“Don’t burn all your bridges down,” he warns her. “You won’t have anyone left to turn to.”

“I’ll still have you, won’t I?” Her words slurred with pain or too much beer, he doesn’t know. “You always come running back even when I make your life miserable.

You can’t stay away from me.”

He wished he could tell her she was wrong.

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This is the love I know

A loveless love, a convenient love, an after dark, occasional weekend away kind of love. It’s a love I like, a love I love.

Don’t pity me because I have love at arm’s length. This love gives me a radius of love in abundance, a love for whichever direction I choose to face, a love suited to match whichever feeling, want, and need that I’d like in any moment.

A nameless love, quiet, waiting in the shadows. A keycard love, a backseat love, a £3 a minute love. A judgeless love. A let’s tell all our secrets, turn the sound off, be present, kind of love.

A love where I can be the best version of me, the version of me you like, the version of me you love.

Waiting

I let myself in and leave my bag at the door. I undress down to my underwear as per your request and kneel in my corner. Waiting.

All my senses are enhanced. My hearing attuned for any nuance of your presence, listening as you take steps on the floor above me, listening as the staircase creeks, my mind floundering and sense of time is lost.

Eyes fixated on the wall, watching for any hint of shadow. I’d close them but the quiet only grows louder, deafeningly so.

Sniff for any hint of your scent, your own signature smell traced with perfume. Panting and savouring the air like wild kittens do.

You see me and I hear a small hint of approval. Looking fiercely at the same point on the wall trying to find some composure, holding my hands tighter behind my back while a gentle graze of acknowledgement against my neck and down my back paints goosebumps over every etch of my skin.

You blindfold me and get yourself a drink. You sit down from across the room and watch me. You take my vanity and leave humility in its place as you watch my hands restlessly fidget behind my back, watch the curves of my body, watch me want you to want me.

I can feel your hunger for me fill the room. Black lace growing wet, my heart pounding in my chest, my palms mimicking what’s between my legs. Growing impatient. I want your touch, I want your attention, I want you.

Waiting isn’t a punishment, nor is it forlorn. It is an intrinsic foreplay for you know me well. You know that under my cute short blonde hair, my head is filling with erotic images from the past, present and anticipating the immediate future. Wicked thoughts running rampant with decadent possibilities. My overactive and creative mind readying my body for you without a single word.

Invite me over to you on my hands and knees, words so subtle yet they punch me hard. Winded for you, wet for you. Feel my lips with yours and catch my breath. I can taste your need, your lust, heavy and intoxicating, tantalising my tongue. Smell the bergamot embellished with my nervousness and relief, the enticing scent of your little girl desperate to be taken by your hands, a need only you can satisfy.

The Good Girl

“You’re always such a good girl for me,” he said.

And she was.

She was a good girl to him and she was a good girl to the world. She wanted so badly to be perceived as good. If people saw that in her then maybe it could be true. Maybe that would make it true. But she wanted so many bad things. Things that good girls shouldn’t want.

Tonight, he looked into her eyes and saw his precious and sweet submissive. But she needed him to see something else.

“Open your mouth for me, baby.” He stood over her still fully attired while she knelt naked before him. She stared up at him, eyes neutral but her mouth remained closed.

He cocked his head, “what is it?”

He let her silence stand for a short moment before he grabbed her hair and pulled her head back and placing himself at her lips.

She considered. And then with a half cocked smile opened for him. He worked her mouth slow and steady. She was compliant but nothing more. Her eyes wandered to the window and watched the contrast of the blowing snow flakes shining in the bright sunlight. They flew wildly at their impulse but did not escape the heated rays. In the end, one by one, they seemed to burn out and disappear mid-air.

He cleared his throat. Her inattention had not gone unnoticed. Palms moved to each side of her face like blinkers and focused her forward. She slackened her torso so that she began to slump and he was forced to hold her up with his hands.

He was so patient with her; so very good to her. Ordinarily, his demeanour rubbed off and made her shine. But, as of just very recently, she had fallen into a funk and would hold no polish. The good girl mask had been pulled loose and what was underneath resembled hard moulded plastic that had been corrupted by her wearing the disguise too tight and for too long.

