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Darkness creeps, a living thing, winding its way into my heart, into my head. Wily and artful, madness wails a reply. Together they work to ensnare, bewitch, and befuddle. Trapped in a storm inside my own skull, battered by the constant cacophony of what my reality has become. I am a thing, broken and shattered; a discarded toy left to moulder and rot, alone in my insanity.

Sickness inside my brain, forced upon me by abuse and genetics, leaves me feverish for an escape, for the sweet agony that sets me free. The agony that, eventually, will kill me.

And yet, a single voice, whispers from the darkness, “No.”

Strong hands hold me fast, one anchored in my hair, pulling intensely and my body goes limp against his. We are pressed together, closer than we’ve ever been and I can only wait there in his arms, for whatever may happen next. His grip loosens on my hair and unthinking, not even hearing my own voice I ask him to do it again.

And he does.

The rest of the night is a blur. Whispered words, caresses, clinging tightly to a most unexpected lover. Strong hands sliding down to grab at my ass, jerking me closer, telling me, ordering me to cum. I do. I cannot help myself and I grind my vulva harder against his thigh moaning and whimpering unintelligible words. The ripping sound of fabric doesn’t even enter my brain, but the next day I found his shirt, discarded among the sheets, with the collar torn out.

He is my life, my love, my sometimes Sir.

And I am a broken toy no more, but his Poppet.

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This entry was posted in bipolar disorder, erotica, fiction, mental health, mental illness, PTSD, sex and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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