks went back and forth on top of the hill. They hung on to each other for better footing. Neither wanted to upset the fragile allowance beneath them. In time, steps became stomps and walking gave into a run.

On her way down, she felt a hand at her back, not one that offered aid. Her body cleared a path down the hill. The snow hid the branches that tore at her clothes. The slicked grass permitted her no foothold.

She slid. He watched from the top. He was stoic. She relinquished flesh and tears to the tumble. There was no pardon for her. It was inescapable. Every rock, branch, and punch of earth was a recitation of what she already knew; but had to live through to pocket the experience.

Be careful who you climb hills with.

 

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Feb 282014
 

The majority of her wounds healed and soreness dissipated. He believed it was a bruised rib that was the main issue. The rest were bruises, scratches, and cuts. He put them there. He examined and tended to each one, gently. He helped her get into a warm bath. There weren’t many words exchanged between them. She faltered, breaking-in words like “Sir” and “Master.”

She preferred the shower. He allowed her to shave. He watched her. She returned the razor to him when she was finished. He would sit silently on the toilet, his head lolling from one side to the other in appreciation. He took the razor. She closed the curtain and finished bathing. He left the bathroom to go back to whatever he was doing. She caught him, once. He was standing with his back to the doorjamb, listening. She was singing in the shower.

Dressing was a game. He gave her first choice. A sharp “stop!” from the doorway … and she knew her outfit for the day was chosen, even if she only had on parts of it.  There were days when she wasn’t allowed clothes at all. The weather was warm enough that bare flesh and lite materials were not an issue. But the evenings…

He initiated the walks. She wore a collar. It’s soft, black leather didn’t make up for its heaviness around her neck. At least it didn’t rub her horribly. She had trouble keeping up with his pace. His leash was short. Heavy chain looped through the thick O-ring on her collar. She wanted to wander. He wanted her right by his side. He was anxious about letting her out. She was anxious about being out.

The collar and chains kicked up a puff of dirt when they fell from her neck. They walked in the house with the sun setting behind them. She felt the eggshells she walked on would give into the burden of what to say next.

Thank you, for taking me with you… on the walk, Sir.” She shivered while she moved around, using the lamps to bring the room to a warm glow.

You’re welcome, pet.” He freed his feet of his boots at the door and smiled on his way to take up the length of the couch.

It’s a little chilly, Master. Would you make a fire?” She gave him a hopeful smile.

No. I’m warm. It would make sense that if you want to be warm, you would be over here next to me.” She didn’t know how to say ‘no’ to him without riling him up. She stayed on the floor, in silence.

He looped through the channels until he found something he liked. She chuckled at the show. He playfully poked her with a sock’ed toe. Inside jokes from the days when they were a “real” couple riddled their time together. Those moments caught them off guard and confused his new order of operations.

Well into the night, the breeze that trickled through the open windows in the home got the best of her. She scooted herself closer to the couch, inching towards warmth.

You going to hide down there when December comes, pet?” He chuckled. Eggshells, again. Some things were so familiar. Some things scared her to speak about.

Hopefully you’ll give me a blanket by then, Sir.” She couldn’t imagine being kept on this property, being his little pet, until winter.

I believe I just gave you my answer on that one.” He reached down and twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. His touch could quickly go from good to bad, from bad to worse.

Were you not listening?” He let the lock of her hair slip through his fingers and fall back down to her shoulders. She turned around to look at him.

To be honest, Sir… I need to go home. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t bite my tongue. I can’t snuggle and call you ‘Master.’ It’s not true. You know I don’t feel that way. I’m scared of being here. I’m scared of you hurting me. I don’t feel the same about you.” She was pouring on a thin layer of confidence. Trying to control that much apprehension left her visibly shaking.

He turned his head to look at her.

You’re not going home. You’ll snuggle and be glad I let you. You’ll call me Master because I own you. Trust me, you’ve got plenty of time to get comfortable with it. You best make sure that I know you’re comfortable with it, too. I expect you to make progress. You might not have feelings for me like before, but you will. You’ll submit again. It’ll be easier this time.” He reached out and tugged at a lock of her hair, playfully.

Smile, pet. No need to fight a battle you can’t win.” He went back to his television show.

