Bitten and Written

The lights tremble just for a moment as if they were in some gothic Victorian room lit by gaslight. She blinks. He's propped up on his elbow; she's lying beneath him. Even almost prostate he still towers abover her.

"Turn your head," he orders.

She turns her neck to the side. She can feel her veins throbbing, the skin stretched tight over them, almost quivering as he draws near. His lips are full, but as he bares his teeth she imagines his canines filed into points, heading towards one of the most vulneralble spots on her body.

He leans in.

"What do you desire, my submissive?" he whispers.

Part of her wants to grab the words before they fall out. How can she think such a thing, it's ridiculous? But a deeper part of her feels the words.

"I want to be your submissive forever," she whispers.

She can feel his breath on her face, on her lips, and then it moves down her neck. A slight arousing touch of his tongue and then his teeth are in her. He has penetrated her yet again, this time perhaps more powerfully than ever before.

As he drains her of lifeblood she can feel her eyelids fluttering, she can feel herself slipping into a deep drowsiness that has a drugged Keats' like quality about it. He asks her how much of a trance she is in. She feels him touch her wrist, feel her pulse, check her eyes.

Yes, this is roleplay, she thinks, but it goes so far beyond putting on a costume; she almost believes it is true.

And then he sits up running his fingernails down his wrist. Usually they look bitten and raw, but tonight his nails seem talon-like, sharp, deadly. She watches as the blood starts to drip down his wrist; slowly at first, but as it gathers momentum he draws her head in and greedily she sucks and sucks.

It tastes rusty, coppery; earthy. As it slips down her throat she suddenly feels on fire.

She's greedy. She wants to suck him dry, to drain him as he has drained her. To take everything as she has given everything to him. But he doesn't let that happen. He'll never let that happen. He pulls away, telling her his blood will make her feel different. She'll be different.

They pull themselves together and eat. As usual, time has moved into another dimension and it's later than they thought.

Over dinner, she's cheeky. He tells her it's his blood. She chooses a medium steak. Nothing unusual with that. She orgasms in front of fellow diners, not caring if they see. But tonight there's something a little different about her.

He watches as she eats a piece of steak. Is that blood ooozing out of the side of her mouth? As she licks her lips he catchs a glance of sharp tipped teeth. Surely, they weren't there before?

And, then, horrified, he watches as she digs a fat chip through rich garlic sauce. Doesn't she realise the horror garlic holds for him and his kind. His stomach knots as she greedily devours mouthful after mouthful of the stuff. Blood mixed with garlic....what kind of half-breed monster has he created?

And, then as she licks the last remenant of garlic sauce off her finger, he wonders how on earth he is going to be able to take her back to the hotel and kiss her?

Sleeping In Submission

She sleeps tied up in her lead. She asks him if she can, and for a moment she thinks he is going to say no. She watches the hesitation as it clouds and passes through his eyes. But eventually he nods.

And she loves it. Totally. Completely. With all her thoughts silently tidied away, she can snuggle against him and feel his flesh against her cheek, the beat of his heart as it seems to produce an equal throb within her. She wishes that he could hold onto the lead all night, so intense is the feeling, but of course it slips from his fingers as he sleeps. For one ridiculous moment she giggles as she imagines tying him up with the lead, but decides the reaction might not be one she'd care to see.

She moans, slowly awakening to the feel of his fingers as he pushes them through her juice sodden thighs and into her waiting wet pussy. With a growl that sends an electric thrill coursing through her, he ties her hands together with the lead and clambers on top of her.

Over the new few weeks there are moments when she feels like throwing off her submission: sometimes it's almost harder than she can bear, but the cold pressure of her lead keeps pulling her back to him.

Teacher's Pet

They are in a class, stuck behind wooden desks, stained by years of ink and engraved with the initials of pupils long gone.

The rows are tiered, with hardly any legroom: he has to sit with his knees wide apart so that he doesn't knock into the woman in front, she keeps sliding around in her seat, unable to get comfortable.

Another sub slides into the seat next to him and smiles. Her Dom makes some joke about being between two subs. Immediately she feels her hackles come up. She has so little of him that what she has she is not prepared to share. And even if she had more, she ponders, she still would not want someone else to dilute the intensity she enjoys so much.

She looks at the sub. Her immediate reaction is to grab her by the throat, bare her teeth and rip the lifeblood out of her. A more sensible and satisfying choice would be to lean over, smile sweetly and tell her to "fuck off".

