I’ll stand in the middle of the room like a petulant child, my fists and jaw clenched, my eyes set on some solid part of the room. I let the words shatter over my head, and feel the shards pierce my flesh, and dissolve into the floor with the pain. And then he yanks me back to the surface. Pulls me in for another dose. Refuses to let me slip away and ignore the filth pouring from his soulless eyes.

I know that he’s not there anymore. Or maybe it’s more that he is there in a much more intense, much more violent way. I know that he means most of the things he says the way he means “I love you” or “I love fucking you” and yet… he means them just the way he says them, too.

And I know there is a limit to what I can withstand. I feel it tearing at the frayed edges of my unnerved mind. And I stand there, with the gun in my hand, pulling the trigger.

A friend of mine, the other day, was talking about this couple she’d met. She said their dynamic was owner/property, but there was something off about it. She said it seemed like he didn’t give a rat’s ass about her, but she loved him fiercely, and hoped that one day, by becoming the perfect slave, she could make him love her. She said he’s an emotional sadist, and he’ll probably never love her, but he loves using the possibility to force her to do what he wants her to.

For a split second, I wondered if she was talking about me. If maybe she hadn’t somehow gotten the wrong impression, entirely, about my relationship with M. And then I brushed it off. Because, really, as much as I love her, if she can’t accept my relationship that’s her problem.

But from there, I started to wonder at my own emotional masochism. And I wondered just how deep I would allow myself to go.

Click.

He calls me pig whore. And he tells me I’m a piece of cunt. My pussy drips, and I watch him closely, bracing myself for his next move.

Click.

He steps on my face, and spits in my face, and shoves me to my knees. He pisses on me, and cums on me, and spits in my mouth. He hangs me up in doorways and beats me until I can no longer form a clear thought in my mind to answer him when he asks if I can take more.

My cunt aches, and I beg him to fuck me. He grins.

Click.

He shoves me on my stomach, rips my clothes off and takes me over and over, while tears stream down my face from the beating he’s just finished giving me. His hands grab welted flesh, and yank my body this way and that, his cock filling whichever hole is closest when he thrusts. When he’s finished he leaves me in a pile on whatever surface he took me on, covered in tears, spit, snot, cum and pussy juice.

“Filthy cum dumpster,” he hisses. “Nothing more than a hole to get my dick off in. Go clean up so you don’t get cum in my dinner.” And then he slaps my bruised ass.

I wash my face, and wipe my nose, and pull back the hammer again.

Click.

And then he laughs at me. Takes the gun from my hand. Pulls me into his arms and kisses my nose. He wakes me up in the morning with kisses, and cuddles, and a smile. And I start to wonder if he’ll ever let me go too far. I don’t think he could stand it.

But he loves to see me slowly unravel. To watch as I start to second guess myself. To be staring into my eyes the moment I acknowledge to myself that my only way out is his mercy. And eventually, he’ll hand back the gun, and we’ll begin again.

Click.