Fish Out of Water

*So I finally got around to re-reading both chapters of this series and realised that writing a continuation one year after the first part makes for a bit of mess. So here is my story in its entirety, edited, rewritten in part and (fingers crossed)hopefully better.

Thanks in abundance to the awesome SoCalCynic for his wise words and patience and for teaching me the word Stygian

Cate x*

*

Once upon a time the only thing dark about me was my wardrobe. I was young, 21, and life was all rainbows, kittens and dreams of a Happily Ever After. I wore a revolving wardrobe of black, not because it was slimming but because everything matched. I admit, I was lazy back then. Perhaps lazy is the wrong word, maybe unprepared would be a better choice. My underwear never matched because I'd never suspected that anyone would want to see it or that it was even an option. I chatted to anyone, friendliness costs nothing, but was unaware that my openness was construed by most as flirtation. I got myself into more "situations" than you could imagine yet always managed to extricate myself with my dignity and my hymen intact. Blinkered? Naive? Innocent? Insert your adjective of choice here.

Like most young women, I thought about falling in love, of marriage and babies and the 2.4 white picketed house we would all live in. And 4 minutes later I would be watching an episode of Will and Grace and thinking I'd prefer to be like Karen, living a life of Vodka soaked nonchalance. Four minutes later, I'd want to be Grace, all loose curls and boho wardrobe. Flighty? Ambitionless? Now, at 28 I have Grace's wardrobe and Karen's love of Vodka and putdowns, my teenage dreams of a Happily Ever After firmly locked away in a box marked "Do Not Open". Like Alice through the Looking Glass, I have seen my future and it doesn't end in Suburbia. Nowhere near. It does however feature me brandishing a sign marked "Eat Me".

I'd never been in love before. Never pinned posters to my bedroom walls that I kissed with blind passion, never snogged anyone behind the bike sheds. Not because I didn't have the option because I most certainly did thank you very much, but because I was never asked by anyone that mattered. School faded into University and still no-one lit my fuse, not even the Amazonian blonde goddess who assaulted my senses one alcohol fuelled night when I seriously considered my sexuality. No-one made me want to wear a bra and matching panties. Then one day, jaded at 21, I met him. Eyes locked across a crowded staff canteen and my M&S boy shorts were no match for the flood of wetness released upon them. I had no name, no details at all about the object of my amorous intention. He could have been gayer than Jack and it wouldn't have mattered. Finally awake to the powers of attraction I just stood there in my squelching underpants and decided that I would make him mine. Oh the naivety of youth.

Of course we met. There would be no story if we hadn't. We became friends, colleagues and then it segued into something more. Not quite lovers but I always hoped. Max was a little bit older than me, his outlook broader and his interests more varied than mine. He fascinated me with his confidence and his focus and I was carried along with it like a wide eyed ingénue. He loved another, a gamine pixie of a girl who I hated with every fibre of my being and the very mention of her name caused bile to crawl up my larynx yet I just nodded sympathetically and hugged him in empathy, less concerned for his pain and more intent on memorising the scent of his skin. I'd established early on that I would never hold his heart, no matter how hard I tried to become what he needed and it set me on the path I'm on today. Perhaps if Max had loved me for who I was I wouldn't be as jaded as I am, perhaps his love would have been my salvation. Of perhaps I would have evolved into me regardless and destroyed the best man I have ever known eventually anyway.

As with most things in life, we grew apart. For a few years we were inseparable, my knowledge of his body was greater than my own. Under his tutelage I learned how to bring a man pleasure and how to take my own. I still to this day remember how it felt as he thrust his cock deep inside of me for the first time, how full of him I felt, how complete. His smile would light me up for days and an hour in his company was my equivalent of a day at Disneyland. But people, as life, move on. We changed, rowed when once we'd kissed.He moved away and despite the odd email, we were separate entities again. I never regretted my time with Max, he made me better, life with him was Technicolour and showed me just how great I could be. Thank god for him as in the years since I have needed that reminder more than once.