But she does neither of these things. Instead, she finds herself rising out of her seat and walking over to the teacher at the front of the class. She offers herself as a guinea pig for the lesson, looking over at her Sir as she does so.

The teacher motions for her to kneel, which she does. Surprisingly, this doesn't feel submissive. It's a role she feels comfortable in, in her old capacity as Teacher's Pet. It's a position she adopted much of the way through Grammar school: from the English teacher who introduced her to to Hardy and treated her as a substitute daughter, to the older history teacher with a penchant for Fascism who took her to expensive restaurants and the opera, to the RE teacher who would embarassingly serenade her in the corridor in front of her sniggering friends. Kneeling like this feels like coming home.

But then she feels a collar being placed around her neck. This one is not like her own collar. This is velcro and feels like it's strangling her. It makes her feel itchy; not just around her neck, but all over.

She's looking at her Dom who is staring back at her, impassive. The sub next to him, however, is goggling wide eyed with her mouth open.

And then she can hear the lead. It's not her lead but it sounds similar. Almost at once she feels her body respond. She has been conditioned to this, but the roaring in her ears, the wetness in her shorts, they just don't feel right when she is here and her Dom over there.

Her palms start to sweat and she is annoyed at herself for putting herself in this position. How stupid of her to think that this was a good idea. She wonders what her Dom is thinking of her now. Is he bemused, angry, shocked? His face gives nothing away and she feels herslef being pulled into a vacuum, further and further away from him.

And then she hears it, that familiar sound of a zip being undone. It's the teacher behind her. She has barely registered him up until now, but she realises with a start what he is expecting. She cen feel the sweat on her upper lip now. She doesn't want to do this but these feelings of submission are almost overpowering, she's not sure she can say no.

She feels the teacher getting closer and closer. She's looking straight at her Dom now, pleading with him to say something, to do something but he is silent, motionless. She wonders if he wants to see what she'll do. If he's playing some peverse game of chicken with her. Even if he was, she wouldn't blame him, she has got herself into this mess.

She can sense the teacher's body heat so close now. She can feel his hand as it reaches out for her hair, ready to twist her towards him. She's straining against the leash but that's all she can do. And then she sees it, an almost imperceptible shake of the head: so tiny you would only see it if you were looking for it. He has said no. Overwhelmed with relief, she scampers back to Him, kneeling by his side and laying her head on his knee. He strokes her hair softly and she clings to his calf, shaking, close to tears, until he leans down, pulls her head back to reveal her upturned face, and kisses them away.

Kneeling For Her Dom

He pulls her up on her toes to kiss her. It's hard, passionate, just what she wants, what she craves, and yet something is not right.

As he holds her close to him it seems to become more of a clasp than an embrace. He can feel her knees start to give way and is holding her firm, preventing her from crumbling to the floor as she is so desperate to do.

He pushes her forward to the bed, lifts her dress and takes her roughly from behind. She can feel him pushing her forward to take even more of his length, feel his hands in her hair, pulling it tight, but something is plucking at her concentration. She is trying to enjoy this. No, she is enjoying it. How could she not? And yet she isn't quite 100% there. Part of her is somewhere else.

He turns her around, pushing his cock into her mouth. She takes him as deep as she can, wanting to show her obedience, but also hoping that he will notice the depth of her feelings for him mirrored in the depth she takes him into her throat.

But all the time she is still aware that he hasn't let her kneel.

She doesn't realise it, but the tension is upsetting her slightly. Eventually she sobs into his chest. Once again the only man that can make her feel like this is the only man who can soothe it away.

Later, he tells her that as her Dom he can do whatever he wants with her, and that includes not letting her kneel, if he so wishes.

Interestingly, kneeling is something he started by telling her to do; now she feels that she needs to. Whilst his words thrill her by underlining his explicit and implicit control of her, they also leave her feeling slightly confused. She'd like to be able to second guess what he wants, and yet if he is going to do this, that's not going to be possible.

Finally, when he does let her go where she feels she needs to be, she clambers over and past his erect cock, before tumbling to the floor by the side of the bed. It's only then she starts to realise how deeply her submission has taken root.

Things That Bother Me About My Submission

Okay, time to balance things up. After all, nothing is that perfect is it. After my last posting of what I love about my submission, I cannot but mention the things that leave me less than soaring.

