How to remove anger

After spending the weekend at Eroticon I thought that it would be a good idea to try and write again. I feel old and clunky and out of practice. I have also lost my confidence so I will be back here sporadically. However, in the mean time here is one from my archives that I have dusted off for you. I hope you like it. Rachel xx

I am angry, so bloody angry. The molten lava spits in my chest, bubbling it's fury away there in it's new found home.

I want to tear the world a new arsehole. I want to smash everything. I have felt like this before, quite frequently really when the world is unjust or I am put upon until breaking point, or like today, where my body is bruised from giving too much. In the past I: have smashed every piece of crockery and glass wear I had, but felt no better. I have eaten my emotions only to feel fat and unfabulous with a side order of self loathing. I have tried kickboxing, running, and yoga (sometimes all in the same session); it stops the energy for the anger but does not calm me inside.

I sit at the top of my stairs unable to move, my rage confines me. I have a couple of hours as my son is at scouts. I swallow down the anger knowing that it will dissipate in the vast space of my heart. Perhaps I will feel more like the good mum I want to be by the time he comes home. I sometimes hate being an adult, I yearn for someone to take these problems away from me.

The rasp of the key in my door makes me sit up. Has my son come home early? Is he alright? Worry bleeds into me, my anger is temporarily shelved.

You stand there, all midnight and brooding. I look at you with hope in my eyes. Selfishly I want you to take my thoughts away from me, I want you to stop this anger in me, stop my internal civil war. I want you to help me. I want you to put me first. Ashamed of these feelings I make to stand up so I can take your coat and offer you a drink. Who do I think I am to put myself first? I admonish myself.

You raise a finger, just your index one, and indicate that I am not to move. You walk towards me, your training ensures that you are balletic in your movement, stealth like, threatening and sexy. Compassionately you touch my face, running your hand across my face and kissing my cheek. You smell fresh and clean and healthy. I never thought that smelling like that would be a turn on but simple smells do. I like well groomed men but not excessively so. The gentle strokes go through my hair. I close my eyes and look sad because I could not bear to be this close and my needs ignored, being invisible is my nightmare.

Fingers curling around my red locks gripping them so tightly that a few part company from my scalp. My closed eyes and sad face now screws up into one of pain.

"Open your eyes." Your voice has a timbre that is not to be messed with. You shake my head like a marionette until I comply. My eyes have watered with the pain but are brighter and more engaged than they were before. I look at you and you look proud, your melted chocolate eyes are kind and playful. A shadow of a smile passes over your lips before you kiss me.

That kiss is gentle and tender and leaves me wanting more but you pull away. My lips gravitate towards yours as they have needs too but your grip does not allow it. I try and move my head again but all you do is grip harder and force my head back. Your other hand is placed gently around my throat, squeezing tightly.

"Anything you want, you have to beg for. I have control. I have you. What I want and my needs come first."

A muted noise of agreement and acceptance comes from me.

Abruptly you stand up and drag me across the hallway, into the bedroom. I am not allowed to be upright enough to walk but my hair is being held too high to crawl. It is an undignified scuffling, shuffling, half crawling gait that I do to keep up with you.

Flinging me on the bed I land sprawled out, my feminine charm evaporated. I land face down and arse in the air. Your hand slaps down hard on my back, pressing me down so I cannot get up. I know what is coming next, the shy girl in me screams 'no' but the noise is trapped by my stronger self. You see my struggle. You know my shame face. You know it and you ignore it, or at least revel in the internal turmoil I experience as you lift up my skirt and peel down my pants. Naturally they do not come down all the way, they roll and crumple halfway down my wiggling legs and frame my bottom.

You put your face near my arse and inhale. My sweet musty citrussy scent is there, hanging tangibly in the air just above my skin. A suggestion of my depraved lust. My cunt lips sealed still, not allowing any moisture out. One of your fingers trips it's way along my shaved skin and parting my velveteen curtains to expose my pink degeneracy. I move more but you pin me viciously and feel me pant as I process this exposure of my sexual soul. I have been taught to hide this need in me, conditioned to. Good girls don't want sex, good girls don't show their need, good girls don't get a wide on. I think these things as you delicately finger me, my oily lubrication denying my social conditioning. With some surprise my first orgasm builds and pops out. It is unexpected and small but enough to break some of the tensing within me.

You allow me to rest on the bed for a few moments as you stand back and look at my dishevelled self. I am beautiful in my shambolic state. You adore this bit. The start of my unpeeling. Eroding the walls and polished veneer that I show the outside world to expose and explore my inner self, the vulnerable, sensual, sexual being that I am.

Flogging is a hard limit for me, as is whipping but you know that a good girl spanking is right on the upper most cusp of what I can tolerate. I want it but the line between a good girl spanking and punishment is infinitely fine within me. It is what you want. Pulling my over your knee I stiffen in fear. This is not playful fear where I am going to get some funishement, real fear, primal fear. I struggle in earnest, no play fighting, I need to get away and be safe. Again you grab my hair and whisper your craving for this in my ear. I am doing this for you, not for me. It stills me enough.

The first smack is hard enough to make my whole body shift forwards. I grit my teeth and bear it. I don't like this but want it too, I want to give to you. I feel the raw warmth in my exposed arse. I know what is coming and hope that I can be enough for you, I hope that I will not let you down.

The second blow is harder and makes me cry out. I can feel the sweat start to bead on my forehead and under my arms. I feel definitely less than sexy but I know that submission is not always about being sexy but rather it is about relinquishing control, taking control; not sexy but always deviantly beautiful.

Your rub my skin and dispel the heat and pain. Then you hit it again, not as hard as the other times but this time you do not stop. Smack. Smack. Smack. A metronome of pain and pleasure. I attempt to raise up my torso in a break from the hitting but find myself curiously drunk. No strength to haul myself up. Confused I shake my head to try and get rid of the cobwebs but nothing happens so I allow myself to flop over you again. I wonder what I look like. I wonder if my arse looks beautiful to you. To me it is imperfect but I know that it's alabaster round form contrasts nicely with your black hand; we both adore this contrast. Although now I suspect that it is pink, blushing from all the attention it is receiving.

You fish something from your pocket, not that I really notice in my blissed out haze. I only notice when I feel a cold metallic object on my butt cheek. Only when you are clear that you have my attention do you roll it around my skin to allow me to work out what you have. The coldness on my soft flesh is relieving until I realise that it is a sharp blade. Freezing rabbit like, I keep so still that you will not cut me but my treacherous cunt floods and the slick arousal shows itself on my thighs breaking through my lipped gate.

Scraping it across my legs you allow the blade down to my pants. Practical to the last I know that this knife will not be for decoration, it will be sharp and serviceable. This is aptly demonstrated but two small flicks of your wrist and my pants are history. My good girl is finally silenced as I am all wanton in your arms and will do anything you wish for. You run the blade back up my legs and I feel a liquid roll down, it might be sweat, it might be blood. The thought both thrills and horrifies me. The point of the blade stops, resting on my puffy pussy lips.

The night is about to get a whole lot darker and is now full of deviant and licentious pleasures.


I wanted to say thank you to @RebelsNotes and everyone at Eroticon for encouraging me to get back into the writing saddle again. Who else is writing this Wicked Wednesday ?