She was speechless. Her attention drifted towards the television, too.

elust

Nov 182013
 

Cigar SecretsShe gingerly sifted through her Mother’s personal belongings. She and her sisters had taken to the task since the funeral. Their Mother had a treasure trove of secrets. Mother dated cigar boxes, along with a small accounting book of all the money that came in and went out during that time, and how it came in.

Each box had given new life to old whispers. The sisters stumbled across information hidden to them,   but well organized, since before their birth. Some of the records and family information dated back over a hundred years. The girls found property deeds, and notes to places where money was stashed around the house. She cooked the books for more than one business. Unspeakable and illegal acts and consorts; their Mother had kept it all buried from their little eyes.

Mother was cookies and cornbread. She sewed and called for the laundry. She also laundered money and moved some packages for some “friends of hers.” The girls did recall having many “drop-by” Uncles, bringing gifts and baskets of chocolate.

The three of them were giving it a go together with a bottle or two of wine, seeing what else their Mother had been up-to all these years. Each began with a box. Donna took two. Everything was ‘something,’ her dictation regarding who had given her the expensive and sentimental items in her jewelry box and closet. Some of the names, they’d heard mention, even as children, or in college.

She sat back and wondered if the devil just ripped out her Mother’s heart. She couldn’t put herself in her Mother’s place, but she was her child, and she was loved by that woman. She might carry sins she didn’t understand, but she was a good Mother.

Her sister nudged her, and then smiled. She’d drifted off on a silent rant. She reached for the next piece of paper in her box. She began to read mindlessly out loud.

 

Dear Mother,

I left with him. I’m pregnant. We’re going to get married. We’ll be fine.

I love you,

Donna

June, 1978

 

 

Donna,

Bring me the baby and you can come back.

I love you,

Mother

July, 1978

 

…. She was born in December of that year, …and her sister was crying.

 

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Nov 122013
 

The sun lifted and beamed through the two small windows in the room. It penetrated her face in some spots more clearly than others. When she tried to open her eyes, one wouldn’t. It was too swollen closed. The other had an inflamed cut across the eyebrow. She had limited vision. He had punched her in the face.

Her hands automatically went for her eyes. She found her wrists bound, along with her ankles. They were shackled to the small, iron bed she was laying on. The thin mattress that she was laying on was as naked as she was. She wondered if it was as dirty too. The side of the bed pressed against the long wall.  All she had to do was look down the foot of the bed to see him leaned on his shoulder, up against the doorway.

He must have heard the chains rattling. “Morning, pet.” She just lay there, in silence, frozen, and determined. The tension was in an elevator on it’s way to the penthouse.

“Don’t do it.” He shook his head, took his baseball cap off, raked his nails through his hair then re-positioned his cap. It was a habit she recognized. He shook his head again, looking at the floor and talking with one hand, the other still tucked under his arm.

“Are you going to try that thing where you cut yourself off emotionally? Because I think we both remember how well that worked out for you last time.”

“No,” her voice came out like a horse whisper; so she lay her head back, cleared her throat and tried again. “No. I’m just… trying to figure …everything out, and I’m tired and hurt.” She wasn’t in any physical or mental shape to earn his ire.  She didn’t know what was coming next, either.

He swaggered into the room and took a seat on the mattress beside her, then looked to the only other piece of furniture in the room which was a St. Andrew’s cross. He looked back at her.

“This used to be my playroom. Now, this is your room, but I don’t have room for that anywhere else in the house. You want to take a shower, get something to eat, maybe let me look at that eye?”

She warily nodded. He unlocked her feet first and then moved to her hands. She squeaked out an expression of gratitude. Before he unlocked her left wrist her stopped and let his elbows fall to her knees, and his face to the floor. “Thank you… what, pet?”

Her stomach sank. She hoped that by omitting that one word she hadn’t undone herself and his willingness to be gentle, even for as long as it would last.

He flipped her over. The jerk to her body almost jammed her one still chained wrist. One of his hands seemed to put his entire body weight on the side of her face. She could barely breathe. She felt the springs against her cheeks. His other hand slapped her ass until she finally got it high enough for his liking.

She screamed the word “Master,” endlessly. She felt something smooth enter her pussy and she lifted her ass for it. She spread her legs for it. Everything else hurt, but her cunt felt good. He said nothing the entire time, but pulled out before she could finish.

Just like she knew him, he knew her. He let her head up and covered her eyes with his hand, pushing whatever he’d fucked her with into her mouth. She could obviously taste her own juices.