It Makes Me Feel Boring

Okay, so part of my brain is switched off and it is a delicious reprieve. But at the same time, yet another part of my brain switches off, the flirty, cheeky, intellectual hopping part, and the result is that I lose part of me. Sometimes I feel boring, one dimensional, unable to contribute to a conversation as it's just beyond my capabilities at that moment.

There are even occasions when I can't talk, literally.

Most of these extreme times I am so wrapped up in what is happening, and enjoying it, that it's not an issue. But there are moments when I do feel an acutely boring companion.


It Makes Me Vulnerable

It's only recently that I have cottoned on to how vulnerable I actually am, and I don't mean just physically. I willingly open myself up to situations and suggestions without really thinking it through and depend, totally, on the honorable nature of the other person. I have found out that I am very suggestible, which I suppose can be quite fun, especially for Him, and it certainly reinforces the feeling of being "controlled", taking it far, far away from mere role play. But it can be scary and I do worry about possible consequences. It also makes me worry about how other people could exploit it...or me.

It Has Shaken Up My Life

I mentioned that it has provoked a lot of change in my life, but that's not always been good. It has shaken things up past the point of no return in one case. Sometimes that can be very, very sad.

Things I love About My Submission

It's been just over a year now since someone first suggested to me that I might be submissive. Some of her suggestions have sent me on a journey that is both fascinating and life changing, and I thought I would share some of the things I love about finding out that I am submissive.


1. The world stops.

When I am focused on him, on the look in his eyes, the tenor of his voice, the graceful movement of his hands, everything else stops still. There is nothing else. As one of those people who has trouble stilling their mind and freeing it from anxieties, visions of the future and examining everything in every shade and nuance, this is very akin to being in a meditative state.

And believe me, this is a massively welcome relief.

2.I Have Found Me

I am becoming clearer about who I am, almost on a day to day basis. Okay, so I hitting the age where people often have mid-life crises and do mad things anyway, but after 20 years in the same profession I can suddenly see a way out of it. I feel clearer about my relationships with people...friends, family and significant others and have made it clear where I stand with them. This simply wouldn't have been possible for me before and I am convinced there is a link.

3. I am having so much fun!

And believe me, it is fun. From choosing lingerie and clothes that I think he'll like and enjoy, to smarting from the sting of his palm on my backside, to pony-ing for him, it has, for the most part, been pure fun. And fun is not something I have had for quite a while.

4. I have made many friends

I am not very good at keeping secrets. Most of my significant friends know what's going on in my life. Their reaction has ranged from believing this to be a phase, just another one of my whims, although on the more adventurous side, to being convinced that when I meet and fall for the right someone, I won't need "all this kinky stuff".

So, it has been so good to meet people with whom I can talk open and frankly, people who undersgand not only about Ds, but also my own particular situation, which is not unusual in this world so it seems. But whilst we may have been drawn together by an interest in DS, I now have friendships that span writing, films and the workplace.

I am also part of an online and Submissive women's group and have found this hugely rewarding. I rarely post myself, but I have learned so much ...from how to make my own vampire gloves (If I wished!), to how to spot if a DS relationshop is turning abusive.

5. I have discovered Sex

Well, not strictly true, I admit, but in the past I had always felt vaguely unsatisfied by vanilla sex. The orgasms were always too fleeting, disappearing like wafts of smoke as I clutched at them. I always felt as though there was something missing, but I didn't know what. I remember trying to voice this once or twice, but as I wasn't aware of what was absent, I was not able to explain what I needed. I had been aroused by the melodrama of stern and commanding characters from black and white b movies, but no one seemed to understand how deep a nerve they touched. It wasn't until I met someone so naturally dominant (rather then being a Dom), that I even begun to understand what I had been craving.

And finding it has been both the end of one journey, and the start of another.

Greedy

She rarely gets her toys out without him. Somehow it doesn't feel quite right. Or didn't. But he's unleashed something in her that he isn't there to fulfil often enough and she's found out that now she needs it more than ever before.

She's never been into vibrators or stuff like that. Somehow that all seems a bit too mechanical for her. She prefers the imagination. But there are toys she's starting to think of as her toys, not just their toys.

She loves her gag. Just putting it on can make her climax now. Feeling it's tightness wrapped around her head (when she's finally got it on, it's not easy) can send her woozy. She takes a picture of herself wearing it, partly for him, but mainly for herself. It arouses her to see herself like that.

