I would never cheat....

...except last night. In my dreams. This was a new one for me, and as it's 3:17 in the fucking a.m., I'd appreciate if you cut me some slack for grammar or typos, because I want to nail this bastard down.

I was a slut. Oh, stop laughing. I mean, I was out there, slutting myself around with an old beau. And when I came home—with flushed cheeks and wet panties—my man was waiting. Not a word. Not a threat. He simply led me to the bedroom and put me over his lap. We started in a way that was painfully familiar, first his hand on my ass, my denim skirt shoved to my hips, pastel pink panties down to my ankles, then a Ping-Pong paddle wreaking havoc on my bare skin.

My struggles were useless. He had both of my wrists captured in one of his big hands, and he paddled the shit out of me before pushing me to the floor. Staring down at me as if I were trash.

Before I could recover, before I could figure out which way was up, he ripped my clothes off and threw me down on the bed, bound me in place. Arms over my head, legs spread, face up. Who was the Dom? I'm trying to find him in my mind, in my files, in my repertoire. Someone I could never quite see. In a house I've never lived in. Beige carpet. Big ugly California King.

He used a crop methodically to decorate my inner thighs, and every so often, he would slap the tip of the weapon against my pussy.

There was silence except my noises for nearly the whole exchange, until, "You like this touched, don't you, slut?" And then the slap again of the tip against me again. Fire and whiskey. Fat purple flames.

Who was I out with? Usually, I don't know the stars of my dirty dreams. But this time, I'd been out in the town where I grew up. With my first serious boyfriend. I wasn't 16. I was me. Now. Doing what I did then. And for that part of the dream—in flashes, I see the scenes—I was in heaven. But in the bed, with the shame and the guilt of having cheated, of having let down my man, I was lost.

I would never cheat. Trust me.
But in my dreams, I did.

He worked his painful magic slowly. Fiercely. And I squirmed and thrashed, but couldn't get free. Didn't want to get free. But couldn't stop myself from testing those boundaries. When he was done with my thighs, he dropped the crop and used his hand on my cunt. Four fingers. Spanking me there, until I was coming. Fearful and guilty and shamed, hips twitching, heart racing.

I saw my future—saw the pain I'd have to go through in order to gain back his trust. And some sick and twisted part inside of me was happy for that pain.

That's what I've woken up to today.

3:27 now in the a.m. Coffee brewing. Breath catching in my chest. Nothing to say in my defense.

XXX,
Alison