“Clean it.”

She did. He uncovered her eyes.  He held the length of his hunting knife in his hands, inspecting how well she cleaned the butt of it.

She cried.

Oct 162013
 

He slung her across the quaint living room. She was received into his stone fireplace like a naked wrecking ball. Her fear was immeasurable. She was inside now, with him. Bruises, cuts, and much more were hushed by adrenalin.  Hyperventilation was never more than a moment away. She shook.

She wasn’t scared of the likelihood that she would forever be locked away in his mountain forest of snares. She was scared because there was no likelihood. Her new station was unequivocal. He would not have done this unless he was completely prepared. She was terrified because she believed him. No one would find her.

She’d suffered him before, but with slipped absolutes and excessive beatings. There was no closure to their prior relationship. She broke free of it. The mental abuse took longer to shake. Now she imagined him, limitless and with no accountability. It was fearfully inconceivable.

She saw a future of torture, masquerading as punishment and lessons. He had unlimited access to who he would decide to mold her into. Her silence was a mixture of how blindingly certain her fate was, and her slow descent into a hole of lost hope. His ability to destroy her mind was starting. She was afraid of it as much as the beatings. Once he was in her head, he was everywhere.  He would own every part of her. He wouldn’t let her go. She pleaded to God and Anyone Listening. He would kill her. He would destroy her mind.

He saw the harsh realization, even in her body. Her eyes became more vacant. She flinched at his touch. He wanted to comfort her. He didn’t want to go through a period of her hating him. He hoped he wouldn’t have to teach her about flinching again. Those were long, hard lessons for her. He hoped that she’d remember some of her time with him. He wanted her to be a good girl for him. She was always such a good girl, but she left him. She ran. They were going to deal with that punishment later.

He wrapped his arms around her. He needed to support her. He knew that she need to process this information and come to comprehend how it would change her future.

He tightened his arms around her. She was shaking. Absorbing the fear and reality, she finally started to cry. She whispered…

“Get the fuck off me.”

He punched her in the face.

May 102010
 

Trust is like a piece of paper, once it’s been crumpled up, it can never be completely flattened out again. It can never be thin and perfect. It can never flutter beautifully and be new. It’s it’s used and creased in a thousand places. Any tiny emotion can hide and fester in the many crevices. Thus begins …The Trust Issue.

I have to wonder if trust will ever stay fully intact (like that perfect sheet of paper) in any kind of real, long-lasting, honest relationship. There are bound to be a few, if even unintentional, dents and dings to it from time to time. It takes strength to stay with someone when the flowers aren’t in full bloom.

It’s often easier to give someone a second chance than to face the fact that once trust is gone, it’s incredibly hard to get back. The question of whether or not you can trust again can come quickly into play. Often, as soon as an incident has occurred and before both parties (especially the offended party) has time to process the incident; and the many emotions relating to it. One has to recover from the incident which caused the dents and dings to begin with.

Cry.

Be angry.

Get some space.

There’s no pressure to commit to jumping back into trusting anyone. Take your time and feel each emotion associated with the incident that occurred. Don’t let anything fester inside you that might resurface later and turn into baggage, poisoning relationships in the future.

Personally, I just need some time to hurt before I can think about giving someone the chance to dent me again. The fact that you can stay after any ding or dent to the trust that’s already been established says that you have confidence in what you’ve built together. It says that you believe that whatever might have happened to cause the dings or dents in the trust that you had originally built weren’t done maliciously and can be forgiven in hopes of better things to come.

I found myself thinking about how one might prevent from subconsciously building a wall there to guard against any bigger damage. How do you not replay and then resent the dings and dents until you find yourself making them bigger? I think taking your time and working through them is the best answer. If you really want something, you have to work for it, right?

It ain’t easy to invest in another person, especially when they’re asking you and really wanting you to say ‘yes,’ and everyone knows that it’s always harder to tell someone ‘no’, regardless if it’s better for you in the long run. Let’s face it, the majority of us tend to think with our hearts. We give in.

Instead, let me ask you this… “Why should I offer anymore of myself into someone who threw away my initial investment?” It pretty much goes against everything I preach to my mirror about self worth and the importance of knowing who you are and what you stand for. Where do you draw the line? Who do you cross that line for?

“Truth is, everyone is going to hurt you. You just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.”~ Bob Marley