She reached her arms to the floor behind her, leaned back and lifted her ass. Pushing awkwardly with her feet, she scurried backwards like a crab, breaking free of his grip. Back, back, back until her head bumped against the mattress. She looked at him in thinly veiled challenge.

Although his overall countenance gave no tell, the crinkles of his eyes at their corners let slip his emotion: amusement.

She pulled her knees up tight to her chest and pouted.

“I’m not chasing you across the room just because you want me to.” He shook his head firmly and crossed his arms over her chest. Her pout simmered and began to perk into a scowl. “Is it that bad tonight?” He asked. She nodded, eyes looking listlessly out the window. “How bad?”

“Really bad.” She didn’t like to say it. She preferred to poke and goad him.

At first he hadn’t understood it. He had pursued her, and given her what she wanted, sometimes without fully realising what he was doing but his ability to read her had improved. More and more, he was figuring her out. In response, she had become more cunning in her efforts but, today, she had failed. The inattention was good. The escape, too obvious.

“Why is it so hard for you to tell me when you’re feeling this way?” She shrugged. It wasn’t an attempt at avoidance. It was just too hard to articulate.

Outside of that room, there were few who ever wanted to know how the good girl was feeling. They only wanted one thing from her: her strength. To admit weakness, or to admit to having needs, was unthinkable. Especially when they come in her favour.

“It’s easier to poke.” She finally said.
“Maybe…” He walked to the armchair in the corner of the room and sat down, “but it’s not going to be anymore.”

She stared at him from the floor, watching as he silently returned her look. Although she was not aware of a clock in the room, she swore that she could hear one ticking, measuring out the sudden quiet that had fallen between them. She shifted back and forth on her ass unable to get comfortable as her fingers rubbed absentmindedly over the soft skin of her thighs.

“Please.” She could stand the disconnect no longer. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Padding across the carpet on her hands and knees, she hung her head like a penitent puppy. “Please…” Her cheeks rested on the arm of his chair near his hand.

“Please, what?”

Good question. She wanted that one word to convey so much. Her wide eyes stared up helplessly at him.

“No,” his tone was even, but firm. No? Which unspoken question was he answering? “From now on, when you need something, I expect you to ask for it directly. No more clever slut games.” She shifted her head away as if looking elsewhere would help her hide from him. “I can still see you. More and more, in fact.” He moved his hand away and the foot felt like a mile. She peered longingly where it settled on his thigh.

He had such beautiful hands; such well proportioned hands. They were lightly roughened from life but not at all hard. To her, they were the hands of an artist. Visions flashed of how they had worked on her, sculpted her, broken her down and then formed her again. How she needed their magic now.

“If I’m distracting you, perhaps you should go have a seat against the wall while you collect your thoughts.” He nodded in the the direction of the far corner.
“Is that what you’re telling me to do?”
“No,” he corrected. “I’m asking you to speak plainly about what you’re feeling and what you need. And to trust me with it. But if you can’t,” he leaned forward in her direction, “then we have hit a wall, and you’ll have to crawl over there and meet it.” His dexterous fingers began tapping his thigh in emphasis.

She took a slow, deep breath and swallowed hard. Putting both hands on his knees, facing him. He parted his thighs wide as if opening a gate for her. She seized the opportunity and scampered between his legs where she felt safer and more contained. The crinkle at his eye once again appeared then quickly vanished.

“So, are you ready to tell me what you need?” She nodded sheepishly. “No more slut games?” She shook her head and drew another long breath.
“Of course, now you already know…”
“That’s not the point.” Her front teeth chewed on her lip as she noshed on her words.
“I feel very empty tonight. It’s as though the emptiness is holding down the anger.”
“Is there a reason why you’re angry tonight?” His voice held concern.
“I don’t always know why it comes when it does… It just does…”

He nodded empathetically. His girl, his good girl, was generally sweet natured and even well tempered, but his whore…

She was forged from a different metal which was more difficult to temper. And, coming from the furnace himself, he understood. “And what do you need?”

