Love letters

I still read all the love letters we sent.

I re live the day I realised I was in love with you.

I imagine what you’re doing now and if you are happy, or just pretending.

 

I was the best version of me I could ever be, when I was with you.

You will never know all of the ways you nurtured me.

Everything is normal again.

Life sometimes feels plain.

 

 

I might have direction if I was even on a path.

I know I am extraordinary, if I could only find that on my own.

 

You saw the best in me, and loved the worst of me.

I imagine meeting again. Except I will have more lines on my face and my body will have changed.

And you will still see the girl you met and fall in love again.

I am not lying now

I am not lying now

It’s no heavy weight; no screaming pain or daily tears. It isn’t the agony of fear or anger or even upset. It’s a slow sinking; being swallowed by quicksand, disappearing.

My head is already well below eyesight and I know I’m being overlooked. No act of unkindness, just the silence of seeing so many eyes not seeing.

There’s numbness creeping up limbs, and clasping cunt, and lungs, and heart, and soon, before anyone knows it… consumed.

And there is so much in the whimpering romanticism of sadness into which teeth can be sunk.

Like decay creeping through dearhearts, watching them fall as they shrivel and there is nothing left behind but ashes. It is all stopped as they unwind; rewind– unwind.

• • • • •

When I count the events of my unravelling, it is no surprise really. No great mystery as to where she went, and why what is left is so much less.

And perhaps you’ll barely notice me leave. Perhaps you can look down at my swallowed body and imagine I am still present, shoulder-to-shoulder with you. Or better still, perhaps I will pretend for you. Meet your expectation and fulfil my role.

“…though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there.”

Which is only so much gothic delight. To quote a serial killer and imagine it’s profound. That’s the hope, no? To exist in a way in which no one can touch. To be individual. The only one. Fame and fortune, or tragic hero, everyone dreams in some way of being unique.

But I do mean it; truly. When you say you understand, and I respond: “I hope you never know how this feels.”

I am not lying now.

I am who I am

I am who I am

I’m not slim, I don’t have amazing legs, I don’t have long silky locks, I don’t have a perfect pair of perky boobs.  But do you know what?  I have me, I have my children, I have my health and I have lived my life to the full.

I do not judge others and I know it is naive to think others shouldn’t judge me but they do.

They don’t see the emotional scars that I bare from an abusive marriage.  They don’t see the pain I went through, to who I am today.  They don’t see my scars from operations and they sure as hell don’t see me, for who I truly am.  But that’s OK, I know what I endured to get here today.  I have those memories of bad times, locked safely away in my mind, for the good ones to over run them.

I always cuddle my two boys at night, close my eyes and feel the love that radiates all around us.  My children will never know what I had been put through and they never will.  I will shade them from harm and give them a life full of laughter and love.

But for that one person, who looks at me and judges me, as a BBW and has no clue, as to who I am….Shame on you!

Today, I stand tall, I stand proud and I will always remember that I am alive and will never waste another minute on those who pull you down.

I’ve had enough

I’ve had enough

Before I go ahead with this post I would like to emphatically state that I am *not* suicidal and that I have absolutely no plans or intention to commit suicide. 

I just. I’m tired of living. I feel hopeless. Most days are okay but it only takes a small thing to send me spiraling down into an awful black hole where I want to hide and rot away where nobody can see me.

I hate my life and there’s nothing I can do to change it. I’ve changed all the things I can change. I left the husband who made me miserable. I’ve taken steps to deal with my debt and that’s moving in the right direction. I’ve become a student again after over 10 years out of school, doing the degree I should have done years ago.  I have some wonderful friends both here in my everyday life, and the ones I’ve never met in person (though who have been utter rocks to me). I have all of this good stuff happening and yet I feel so completely hopeless and pointless.

I’m a single mum with no money and I feel like I’m going to be on my own for the rest of my life. Stuck in my small town with no hope of escape for however long it takes for my kids to grow up and not need me to stay here any more.  The person I love doesn’t want me.  I can’t talk to anybody about any of it because they’re all sick of hearing it – I’m sick of hearing it come out of my mouth. I need to get away. I need to run away as fast as I can but I cant.

As I say I would never take my own life. I’m not at a place where I can’t see any other option. But right now, today, at this moment, I have never wanted to cease to exist more in my entire life.

I want to jump on a train,  away from this mess and from everything and just start again. I don’t want a family, I don’t want the responsibility. I love my children dearly but that absolutely unconditional and powerful love for them is my burden. They will always come first and I will love them forever but they deserved better. They deserved to be born to a family who really really wants that life. I look at their sweet, beautiful faces and I want to tell them how sorry I am that I’m not the parent they deserved.

