Everything they could think of to say, they said, and everything they said, they did. Plus much more. Whatever occurred to them. No rules. No limits. Their sex got rougher. Spanking. Biting. Scratching. Choking. Hair pulling. Sometimes it hurt, but the sensation did not really register as pain. They created a world together where pain was transmuted into something else. Something approaching comfort. It was like alchemy.
His commands got harsher. He called her a slut, a whore. He called her his slut, his whore. He demanded she do as he said. He took her. He used her.
They repurposed laundry line ropes. They found interesting new uses for duct tape. They bought a collar and a leash. They decided on a safe word.
She had never been with a man who talked like that, or fucked like that. She had never tried bondage that went beyond mere playful experimentation. She had never been excited by that kind of thing before. She had never given herself so fully to a man before.
Control. She had never lent total control to someone else.
Her therapist had called it transgressive behavior. She said it was a defense mechanism, a coping technique, that she was crossing traditional sexual boundaries to sublimate the thing that had bifurcated her life into a before and an after.
The look on her therapist’s face gave away her veiled distaste. The therapist didn’t understand how life-affirming it was. How beautiful it felt. How complete it left her.
– from Holes, by J G Cain