After Max, there was Alex, who adored what I could do to him but ultimately wanted a gamine pixie of his own, then Simon, who loved the idea of me more than the real me but forgot that major fact when he was balls deep. Then there was Amanda, Yuri and James. James was the deal breaker. With each relationship I blossomed and then retreated, blossomed then retreated, growing each time in tiny increments and moving farther from the guileless innocent Max had known. James threw me over his shoulder and carried me away from everything I had ever known and held dear. With James the line between pleasure and pain was a hairs breadth and he found it easier to shown affection with a slap than a kiss. For a while I enjoyed his dominance but soon tired of the bruises until the day came when the tables turned and I hit him back. To my shock, my strong Alpha male had a taste for submission and even more shockingly it appeared that I was a natural Dominant. We experienced so much together physically but in my heart I still yearned for my Max, for the man who had lovingly kissed me and told me we would end up together.

Soon enough James lost his appeal. No woman wants a man who acquiesces at the drop of a hat no matter how appealing she thinks the idea is. I found I wanted an equal, someone able to withstand my strength and dole out his in equal measure. No-one was capable of the task. Just as Max had awakened my libido, James had woken the animal in me and I was now hungry for more. By day I was a suited corporate drone, buzzing about the hive anonymously but by night... by night I frequented the kind of establishments even the hardest of men would avoid, seeking someone to sate the beast inside. Looking back I can't quite believe I did it, that I put myself in such danger but at the time I was just an addict, looking for someone to give me the sexual high I needed. I found that orgasm couldn't be reached without either receiving or inflicting pain and each time the bar was raised. Where once a hand slap would suffice, I soon craved the smack of a bamboo paddle on my flesh. When that became as tame as the tap of a finger I needed the crack of a belt or the myriad of welts brought by a Cat.

My body became numb to these experiences and nothing sated me for long. At 26 I was no stranger to pain and took pride in having broken every taboo known to man but in my heart I knew that there had to be more. It was extremely satisfying for a fleeting moment but then the pain would fade and I needed something more.

At this point I wondered if I was broken. Was my need for pain a sign that I was damaged or somehow punishing myself for who knows what? Each liaison was more extreme than the next and there was almost nothing I wouldn't try. I never went back to a partner, refusing to walk down a road previously travelled no matter how much they begged. In the world I inhabited I became infamous for my sexual appetites and people begged to feel the weight of my hand upon them. Sometimes I accepted their offers, robotically giving them what they wanted yet never feeling anything in return. I knew something was missing but had no idea what it was.

And then I met Julian. I could wax profusely about his looks, his charms but it would mean nothing. For all of his physical charms, and there were many, Jules and I never fucked. I was far too angry and he was far too gay. What Jules saw in me was this very anger, this rage that drove me to higher heights. As a sought after Dom in his own right, he took the time to talk to me, to mentor me and showed me that there was more out there than even I knew. For two years we fucked our way through London and drew people from far flung regions into our world, folks desperate for the kind of absolution only we could give. Sure, we tag teamed but never once did we indulge in each other. I loved him for that. He never tried to break me, or mould me, or use me to his advantage. With his connections I entered a world the likes of which I could never imagine, a world where I was a goddess. A Domina par excellence. Men paid thousands of pounds an hour to feel the thwack of my hand and far darker pleasures. I sodomised more high powered men than you have had hot dinners, I had rooms at the most famous 5 star hotels across the globe and in each I installed a St Andrews Cross with which I tied my prey before I brought them to a pulsating heap at my feet. The pleasure was still fleeting but the cold hard cash made it easier to swallow. I didn't have to fuck anyone I didn't want to and I was free to dole out as much aggression as I saw fit. Arab princes, Hollywood royalty, Greek magnates, all prone at my leather booted feet. Nothing was out of bounds for us, and nothing phased me. Not until Jules told me I needed a break.

"It's too much Kate. You've been at this for too long now. You need a break. Have a holiday. Get away from it all."

I stared at Jules like he was an alien but even I knew he was probably right. At 28 I had seen far more of the darkness of humanity than was normal and I knew he was right in his assessment. But where to go? As a Domina, I was known the world over, surely nowhere was safe.