She's thinking she'd like to try another type of gag. Doesn't want to get reliant on the same old one. The very idea makes her hot.

She likes her pony tail. Of course, she would never actually use it in its proper way without him, but she can trail the soft leather of the tail over her naked body and watch a trail of goosebumps form behind, and then in front of its path, anticipating the sensation before its even arrived.

She's even tried the butt plug once or twice. She's not so sure about that one. She can't decide if she actually likes the sensation or not. With him, of course, she knows. She knows she loves the sensation of him thrusting her legs wide apart to push himself in further. She loves the sensation of being pinned underneath, of having no choice but to stay still under his weight. To stay still and submit.

But that's hard to replicate with a sex toy.

She's starting to feel a little greedy. She wants more. She runs the crop along the inside of her thighs and climaxes picturing herself wearing a brand new pair of pony boots.

Even in her submission she's still a materialist.

The Interrogation

She was stubborn. Besides, she knows that he won't hurt her. Even when he hisses in her ear that he had lied, that he will hurt her to win, she trusts him. Even when he drops down on top of her with an open pen knife in each hand, she trusts him.

Even when he slices through the straps of her bra and shreds her knickers to ribbons, she trusts him.

But then it all changes.

It had started innocently enough, if innocent is quite the word. She'd told him of her ultimate fantasy, an interrogation, and he agreed to indulge her. He'd waited downstairs whilst she had hidden a key, wedged it tight behind the key card in the hotel light fitting, and waited.

At first she is full of fight, compartmentalising the key's location somewhere else. She concentrates on sliding out of the handcuffs, on cheeking him back, and rather enjoys it.

But his stillness unnerves her. And his patience. She's not a patient person and he knows that. It was a clever move of his, sitting there on the corner of the bed, patiently watching her as she sits on the stool writhing in the handcuffs.

But she can't keep up the fight forever. As soon as the knife comes out things change. It's not that she's scared, not quite. But she doesn't cheek him any more, all her senses are tuned to staying still, to staying out of the way of that knife.

"Choose a nipple, left or right," he taunts, lightly pricking the very top of her left nipple with the point of the knife. She blocks him out, listening to her own shallow breathing and pretending she is somewhere else. But her body betrays her. He slides two fingers between her thighs and inside her. He doesn't even have to push, she is so slippery.

She thinks she is through this. After all, what can he do now. She knows he's not going to cut her. And then she hears another knife open and now she screams. She hadn't imagined this.

And then he relents. He allows her to dress, lets her lie her head on the pillow. She is so sleepy, so exhausted. It is as if her body is telling her she needs to break to gather her energy for what comes next. She wants to sleep but she's afraid he'll say the game is over, so she rouses herself. He rests his arm on her curled up leg. He's tender, gentlemanly. She comes so close to telling him. After all she wants this tender interrogator. She can feel herself opening up to him. She tells him that yes she has hidden something but she can't tell him where. Please, please, don't hurt her, she can't tell him where it is.

And then there's a gap. Did she go to sleep? Did he hypnotise her? She has no memory. The next thing she knows is that she's has decided it's time to run and tells him the key is on the balcany. Once he's out there she can make a break for it. Clearly, she's forgotten that she's in a hotel room, bedragled, handcuffed and smelling of sex. They'd both get arrested

And then the fear hits. Not the hold the breath fear that he might slip with the knife and hurt her but a blind panic as he propels her towards the balcony. She doesn't like heights, and they're on the fifth floor. There is no way in hell she is going willingly to that balacony. The curtains get damaged as she writhes out of his grasp and he leads her to the bathroom instead, running a sink of water to put her head in.

She hates water on her face but at the same time she's relieved, this is nothing compared to going out on the balcony, Right now, she'd rather drown.

Eventually, he concedes the game. He doesn't want to hurt her, and it's the only way this can go. If he really wants to win.

She's got what she wanted. She played to win. They both did. They almost always do. It's why they get on so well.

She had worried how it might affect them. After all, it's not every day a submissive gets to beat her Dom into submission. She had worried that she might feel a smidgeon less respect for him, or a need to crow over her champion status.

But she doesn't feel any of that. In fact, she feels quite the opposite. She feels bonded to him, bound to him. Part of him looked after her, cared for her, watered and dressed her, even when they had unlocked his dark side.

He cares for her after too, when the heady concoction of adrenaline and endorphins and who knows what else makes her naueous. He brings her back to the hotel, and soothes and strokes her on the bed. Headwise she's happy and at peace, but her body is in meltdown, her stomach bubbling and curdling noisily.