I hate my life. I hate it. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Absolutely nothing. The doctor gave me antidepressants which I haven’t yet started to take – the good days are sometimes frequent but it only takes one little thing to set me back. I’ve taken them before. I don’t know why I’m so reluctant this time.

I generally can’t abide these kind of posts. But I understand so much more now why they are necessary. I feel so alone and there is nobody I can talk to. I’m sorry. I just had to put this somewhere where I could be heard without burdening anybody.

Truth or Lies

I am a lesbian. I have been in a relationship with another woman for 5 years now. I love her. She makes me laugh, we have so much fun together. She is my soul mate. I can imagine us growing old together, sitting in our rocking chairs and giggling over our shared memories.

I asked her to marry me.

She said yes!

It sounds perfect and simple but it is not because we can’t get married as she is already married to my brother. I asked her if she intends to stay married to him forever and she said that is what she agreed to, she says she loves us both, that she wants us both.

She told my brother that she is attracted to women. He reacted with interest and after a while is now open to the idea of her having a girlfriend but he doesn’t know that that girlfriend is his sister.

She wants to tell him soon but I am scared now that he will react badly and that she will give me up for him. I want her to have everything that she wants. I want to be what she wants but what if he makes her pick and she picks him. I think I can share, in fact I know I can share, I have done it for 5 years now, but what I can’t do is lose her. My fear is stopping her from telling the truth but if she does tell the truth then all the lies will be exposed. He will finally know that I slept with his wife, again and again, behind his back. She is convinced we can avoid that happening but I am not so sure. I think he will know and I think he will hate us both and everything will be ruined forever.

I don’t know what to do. Should I take the risk in the hope of getting what I want or should I tell her no and settle for only having lies with her.

Baby Secrets

Today you came home from the shop with a tiny white baby-grow. The label said ‘new born’. Together we admired the size, wondering about the new life that will soon be wearing it. You reached out to me, as you do every evening now, and caressed by ever expanding stomach asking how bump junior has been today. You are so happy at the thought of becoming a Father. I add the little clothes to the ever growing pile of stuff you keep buying for your child. You happiness is infectious. We are happy.

But I am scared

I am scared that when this child is born you will take one look at it and know that it is not yours. That the truth of my mistake will finally be revealed.

Sometimes I wake at night, sobbing and scared and you hold me tight and tell me that it is all going to fine. There is nothing to be scared of, women have babies all the time and you are right they do, and if history is anything to go by they have babies that are not their husbands but in my dreams… or are they nightmares?…. the baby is born with his face, smiling and handsome but unmistakably him and not you and the moment you see it you know the truth and all this happiness is instantly gone, and then I wake up and you hold me and everything is briefly OK again.

The worst thing is I just don’t know. The baby might be yours or it might be Jonathan’s. You don’t know him and he doesn’t know you. He doesn’t even know that I am pregnant. Like me he returned to his life after the conference. I guess I could track him down if I wanted to, I remember his surname and the company stand he was working on but I don’t want to. I want this baby to our baby but I am scared that when it is born it will be so obvious that it is not that everything will be ruined.

I love you. I love us. I want this baby to be your baby. You believe this baby is your baby. All we have to do is wait and see if this baby plays along with our dreams or destroys them completely.

 

 

Sinful Sunday: My First Real Spanking

30 minutes of bare hands, paddle, flogger and cane. Wonderful, exquisite, raw pleasure. Or was it pain?

The next morning, this.

Very bruised bottom

A week of reds, purples, blues and yellows. Dull pain, accompanying me wherever I go. Our secret.

Heaven.

And then, nothing. Smooth, unmarked skin, waiting for more. More never comes. I ache.

Hell is knowing I will never be spanked in quite the same way again.

Sinful Sunday

Sinful Sunday: My First Real Spanking

Peg Me!

This is intended to be a short, cathartic admission.  I am by nature Male Dominant who is currently scouring Twitter links to find a beautiful Dominatrix who will cane me & then have me submit to her strap on.  I desire to be tied over a whipping bench to await the probing of her rubber cock between my cane striped cheeks.

My heart pounds as I imagine her strict reprimand, the ever deeper thrust …. the popping of my anal cherry.

I have been such a naughty boy, frequenting massage parlours, dungeons & wanking in front of my computer screen.  A penance is to be paid.

Peg Me!

Don’t know how to not be used

Hi molly. I’m one of those lurkers,  have been following for a while now.

Some background: I’m 21, my partner/boyfriend/master/?? is twice that. We only see each other every… two months,  or so.

Before I met him I had very little experience with sex at all,  and there was an in-between period where I was seeing other people and got a bit more experience. I was always ashamed of this lack of experience,  and only recently was able to admit that to him, which he was great about. Now something else has come up.

