My name is Cheri a thirty year old small and petite bi-sexual woman, with blue eyes and long red hair. Typing out my thoughts it is late at night I can't sleep haunted by my dreams again hearing my screams so as mind wanders dancing from thought to thought I type.
How did I become a prisoner to someone else's fears, jealousy, and abuse?
Gradually over time is the simple answer, it became normal to be berated, beaten, to feel worthless, followed by tenderness and caring, I even came to like, to crave, maybe even enjoy the pain. How a successful, intelligent, strong, beautiful woman like myself became a meek, scared, abused woman may not be the important question to ask. Mistaking abuse for love and tenderness, losing my own identity, who I thought I was, the hardest things to except, "is being a victim", I don't think of myself as a victim. I think of myself as a bright articulate highly educated, second in my law school graduating class, independent young woman.
I stand up/fight for the victims so how or why did I become a victim of domestic violence and stay in the situation for two years? That question troubles me to this day and that is part of the journey that led me to write on Literotica. That's not even the interesting part of the story though, the real story begins when I crawled up, fond strength, survived, that's when I found out who really loved me and who just loved the idea they had of me.
Surviving, finding comfort in others who've been through similar experiences, learning to trust again, growing as a person. I hoped when I started writing here that my stories would convey my struggle, my rebirth, my confusion with my desires and my emotions as I explored them down dark paths. If even just one woman would read my stories and know she's not alone in their struggles, find comfort in someone who feels like them, that would define success to me, I found pleasure exploring my inner thoughts, feelings, fantasies, examining who I really am so it is ok if you don't understand me by now, the rawness, un-edited me, you properly never will and that's alright there are still parts of me I don't understand.
I'm not here to be perfect, I'm not an author, what I write, the way I write it, I'm giving you my soul, spilling out my desires, my fantasies, my experiences before you in a rushed rambling tumbling out free flow style. Read don't read, like don't like, I can't change who I am and if that threatens your idea of yourself that is your problem. I'm secure and happy with the woman I've become, I have nothing but love to share, giving pieces of me to everything I choose to do or whoever I choose to do.
She asked if I was upset, her simple words could never cause me pain, after all the shit I've been through, I've felt the pain, real pain of abuse. Sometimes I feel better when I'm drinking wine, the wounds just don't seem to cut as deep, sad, lonely, no because when I lay down in my king size bed by myself I just masturbate. My beautiful body in the mirror writhing in pleasure, my cute toes curling, bouncing, bucking, making sweet love to myself.