There were no tears. They would be actively brought forth later. Her eyes were filled with something else. Something raw.

“Use,” she squinted as though someone was going to come running into the room and slap her for saying it. “I need to be used by you… to be given purpose… because I feel like I don’t have any of my own right now.” There was a desperate gasp, like a puff of smoke struggling to write words in the sky, “I hate the emptiness.”

Again, he nodded then sat patiently and waited. For him to fill the void, she had to be first willing to fill the space between them.

“I need to have emotion drawn in me to displace the anger,” she drew another breath and continued, “I need you to get into my head in order to get me out of it.

I need to be taken over and have my demon exorcised… even if that demon is me…”

“Demons are not easily wrenched free,” his face was kind but serious, “I need to be sure that you know what you’re asking for.” She began to wriggle uncomfortably between his legs.
“You know what I’m asking for.” This was hardly, after all, their first exorcism.
“Yes, I know,” He reached down and cupped her head in between his oh-so-capable hands, “but you need to know it too. You need to own it and stop pretending that it comes from somewhere else.

When I pry the demon loose, only you can embrace it… so that you’ve got a hold on it, and it’s not got the hold of you…” His fingers trailed down her cheeks as he released them. “So. Plainly now. What are you asking for?”

“Tears.” And with that, all remaining pretense would be washed away. “Bring me to tears. Whatever it takes.”
“That’s a good girl.” His voice was smooth and reassuring.

A good girl? Maybe so. Maybe by a type of definition that wouldn’t be understood by most folks.

“Sir, there is one more thing…”
“Yes?”
“Love me. When it is all over I need you to love me.” Her hair fell over her eyes as her head moved to rest on his thigh and her arms clung around his legs.

The crinkles around the eyes again.

“No, baby… I will love you through it all…”

What I Need to Say

Did you ever feel like there was a conversation you really wanted to have with someone and yet part of you felt it was unwise? This is a feeling I know all too well.

When I was younger, I spent years fighting for an apology. It wasn’t until my whole world crashed down on me that I realised I’d become a tornado of anger and bitterness, destroying everything in my wake. I eventually realised that I needed to let go of that victim story that I had been carrying around, whether I got the closure I sought or not. For a long time, I thought I had to let go.

Recently I realised I’ve been carrying around subconscious resentment because part of me still wants to hear those words I chased long ago, that I’ve always deserved respect and love, and I’ve never deserved to feel pain and shame.

So I put all this into a letter that I don’t intend to send. Despite the counsellor sessions and the collection of self-help books, I’ve never done this before. The other day was the first day I got it all down. I titled this word doc “What I Need to Say,” and I ended it with the following words.

“I wrote this letter because I want to heal more fully. A part of me feels that would be much easier for me if you could look me in the eye and say ‘I’m sorry.’

Then I remember that I chose to stop pursuing an apology. So instead of pushing for it, I will say this: for all the anger, resentment, bitterness and cruelty I directed towards you many years ago, I’m sorry. That’s not the person I want to be. The person I want to be isn’t a victim. She’s loving, compassionate, and kind.

The person I want to be has forgiven you, and loves herself for making that choice.”

Most Lonely Face

Like the oak planks of a ship, his heart was worn and trodden, split and cracked and filled with dust of memories. His soul was the sea, empty and swollen. He would sit in his threadbare chair and feel the air press in. He would sit in his chair and watch the lights outside flicker and dim. He would sit in his chair and wonder why he would cling to nothing and expect it to embrace him back. His heartbreak was his only companion and even then it was unloyal, wavering and shuddering as visions of times past would dance around the room. 

He was abandoned.

The front door of his white cottage was always open, yet the threshold of his home was absent of the presence of others. 

This man would wait: wait for the sight of her, the young lady he once knew. Her long blonde hair pinned back, her black dress falling delicately on to her thighs. His heart would strain at the pictures of how she would react when she saw his changed face, worn with atime; a mere reflection of the handsome face he once wore.

As he sat, the weight of his promise became heavier, and the empty doorway became the haunt of his dreams.