Um…  to get to the point…

I can’t fucking ride cock! I just don’t have the experience,  or the strength,  and I’m not exactly small to start with,  and he’s not exactly large to start with,  and it’s just a big mess.  I haven’t tried with him yet.  but looking back on some really horribly awkward and disappointing experiences with others,  I don’t even want to try.

This can all be changed, though : practice makes perfect,  squats will too.  The bigger,  underlying problem is:

I’m scared of having any kind of control over the sex,  over his pleasure,  over being seen like that,  scared of having to be the active component and the responsibility that comes with that,  scared of looking stupid and disappointing him until I finally get it right,  scared of my fat moving in ways I don’t want it to,  scared of looking down at him,  scared of fucking moving. I feel like the only way I’m comfortable with sex with him is when I’m completely helpless. I try to watch porn with the girl on top,  for pointers,  and having to imagine myself in that position gives me this sick feeling in my stomach,  as if it’s just somehow not right. (not to mention body image issues comparing myself to porn actresses)

I voiced these concerns to him,  though he’s sleeping now ,  I know we’ll talk through it eventually but he doesn’t know what it’s like from my POV no matter how understanding and wonderful he is.

I don’t even know if there is concrete advice here.  I’m sure I won’t feel like this in a few years,  and it’s probably a lot to do with the lack of confidence that comes with my inexperience. I  just need to say this in a place detached from my partner,  where I know people will understand.

Don’t know how to not be used

Anything for love…?

There she was. In precisely the position he’d told her to be in; kneeling in the muck and filth on the floor. It had been his idea to meet in a public toilet. This one, he knew to be fairly quiet, but the risk of being caught; arrested even, was very real.

She smiled a slow smile at his footsteps and opened her mouth. The moisture soaking into her stockings from the floor, mirrored the juices dripping from her cunt. She felt dirty. Disgusting. She ached with lust. The smell of his cock filled her nostrils and she lunged. Summoning up as much saliva as she could, she spat on him, then moved her mouth to catch her spit as it dripped from the end.

Grabbing a handful of her flame red hair, he pulled her mouth onto his huge, swollen cock. She took it well, clutching at him and gagging as he forced as much of his dick down her throat as she could take. He pounded her face as tears and spit dripped from her chin. He pulled out and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. She looked like a whore. His whore.

Naked, but for hold ups and heels, mascara and lipstick staining her wet face, she gazed at him, only flinching slightly when his hand struck her cheek. Hard. The smile that lit up her face when he bent his head to her nipple was something to behold. Soft tongue, hard teeth, flesh breaking; only his hand squeezing her throat stopped her screams from rending the air.

He turned her around. He wanted her to greet his guest face to face. Forcing her onto all fours, keeping her steady by her hair, he struck again. A handprint grew from her soft white skin, blooming pink, then red. Her shout was the signal. More footsteps. Sharper than his. He pulled her hair and raised her face. “Open your eyes, Whore.”

She found herself looking at the stilettoed feet of a woman. As she raised her gaze, a long mac dropped to the floor and the woman gained more form. Before she had time to look properly, her face was guided towards the stranger’s smooth, wet cunt. The hand at the back of her head pushed her face forward; nose, lips tongue and teeth all smothered in faceless pussy. As she felt his cock push at her own cunt, she began to suck and lick like she was devouring her last meal.

Inching his cock into what belonged to him, he watched her head bob and swirl. Her cunt swelled and throbbed around him, telling him how much she was enjoying her surprise. He rubbed at her arsehole, massaging then pushing his finger inside. He pressed down and could feel the ridges of his own cock from both sides. Balls tightening, he felt her hips begin to shake beneath his hand. The moans from the blonde lying on the filthy floor were getting louder, his whore trembled on the end of his dick as he plunged in and withdrew again and again. He knew her. He knew she was seconds away. As his own climax began to take hold, he looked and listened for the tensing and moaning that meant her orgasm was imminent.

“Cum for me Whore.”

“Cum for me now, Slut.”

She let go. He let go. They all let go. Grunts, moans and screams bounced off the tiled walls. He pulled out of her spasming cunt while the spunk was still spurting from him and decorated her arse. The blonde rubbed furiously at her clit to prolong her orgasm. The red head shook violently as her body struggled to cope with the waves of pleasure that ripped through it, her face now resting on the floor.

Composure regained, he paid the hooker then bent down to look at his handiwork. He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and traced his fingers along her upwardly sloping back. Her splattered arse was still in the air, spunk oozing from her cunt lips. When she could move, she sat on the filth strewn floor and grinned at him like a Cheshire Cat. Another rose for the garden of her deliciously debauched memories.

Anything for love

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