tagNon-EroticPayne and Purging

Payne and Purging

byShyWetThief©

"I hurt myself today- To see if I still feel- I focus on the pain- The only thing that's real- The needle tears a hole- The old familiar sting- Try to kill it all away- But I remember everything- What have I become?- My sweetest friend- Everyone I know- Goes away in the end- And you could have it all- My empire of dirt- I will bring you down- I will make you hurt"

--Johnny Cash, "Hurt"


On days when I'm tired, truly tired – when fatigue seems to weep from my aching bones and I have neither the will to do anything nor the strength to love anyone – I struggle to find somewhere dark, somewhere quiet, where I can close my eyes and Payne visits me.

My first thoughts are of pain, and it is for these first lingering thoughts that I named this phantom of my mind. I think of the sharp sensations of my own bones cracking, splintering, as something or someone bends them beyond what they can stand. I relish the screaming heat radiating from my hands as they're plunged into a vat of boiling oil, cooking flesh that still lives. I shudder to the singing pain in my arms and legs, sometimes my stomach, as a sharp blade descends over and over, slicing and stabbing until the red of blood is flowing freely. All of these emotions, these visions build one on top of the other, until I am so overwhelmed in them that I wail with desire for some single, sharp, real pain to push me over the edge of what feels like dark orgasmic bliss. I don't think about, I don't desire, anything else, and sometimes I hold myself in this aching place for hours.

Then he comes to me. He is the hero of my mind's eye, tall and strong – sometimes thick and solid as an oak tree, sometimes lean and spry – always older and wiser, and always so strong. He doesn't speak much but his voice is deep and slightly rough, his hair is wild, dark and curly – his eyes, always blue or gray or green, bore into my sole and read every thought. He scoops me up as though I weigh nothing and holds me so close.

Where he carries me depends on my mood. If I'm still angry at this point, still hurt with what and where I am, then we are somewhere confined – a dungeon room, a jail cell, a locked bedroom. I fight with him and he hurts me – hurts me so good. I am manhandled, and smacked at least two or three times, but I never stop fighting until his hand is around my neck. That is his power, that is what I respect at this point, his ability to deprive me of air, of life. With his hand, so much larger and rougher than mine, gripping my neck, just beginning to squeeze, that is when I listen to his words. Despite his anger with me, his voice is calm and even – he orders and I obey, having no will of my own when his hand is in that spot. I lie down somewhere at this point and he loves me. He kisses and licks every spot on me – biting me where ever he likes, leaving dark telling bruises. He likes to mark me – there is a feral part of him that takes pride in it, and as I whimper and writhe under him, his wilder half slowly wakens. His touches, his caresses become rougher, more desperate. The beast inside him becomes so much more demanding, and yet he denies it – keeping it locked and chained, continuing to torture both of us, until the last shred of control is torn from him. Then there is only the beast and I am given no mercy, no love, and no tenderness. Only primal heat and guttural instinct rule, and when he finishes I am left shattered, weeping at how helpless and vulnerable I feel, how badly I ache. I am finally able to cry, I finally have a reason. He senses this change, the beast has left him, and he curls around me, silent but comforting, and his reassuring warmth and steady heartbeat slowly lull my exhausted body to sleep….

If I am not angry, if I am only tired and frightened, overwhelmed with the weight of the world, then he is tender to me, oh so tender. Every inch of my body is touched, soothed, loved. Sometimes we are in warm water and sometimes we are on a huge bed in an intimate chamber, but his touch and caress doesn't stop until I am completely relaxed. He works away all of the stress, all of the worry, all of the responsibility of the day until I am barely more than a child again – my only duty and purpose to love him as much as he loves me. And I weep, I cry with joy at being innocent again, at being whole again, I sob heavily as I realize that it was all just a bad dream and my reality, my true life is here in his arms, serving him, loving him, not the banal responsibility of working, studying, and keeping a house for the man who should be caring for me and his son. There is nothing sexual about this vision, this dream of happiness. It is very sensual, and incredibly loving, but his only thought is to chase away my troubles and drive back my fears, not sex.

Just as I see myself sobbing and howling away the pain of life in these visions that Payne brings me, I find my own face wet. This is when I waken, leaving the half-dream that had brought those precious moments of peace behind, and now I am free to shed my own tears. I can wail and sob and cry – I can howl and lament to my hearts content. I have a reason – Payne has shown me what my soul aches for yet again, and once more reality reminds me of how far away these dreams are. This knowledge, this denial of what my spirit demands, unleashes a flood of emotions and desires that rage through me until I have utterly exhausted myself.

Now, overcome with fatigue in every sense of the word, I can finally let sleep overtake me. Gone is the turmoil of the previous day, gone are the worries of tomorrow – there now, this moment, and the dull ache that still throbs at my core. A steady pulse of lingering pain and despair that gently lulls me to a deep and sound sleep.

I do not fall asleep like this every night. I haven't in a while. But when I do need her, Payne comes and the bitter, wounded corner of my soul releases its bile once more.

…I am finished now. I have exhausted myself yet again, and I think I will sleep more soundly tonight than I have in some time. Thank you for listening to the ranting of a mundane young woman who sometimes drowns in herself and for sharing this moment with her. I hope you, too, will sleep soundly tonight, but, if not, there is always Payne.

Goodnight.

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