I change constantly. I dye my hair only to have it all cut off. I switch out of my garb only to stand naked and cold in front of my mirrors. I trace my fading scars and watch as, day by day, my apathetic face begins to melt away and I am still left with guilt and hatred to turn to every time I look in the mirror.
I deprive myself of love, and by doing so I deprive the ones who love me. In my twisted fantasies I am Mari Madlyn, I am the whore who is bound and battered by the ones she has deprived. My body takes the lashings and I squirm beneath the sharp blade of my lust, twisting my hips in approval as I am tied to a hard surface, kneeling and with my hands above my head. The blade drags across my breast and a crimson line follows. My normally pale lips redden with excitement as warm blood fills my erogenous zones with taut, pulsating regret for what I've done and failed to do. I yearn for the punishment. I lust for the pain. I cry for the forgiveness and I wish for the freedom to set me loose...but fear for what will happen when the monster is set free.
I toss my head back, completely silent, and I breath deeply. I smell my heavy and sweet wetness as I feel the turmoil trickle between my legs. I am sub but will eventually rise to be a beautiful and passionate dom, spreading my arms much like the fiery phoenix before it shreds way from its old ways and launches itself, face-first, into the new. The much feared, but uncomplainingly desired 'new'. I am strewn across the medical table, my body slinking towards the floor with my legs tucked beneath me and my arms shrouded in white leather. The blade makes three incisions on my breast and I begin to bleed shallowly. Tears well in my eyes at the hands of conflict, confusion, and guilt.
The hand at the end of the blade will not be tender. Can not be tender. Before I can realize this, I am whipped smartly across the torso. I feel my skin burn as my body flushes with pleasure and my blood seeps to the surface in sporadic dots forming into a long dark shadow. My bruises are forming. The animal in me is stirring. I growl and rise eagerly to meet the second whip. My chest is bared with my warrior's heart and the muscles in my broad shoulders twitch. This time I am hit across my cheek. Anger rises and I forget about my regrets and my guilt. My moon is rising.
Blood burns in the corner of my eye and tears are replaced with furrowed, intense stares. I pull against the ropes that have me bound and I feel the table creek. Yes, it will break beneath my power. Passionate anger is building and my heart rate increases. I can smell her sweat, I smell her anticipation, her fear. I will assuage her thirst and, in turn, I will run her dry. In one last subordinate act I am sliced deeply across the forearms and the room echoes with my roars of surprise and pain. Black blood pours out of my veins and splatters across the white leather cuffs, the table and the linoleum floor. I am showered in my own blood and tears. Carnal fire burns in my stomach and the morose subordinacy flashes from my eyes, being replaced by feral determination. I will howl. I will eat. My legs shoot out from under me and, with my teeth, I loosen the rope holding me back. Iron fills my mouth as I dismember the coils of bound fabric around my wrists. They shred and spring back to obey my presence. Fear is over. Pain is over. Regret is over.
Lust is here.