Letter to You

The first night I met you I wanted you. I've always said I fall in lust with an individual's mannerisms, their demeanour... I could tell you were depraved and the sight of you made me tingle. Surrounded by people in PVC and fetish wear it's a wonder you noticed me at all, I'm not one to usually stand out. I was the youngest there, maybe that was it?

I made frequent trips to the bar for everyone, hoping to get your attention by showing what a good girl I was. Pathetic me offering to get everyone drinks and realising I'd forgotten what they wanted when I caught sight of you. I hate making mistakes. I stood there fumbling with cocktail orders and dropping a pack of matches, and then there was a flame next to my face as I let you light my cigarette.

"You shouldn't smoke those, they're bad for you" was all you said. I thanked you and accepted your invitation back to your table, forgetting the drinks. It didn't occur to me until later that week when I was lying next to you that it was odd you should have a cigarette lighter when you don't smoke.

It's unfair you never even asked me what sexuality I was, considering we met as a lesbian club. I suppose it didn't matter because I'd do anything for you, still it would have been nice to be able to tell myself you cared.

The day I left you said "You're a stupid girl" and I told you I'd known that from the day I fell in love with you.

When you first touched me it was in the shower. We'd been eating dinner and you decided you wanted to surprise *Him*. Do you remember what you said? You asked me if I wanted to put on a show for Master, but you knew already that I wouldn't say no.

I was conscious of my body but you didn't even look at it as you took off my skirt and top, then underwear and bra. "Get in" was your comment as you went to get a razor and the tone of your voice made me want to climb into your bed and touch myself, but I stepped into the hot water you'd turned on. It was too hot and I added some cold whilst waiting, staring at my reflection in the mirror; Long black hair, green eyes with too much mascara, a curvy body that I hated, and the scars on my thighs and arms.

You came back and got in the shower with me.

"Why is it cold? Did you touch the tap?"

I nodded and you pushed me up against the wall and twisted a hand around my hair pulling my head back.

"Did I say you could touch the tap girl?"

I shook my head and looked down at your breasts, the nipples had tiny droplets of water dripping from them.

I never thought I'd be one to like pain, I'd always loved the idea, but when it came to it anything more than slight discomfort made me feel sick. It must have been the self-inducted scars on me that made you assume I was a masochist, either way I've never told you just how scared I was when I saw that cane. My body felt strange, it took a few seconds to realise I was aroused and I breathed in shakily.

With my arms bent behind my back, and your nails digging into my wrist I didn't try to move, I wanted to feel you, even if it was a long thin piece of wood you would hold, I wanted that connection.

Knowing myself as I do now, (allot of it being what you taught me about myself) I now know that the first stroke and the last are always the best for me, They hurt the most and my skin feels like its on fire, but if I don't try to block out the pain, and allow it to flow through me, it feels like a cool shiver, electric and more arousing than anything else.

I can't remember when you stopped but your hands were so cool on me, and made my flesh feel calm. You let my curl up on the bed with you; fully clothed, and rest my naked body against you. If I'd known then that you liked to see me cry I would have sobbed openly...

Your fingers to this day have yet to be competed with. Sometimes in the office when you'd take me into the boardroom because we thought it sounded like fun. It was more the idea that got to you, your husbands board room, and young girl on the table ready to do whatever you wished. But for me it was those fingers, your hands, pulling, tearing at my clothes, my hair. Then, inside me, feeling if I was wet, asking me whose dirty little slut I was, who I belonged to. And those two fingers, then three, pushing so deep into me, against the riveted flesh inside.

You played nurse and patient with me, and injected me with something that turned me to putty in your hands. But you never needed to, I would have done anything for you, with just one look you could make or break my day. Every time you tested me I didn't let you down did I? I stayed in lose bondage for over 9 hours knowing I could have moved my arms that were so painfully fallen asleep, but I didn't- I stayed still and felt myself somewhere else, and woke up to the sound of your voice.

I lost myself so many times to you, through pleasures of the body, pain of the body. Sweaty hair and hot red marks later the only indication of what had happened. You knew how to get to me, still do. Sometimes on the phone when you use that tone I feel like I'm at your feet again, bound and without a choice. This time I have the choice and I never let myself give in again, I can't see you. Can't go back there. Not with him the one you love more.

And it's the choice I hate most of all.