She has won yes, but in her victory she actually wants to concede even more power to him. They talk about it later, about how he is going to be harder, to be stricter with her. She wants him to be able to play with his dark side when he is with her, beacuse ultimately she knows that his care for her is stronger.

But in the back of her mind she thinking of what game they can play next. After all, she still loves winning.

First of The Super Doms?

My favourite show of the moment....swords, very sexy costumes and lots of alpha males fighting!

But, on a more intellectual note, the period of history when kings were the ultimate authority in the land enthralls me. Often called the most successful usurper, Henry VII used his wits, defeating Richard III and uniting the Lancastrians and Yorkists with his marriage to Elizabeth of York. He was a very Machiavellian character (well, a pragmatist if you want to be nice)and for him power was a strategic weapon.

His son, Henry VIII however, whilst benefiting from that power, seemed to become drunk with it. No one was able to challenge him...even the Catholic church got ousted in the end when it refused to grant an annulment of his marriage to Catherine of Aragaon. As for advisors and wives, well, they didn't have a chance.

Is Henry VIII a Domly icon? He had the trappings of a Super Dom....everyone, but everyone, had to be submissive to him. His only challengers were the other kings of Europe. It must have been lonely however, as it would have been hard to have been intimate with other people (apart from sexually) as no one else could be deemed to be on the same level.

And popular opinion is that his power eventually corrupted him.

I do wonder sometimes, about that knife edge between being a submissive and being intimate, intellectually intimate I mean. It's a hard balance to keep. For me I have to be drawn to someone intellectually, to be seduced by their mind as much as their body. And the sort of man I like would definitely feel the same. Sharpening your wits with someone can be just as erotic as anything physical. And yet that's a hard balance to keep if you are being Dom and sub. But I suppose part of the appeal is in trying to keep that balance. If it is all too easy, where's the fun in that?

And hopefully power only corrupts kings.

Switch Bitch

Sometimes she wonders what it would be like to be a Dom, or a Dommme even, considering changing gender would be hard.

It's not really a sexual thing, more an intellectual curiosity. She'd quite like to see what he gets out of it. She'd quite like to see if she could do it.

Sometimes she imagines taking a whip or cane to him, but then remembers that the only time she ever wants to hurt or damage anyone is when she's angry, and that's hardly Domme like behaviour.

Sometimes she imagines binding his wrists, restraining him tightly, but then she wonders what she'd do with him then and has a sneaking suspicion that she'd probably get quite bored, and with him lying there she'd have to do all the work. Hmmmm.

Sometimes she imagines being able to make him orgasm with a look or a word or even a text, but them remembers that's quite a lot of responsibility to take on, and she's not keen on responsibility, not if she can help it.

Sometimes she imagines him on his knees, at her feet, but then she quickly stops as the whole idea makes her feel slightly panicky, as if the world has turned upside down.

Sometimes she thinks that it's rather nice to know her place.

Hannibal / Clarice: Perfect Enemy

The ultimate sexiest Dom...and he speaks Italian so beautifully too!

Fuck the Flowers

"Sometimes I feel like bringing you flowers," he says.

She ponders this for a moment. The words seem so alien, she's not sure if she heard him right.

Flowers. Yeah. Right. Doesn't he understand how hard she tries to harden her heart against this sort of stuff? How hard she tries to keep that door shut, because opening it would bring out more than she could cope with. How often she has to tell herself to pull back because, however much she feels as though she belongs to him; she knows that he doesn't belong to her. How so aware she is that there is one piece of the jigsaw missing.

She doesn't want flowers from him. What she craves are kisses. And not the hide behind a corner or duck behind a pillar type of kisses, but the earth stopping stand in the middle of the street kisses where they stand still and the world spirals around them. She wants to be pushed up against the barrier on Tower Bridge, his tongue thrust hungrily down her throat, whilst the tourists throng by. She wants him to grab her in the middle of Oxford Street and snog her greedily, making all the shoppers tut angrily as they have to side step them. She wants him to bring her to her knees with his lips in front of the world.

Fuck the flowers. She wants kisses.

An Interrogation Roleplay: Anticipation

He's promised her an interrogation. Again. Well, every time they've come close to it in the past something seems to happen. She wonders what fate has been trying to tell her and hopes that this time it's gonna happen.

