What to write about


I don’t know what to write about this week, I say. It’s Sunday, and nothing’s coming, and I’ll have nothing to post.

Write about last night, he says. Write about that thick cotton rope. Write about how it felt. How did it feel?

Lovely, I say.

A bit thuddy?

A bit thuddy. We like thuddy.

There you go, he says. You can write about that.

I can take a photo of it, add that, I say.

Make sure you show it alongside your wrist, you’ve got skinny wrists, he says.

I can do that.


I saw it in the attic yesterday morning, in amongst the overflowing cardboard boxes, Ikea bags full of unworn clothes, memorabilia, dust bunnies. I looked at it, coiled white on the wooden floor, lurking. I don’t know why it’s here, or what it’s for, but it doesn’t matter. In so few months, so many everyday things have been transformed, overlaid with new and hitherto unconsidered uses: chains, ropes, chopping boards, wooden spoons, carpet beaters…

He saw it later that evening. Ooh, look, he said. Fat flexible cotton rope.

I know, I said. I thought of you when I saw that.

Did you now? he laughs.

Five minutes later I am lying on my front on the bed, my knickers pulled down, my already bruised arse on show. He’s not going to tie me with it- it’s too thick. I am laughing, waiting to find out what a piece of rope that size feels like when used as an instrument of impact. The answer is heavy. Soft, but heavy, landing with a quiet thump. It doesn’t sting, not like thinner rope might. It’s more diffuse, kinder somehow, even landing on previous bruises. It’s divine.

He turns me round through 90 degrees, stands at the end of the bed with his trousers pulled down, and tells me to suck his cock. I comply, gasping and snuffling as he carries on hitting me with the fat coils. He catches that sorest spot, the crease where buttock meets thigh, and I let out a muffled, wounded cry. Even this relatively kind tool can be used to cause the kind of pain I similtaneously wish to stop and never want to have to live without.

He fucks me, this unaccustomed bed rattling beneath us as he moves harder and faster. My arse and thighs are glowing joyously as he rolls me onto my side and I move my hips against him, riding every second of pleasure out of him even after he has come. When he slips out of me I turn to face him, and we grin at each other for seconds, minutes.

I like you, he says.

I like you too, I say.

‘Like’ means ‘love’ in our shared vocabulary. We use the two interchangably.


This evening an online friend and I were talking about a shared fantasy, what it’s like when you tell a Dom a fantasy and, from that point on, you know that it may very well actually happen in the future. She has told her Daddy that she wants to be taken into the woods and used by him and another sadist, used and hurt and mistreated. In her fantasy she will have nettles stuffed into her underwear, which she’ll probably hate in real life, she laments.

I tell the Adorable Sadist about this conversation. She says she’ll probably hate that part, I say. He has talked about doing the same to me, and I’m not sure I’ll hate it. I can’t possibly know.

When I was weeding the other day I stung my finger on a nettle, I say. But it’s different, isn’t it? My finger’s not an erogenous zone.

And anyway, it’s more than that, he says. If I did that to you and then took you out in public, you’d have to stay composed, and that would be a different thing altogether. If I put nettles in your knickers, and bra, and then you had to sit and talk to your family, keep it together…

I whimper down the phone. I imagine him pulling my knicker elastic out in front of me and his gloved hand pushing the leafy mass between my legs. That same pain I felt on my finger, my skin reacting to those tiny bristles filled with toxin, only the heat and the stinging is on my labia and my clit, leaving them swollen and red and angry. I can’t imagine how I wouldn’t hate and love that in equal measure.

Whereas, in a pub or something… the nettles go all pulpy after a while, and little bits fall out, he says. With your family, I’d suggest you wear jeans, whereas in a pub, little bits of nettle could fall out and it wouldn’t matter so much. You’d feel like you were on the spot. People might notice, little green bits falling out from under your skirt… If we were at a kink event I’d ask you to bend over and pick the little bits up in front of everyone. It all depends.

We talk a little bit more, about things he’d like me to do, things he’d like to do to me. We talk about limits, things I’m not into, things I could be convinced to try if I felt safe enough. He says one thing I’m not ready to write about yet, may never be, but which makes my cunt pulse and flare like phosphorous hitting water.

There are things you would never have known you’d want to do, but will do because they turn me on and you want to please me, he says. I nod, my mouth slightly open. You might hate them. But you might find that they turn you on massively, and you’d never have known.


I like you, he says.

I like you too. I say. I like it when you do things to me that hurt.

The reception’s not great; he couldn’t hear. He asks me to say it again.

I say it again, louder, enunciating every word. Like. Love. 


I send a message to my online friend.

‘The nettles thing is definitely happening, probably soon. I’ll report back’.






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