"Just disappear for a while Kate. Get your head together. Work out what it is you need. This life isn't healthy for this length of time. Please. If not for you, then for me."

...

Jules had been my salvation so I owed him this much. It was at his request that I found myself in Cornwall. Too scared to travel too far away from my surrogate family, I fled 250 miles to the coat of Cornwall, driven by nothing more than my desire for something normal. A distant memory of my cousin living there and offering her spare room. As the train sped through the heart of England, every layer of darkness and shame peeled away from me and I emerged lighter. I had no idea what I would do during my enforced absence from London but I looked forward to finding a different version of myself, one where it wasn't obligatory to seek pain and hurt and darkness. As the train pulled into Looe Station I took a deep breath, perhaps the first I'd taken in years.

Nothing about this place scared me and that was calming. Taking my phone from my pocket I called my cousin, ignoring the hundreds of client names and searching for one of the few numbers that counted. As she answered I exhaled freely and asked if she had room for one more. Finally I was free.

As with all families, no matter how much time passes between visits, they still accept you. Sarah and I had been close in childhood yet drifted as we got older. Thanks to the marvels of social media we had reconnected in recent years and I knew all about her divorces and life as a Nurse. I knew just how much she yearned for a soul-mate yet was scared to open herself up again after three divorces by the age of 30. She, naturally, knew little of me. I told her I was burnt out at work, which wasn't exactly a lie, and needed some sea air to regain my equilibrium. Sarah didn't question my reasons and welcomed me with open arms, her light clean flat the complete opposite of the dark apartment I called home.

Every surface was littered with photographs and knick knacks, the walls whitewashed and adorned with seascapes that I suspected she had painted herself. Even her dog, a French bulldog named Elvis was white. I wanted to laugh as I set my bag on the floor and took it all in, here was I, the arch princess of darkness, in the purest cleanest surroundings you could imagine. For a second I was scared to sit down, afraid my taint would somehow ruin her furnishings but I shook that off immediately. To show my horror would alert Sarah to my situation and although I knew she would never guess my real life, I didn't want her concerns to ruin our time together. As she handed me a mug of tea and settled excitedly onto the sofa beside me, telling me all of the fun things we would do together I felt myself relax. I could do this. I could reside in a nice normal environment and be just like her. I was nothing if not tough, I had once been suspended on a St Andrews for 6 hours as a parade of men took me for their own pleasure so a fortnight in a coastal town should be a breeze.

Turns out that 48 hours in a remote Seaside town is far more torture than 20 lashes from a birch cane. We went for walks, ate seafood minutes after it had been plucked from the water and for one horrifying hour rowed around the harbour. I so wanted to be a part of Sarah's world and believe me I did try but all of the fresh air and healthy living was making me crazy. We also talked a lot which made me less uncomfortable. Sarah told me about her marriages and the effect they had on her. First divorced at 22, they had been far too young and unprepared for it all. Her second husband had decided that whilst he loved her, he loved his boyfriend Pedro more so her second divorce at 25 was less of a shock. Finally she met and married Andrew when she was 27.

Slightly older, Andrew was in the Army and seemed to tick all of her boxes. Life seemed to be back on track. Then he was sent to Afghanistan for a year and came back a shell of himself. PTSD claimed both him and their marriage and at 30 she was strictly off men forever. I sympathised and told her how amazing she was to have given all she had. She cried and told me the pain of failure wiped out the euphoria. We held each other as the tears flowed and vowed to be there for each other more in the future. And then she broke the spell, she asked me about my love life. Was I seeing someone? Had I ever been in love? I bluffed my way through it, guilt rippling over my flesh as I spouted lie after lie to hide the truth of my existence. The only truth I spoke was of Max, how I had loved him more than life and how he had been my first, showing what it was to be loved and cherished. She had smiled knowingly and asked if we were still in touch but I just shook my head. Too much time had passed I told her, we would be two very different people now. She just smiled and told me I was lucky to have known him. I grinned and told her she needed to get back out there and get laid. She laughed and opened another bottle of wine which thankfully ended the conversation, thank god.