She's excited. Aroused, yes, but just as excited at the thought of intellectually wrestling with him. She's wondering if she'll be able to hold out. She's wondering what they'll both learn about each other from the experience. She's wondering if it's going to be fun.

She's wondering if it's going to hurt.

Yum Yum: An Evening of Cannibalism and Objectification

The bath is too hot but she's determined to endure it. She needs the heat to ease out the soreness from yesterday. She looks down at her leg: inky teethmarks clearly visible through the silky white froth of bubbles.

A shiver thrills through her as she remembers his teeth baring down on her flesh, a hairbreadth away from ripping it: from mauling her.

He told her that she consumes his thoughts, and yet, she smiles, it's ironic that it is he who is on the edge of consuming her. Literally.

But he doesn't just consume her with his teeth barred, his hot breath curling around her limbs. Every time they meet he devours her subtly, nibbling away at her layers like a colourful fish in the posh pedicures so trendy nowadays.

But there are moments when his teeth catch on her heart and invisible rivulets of blood betray her vulnerability. It's at times like these he calls her feisty. He says he sometimes finds it hard to control himself. She wonders if he knows how hard it is for her to control herself too: moments when she not only wants to throw the crop across the room at him, but to stride over, nostrils flaring with indignation, and smack it hard across his face, so hard that he too will feel the sharp lash of pain he caused her.

She lifts up her leg and follows the line of bite marks to her inner thigh where she can see the yellowing imprint of his mouth. Seeing him there, on her, triggers off a wave of submission so strong she feels herself woozily slipping lower and lower in the bath. She has started to reveal her softest parts to him. And yet there are still softer, more vulnerable parts he has yet to find. She is protecting them still, although she has a feeling he'll find his way in.

She runs her finger across her cunt. She's supposed to shave herself smooth for him but every now and again she disobeys...small kicks for a girl who asked her Dom to use her as a footstool the previous evening, and knelt before him as he rested his feet on her back, whispering to her to keep still as she was almost knocked flat by the intensity of the orgasm ripping through her. But, she shrugs as she puts the razor away unused, a girl's gotta rebel somehow.

Supernova

“Take your bracelet off and hold out your hand.”
She complies, turning her arms so that her veins are skywards. She convinces herself she can almost feel her blood pulsing. He slips the lead around her wrist, and fastens it tight. It’s not as cold as she remembered, but the texture of the metal is a definite contrast to the warm fuzziness she is currently feeling.

They walk. He asks where they are but she can’t reply, even though she knows. They are in cosmetic surgeon territory, she could probably name a few Dr clients she knows if she was compos mentis. If her owner wasn’t leading her around the streets of London by a chain.

She listens for the chink of the links, but the distance murmur of traffic and their footsteps on the slightly wet pavement mask any noise they might be making. It’s a pity. She relishes the noises of her submission...the harsh smack as his hand hits her arse, the hiss of his belt, the cigar depth of his voice...the sound of her lead being slowly unfurled.

Occasionally she feels her knees start to give way and she finds herself leaning against him. He is her only prop, the only thing that is stopping her from crumbling to her knees right there in the middle of the road. There are moments, she thinks wistfully, when he is her only prop, period.

She’s vaguely aware of people around them, only because she feels the pull on the lead as he slows them both down so that strangers can go past. She’s hardly aware of whether they are an old man or a middle aged woman. Everyone else has become a shadow, peripheral to what’s going on. She has to rely on him to be aware of them. He moonlights as her senses, for all hers are busy, tuning into him.

Her pulls her to an abrupt halt and they kiss in the middle of the street, his hand reaching beneath her dress and pulling her knickers roughly to one side. She’s vaguely aware that this is a public place, but she doesn’t care. He could do anything with her, even chain her to the railings as he’s threatening, and she would comply. She would submit. She doesn’t have a choice anymore. For this moment in time, she has chosen to give that up.

Who needs choice when there’s nothing else? At times like this she feels that the universe is collapsing, folding in on itself. And all that’s left is the connection between the two of them. It might be his breath on her face as he moves inside her, or his sonorous voice taking her to places she’s never been before, or the pull of her lead as he takes control of her. Whatever it is at that moment, it burns fiercely, dangerously, perhaps even threatening to implode.

She doesn’t know much about astronomy, but something she does know is that despite all the mathematical theory, analysis and guesswork, no one, for sure, knows what lies on the other side of a black hole.