I'll Look Away.

There's a sob stuck in my throat and it has been here for days, waiting for your permission to turn into tears. It appeared last week, you remember that night when I couldn't stop kissing you? You beat me every single night that week and wrecked my insides with every single object that you could shove into me, you fucked me every single night that week; every time you flooded my cunt, you hit me in the head and told me that you could come as much as you wanted, but me, I was never going to come again. I repeated your words, muttering them under my breath at the beginning of the week, and proclaiming them out loud like a sentence I announced to myself by the end of the week. My body turned into an aching mass of dire need, spurring your cruelty out of all control as you reduced me, one step at a time, one night at a time, to absolutely nothing. I started to struggle to be close to you, I started to fear the most gentle touches from you. I started to crave any indication that you wanted more from me than to use me.

And so I kissed you.

I don't know what came over me, I suppose it was a need to feel wanted like a human being. You were lying next to me and we were just about to go to bed, your fingers were teasing between my legs, just enough to render me incoherent but not so much I broke into tears of frustration, and all of a sudden I knew I would die if I didn't kiss you. I held onto your arms so tightly, begging you with my grip to not reject my desire for tenderness, and you didn't. You kissed me back,  you turned to me and kissed me as you stroked my cunt. I kissed you harder. There was an urgency to it, one I rarely ever feel anymore, a passionate need to be a woman to you, just for a moment, to have you see me as a lover, and not a thing you own, and destroy.

"You feel a little broken, don't you, my darling slave?" You asked as you pushed the hair off my face, untangling the knots you made before.

I couldn't answer you in words that made sense, only with my lips on yours, and senseless apologies whispered into your mouth. I feel the need to apologise for touching you, I feel the need to apologise for you touching me, it makes me feel ashamed to make you put your fingers on a creature so small and lowly, it is best relegated to a corner, and left there to wither. I feel the need to apologise for cracking under all the layers of destruction you pour onto me. The world felt so slow in that moment when you kissed me, almost as if I was succeeding at pausing time with my rampant need to be touched like a woman, by you. You pulled me up against you, holding my hair but not pulling it, as I pressed into your body as you kissed me. I sat on your lap, my heart against yours, the warmth of your skin wrapping me like a blanket. Everything in my body hurt, but it was old pain, and that, like old books, evokes more sentimentality than reality. Faded pain feels like love.

"Get off me," you whispered, almost kindly, into my ear.

I was disappointed but it didn't even occur to me to not do what you said, I like that, it doesn't occur to me to question you at all, and I think it's because I've investigated that path, and I've come to realise that at the end of the questions, when you do give me an answer for why you want me to do what you want me to do, is a series of answers that don't matter to the outcome for me. They have no bearing on what I will do because the only thing that seems to matter, is that you told me to do it. You stood up on your feet and walked to the side of the bed where you most regularly fuck me. I squeezed my eyes shut, I think was hoping to rewind to the moment before so I could stop myself from stoking your desire. You pulled me by the hair, before I had opened my eyes.

There was a perceptible shift in the energy between us, so stark that it felt like the air in our bedroom was slapping me in the face. You held my face in your palm, tilting it up to look at you, I don't know if you could see the vulnerability in my eyes but I could feel myself look through it at you. You kissed me on my forehead, it was a long kiss. When I opened my eyes to look at you again, the world seemed friendlier, you seemed kinder.

"Will you be nice?" I asked, quietly, not looking up at you.

"No," you said, loudly and immediately, "You will learn not to complain about your place."

I think destroying hope is your most serious fetish. I think you like to knock candy out of the hands of children and then laugh at them. How do you not feel terrible about the things you do to me? Your soul must be in tatters, from all the cruelty it seems to contain.

"You will turn around, bend over, put your hands behind your back and thank me for using you," you continued to say, "I know you think this week has been very hard on you but next week is going to be so much worse. Whatever comfort you're seeking from me, it's not coming."

That seemed unnecessary. I turned around and did as you said, feeling the sob build inside my throat, waiting for the terrible sensation of being filled up with cock, I really think I hate it now, how did you do that to me? Why was it so easy? You slapped me on the head as you pushed up against my cunt, old pain came alive as the newer pain of your cock inside me awakened it from delusions of sentimentality. Fresh pain doesn't feel like love, it's like a newspaper, reminding you of the reality of your world. I muttered my gratitude for your violation, and you pulled me up by my hair, violently shaking my head from side to side, as you filled me with dread. I started to whimper, and you started to fuck me harder, thrusting in me only to hurt, like a gavel sounding at my fate.

"I have had it with your *weakness*," you yelled at me, "I swear if I see one tear in your eyes, one sorry expression begging to be taken care of, I will have you fucked in the streets by random men."

I don't think you would do that. Would you really do that? I hate not knowing who you are. I mean, I do *know* who you are, and who you were, but the patterns of growth and change in you are so unpredictable, so difficult for me to decipher, I cannot ever tell who you will become. It's exciting, and terrifying. I was just about to cry, in the moment you told me to stop, and the sob in my throat became permanently lodged there.

It is still here.

It's still here because you won't let me cry. You were right, as good as your word, this week was so much worse than the last, I cannot believe what I was ready to cry about last week. Now those days seem so luxuriously quaint. Each night you remind me that in just a few days, days you make me count down, I'll be alone with you on the edge of the Earth, in the middle of a forgotten forest. You tell me every day what you'll do to me once we're there and I want to run away. I want to run away from you, but you tie me down and force me to watch you destroy every shred of my humanity. I don't want to kiss you anymore. I don't harbour any delusions of comfort or tenderness from you.

I just wish you'd let me cry.

Please.

I'll look away.