Three days after I arrived she went back to work and I brooded on her sofa. Elvis was a fantastic listener but I was wary of voicing my troubles to his innocent canine ears. I missed my life, my flat, my friends. I missed being in control, of being adored. I wanted to make up my face into my mask of control and wear leather and latex and 6 inch heels. I knew that I was being selfish, that if I couldn't last 3 days without cracking a whip that there was something very wrong with me but it was all I knew. It was only Sarah's face as we'd hugged that kept me there, her genuine need for companionship and understanding that stopped me jumping on the first train back to London. I'd texted Jules more than once and his response had been the same, "Take your time, get some rest and think about what you really want out of life." I hated him for not begging me to come back but I knew his intentions were pure.

By day four, I was insane. Poor Elvis had taken to hiding to avoid my constant attempts to drag him out for walks and daytime television was a cesspool of tripe that I was glad I'd avoided until now. I'd flicked through Sarah's magazines multiple times and was now in her bedroom looking for something more substantial to read. Philippa Gregory held no appeal and the only Stephen King book she owned I had read. Reaching to the second shelf I took down a copy of The Great Gatsby and noticed that this shelf was two books deep. Nestled behind F Scott Fitzgerald's epic novel of love, loss and decadence was a copy of "50 Shades of Grey". Curious I took it from its hiding place and read a couple of pages. 3 hours later I was back at her bookshelf searching for the next one and unsurprisingly I found it. By day five of my stay I was up to speed on the Christian Grey phenomena and frankly didn't understand the appeal. To call it BDSM was an affront to the lifestyle and to call them books was an insult to anyone who had ever put pen to paper. But my interest was piqued. Behind her carefully assembled shelf of classics, Sarah had a veritable treasure trove of erotica. 'Delta of Venus' by Anais Nin, 'The Story of O' by Pauline Réage, 'Tropic of Cancer' by Henry Miller. I barked out a laugh as I unearthed 'The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty' by A. N. Roquelaure as I was more than au fait with the themes of submission and dominance. To think my sweet cousin would own a book about pony play and keep it hidden behind the complete works of William Shakespeare!

Eager for stimulus I flicked through each novel, dwelling on the dirty bits and my days passed in a blur of erotica and masturbation. Each afternoon I carefully replaced each book so Sarah would never know I'd discovered her secret and we'd spend each evening talking about rubbish as I desperately tried to find a way to broach the subject of my reality and her fantasy life. I'd realised just how desperately I wanted her to know about the real me as I read each sex soaked passage and I just knew she would be as understanding about this as she was about everything else. But I didn't. Our bond was still too fragile to load with the truck load of baggage I carried.

After a week of pornography I was beyond the point of sanity. Naturally I had packed a selection of my favourite sex toys but even they were now missing the mark. For me, it was never about the actual orgasm. My pleasure came from the submission of others. I needed to get back to my own world, I needed to hear the cries and pleading of others to find my own centre. To up and leave Sarah now would look odd and despite my discomfort at my surroundings I genuinely loved her company. I just needed something to take the edge off.

Suddenly it came to me. Amazed I had not thought of it before I switched on her laptop and started searching online. Swingers parties, sex clubs, anything in the area that would fuel my fire. My hopes were low but after 20 minutes I found a listing that caught my eye. Less than 10 miles away in Liskeard I found a club that caught my eye. An over 18 club named Switch, in London it would have made my skin crawl with its neon lit name but here it seemed less in your face. No specific dress code but its £25 cover charge made me think I had hit the motherlode. By luck, it was open tonight so within minutes I was in the shower preparing myself for an evening of debauchery. It didn't take long. Back home I have an amazing Russian woman who waxes me to within an inch of my life, leaving nothing by the tiniest strip of red pubic hair to guide my victims to their destination. I usually wear a black wig when I work and old habits die hard, so a quick hair wash and I was ready to apply my make-up and my Mia Wallace bob. I pulled on a latex pencil skirt and a matching shouldered top whose corset bodice did amazing things to my body and all that was left to do was leave Sarah a note. Old friends in the area I said, don't wait up. Clutching my 6 inch heels in my hand I entered the cab I'd called and let my mind wander as we travelled the 20 minutes to my temporary salvation.