Written for the soc.sexuality.spanking 2010 short story collection.
500 words exactly. Make of it what you will...
Heartsease and Bitter Pain
Violets. It was mainly the violets.
It was 'my' place when I was young: darting across fields speckled with flower faces, skipping and dancing to the isolated wood where the violets spilled down hedge banks and ringed each sunny clearing. Ancient, timeless; my wood between the worlds where nothing intruded on the new places and adventures distilled out of the sweet scents around as I lay in the dappled sunlight singing forth my imagined lives and love, in idleness and dreaming.
I was almost there again as the soft insistent voice, rhythmic as a slowly beating heart murmured "a quiet place...somewhere you feel safe......see it, be there." But under my back was not crushed flowers but the sterility of a consulting couch: the distant sounds not the soughing of breezes in the tree canopy but the growl of traffic on wet streets. And then it was over: my world imploded to the green of soothingly painted walls and regimented pot plants; the wood a thin veneer over crushed industrial pulp.
Same time next week? And the week after, and after: a grey and soulless repetition of the nothingness into which I was melting.
Outside the air was gritty, foul with the taste of traffic fumes. Grey pavements, grey concrete buildings and grey huddled people among whom I moved dully. My remembering my former Eden left me aching, for I had not visited into it. I'd seen myself standing at the outside, not fitted to venture into that place of dreams and possibilites when I could not even grasp hold of the real now. Even the window displays I was passing, brash with decoration, only trumpeted their hollow fakery all the louder to me. It was all as nothing.
Back at our flat he'd be waiting. Anxious, concerned, but puzzled and helpless; his quiet kindness unable to penetrate the fog which had drifted between us. In me, dull incomprehension was giving way to rising panic as I feared myself locked out of who I once was even as who I might yet be was dissolving into nothingness.
I staggered, burst, through the door, haggard with the apprehension of a last chance to turn away from the void. I pushed him, not away but backward, with me, clawing my clothes off and throwing myself down on him, screaming at him to act, make me feel, let me know I was real, sensate, alive. Even then I had to lunge for his wrist and haul his hand to my naked body writhing in a despair of need.
In a haze of pain but refusing to stop, dragging his hand back to the task again and again I clawed, dragged and fought my way out the nothingness, heart racing, skin singing and mounted him in a wave of purest animal instinct.
When it was over the colours in the disordered room looked brighter. It would be nice to take a trip soon. To the country.
I tasted the scent of violets in the air.
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