Dark Garden

I’m back at his doorstep. This place I’ve sworn I’ll never return to. Many times.

I feel dirty, ugly, as I ring the bell, and uglier still when he answers the door wearing nothing but a pair of baggy trousers. His feet are bare, his hair disheveled, he hasn’t shaved in a while. He’s not handsome, or well built, or even particularly well hung. Worst of all, he has a laugh that makes me cringe. I do my very best to never make him laugh.

“Hey, you,” he says, and gives me a grin I know doesn’t represent anything terribly witty or wry.

A slow nausea brews in the pit of my stomach. The better part of me tells me to smile, apologize and walk back down the street as fast as I can. I should go, but I never do.

“Hi.”

He pulls the door open wider. “You look like you need a good, hard fuck.” The tone is casual, like anyone else might say: ‘you look like you got caught in the rain,’ or ‘you look cold.’

Knowing I won’t answer, that I can’t admit to it, he does what he always does; he shrugs, reaches across the threshold, grabs my wrist and pulls me into the damp, dingy hallway that smells of cat’s piss.

He kicks the door closed and turns, pushing the air out of my lungs as my back hits the shabbily plastered wall, and he’s on me like something hungry. Hands tug my coat open. One paws at my breast through my shirt and the other makes a wedge-shaped indent in my skirt. That’s all it takes to ensure I’m not going anywhere, or changing my mind now.

“Been a long time. You had me worried there for a while,” he growls, pressing his forehead to mine. “But I knew you’d be back. Cos you need it, don’t you? Greedy little pain slut.”

It always starts like this: so fast, so direct. There’s no chatting about the weather or offers of tea or a drink. The ferocity of it floods my cunt. I worry about it soaking through the wool of my skirt and leaving a stain, but I press myself into him anyway.

He’s instantly hard, grinding his erection against my hip. Sometimes he doesn’t wait for an answer, but this time he does. He wants something in lieu of the service he’s about to provide.

“Say it. Come on, you fucking little slut. Tell me how much you want it.”

All I can manage is a croak, but I touch the side of his face, and move my head, sliding my cheek against his. The whiskers scrape against my skin as I nod.

He’s not settling for that. He pulls away, and the slap that hits my face and makes me gasp resolves into a mean, painful hold on my jaw. “Say it, bitch.”

“Yes.”

The slap wasn’t hard, but it stings and I already know that I’ll have faint bruises where my skin stretches over my jawbone. I’ve left this man’s house with a lot of marks. Not scars, just proofs of a well-tended garden.

“Better,” he says, releasing his hold on my chin, only to catch me around the neck and shove me, bodily, through the open door off the hallway.

It’s a bedsit with nowhere to sit. There’s only a bed – which I’ve never seen made – and a table and a TV. I have no idea what he does for a job or how he lives. I’ve never cared and I don’t care now. Shrugging off my coat, I drop it on the floor on top of my bag, and turn to unbutton my blouse.

Today he doesn’t want to wait. The grip at my neck is gone and he pushes me hard, the flat of his palm planted between my shoulder blades, face down into the bedclothes.

They smell of him and sex: his, perhaps, or another woman’s – maybe both. I wonder how long she’s been gone, and feel for the presence of lingering warmth without really thinking about it. Before I can roll over, he’s wrenching up the back of my skirt.

“Don’t fucking move,” he says, and then inhales. A few moment of silence thicken the atmosphere. “You smell like cunt.”

His hands make a warm survey of my ass cheeks and skim down the backs of each thigh. I’m wearing stay-up stockings because, the last time I was here, he destroyed an expensive pair of 10-dernier pantyhose. This time I’ve planned ahead.

Outside a car goes by along the wet road, its engine echoing through the canyon of white painted townhouses. The street is mid-morning quiet, and the sound of his uneven breathing fills the room: that’s how I know he likes the stockings.

“Next time, don’t bother with the knickers. Alright?”

The bed jostles as he climbs onto it, pressing one knee between my legs to part them. I lift my head to look back at him. I want to tell him there is going to be no next time. That this is the last time.

“Alright,” I whisper instead.

His hand shoots out, grabs a handful of my hair and forces my head, my face back down into the rumpled linen. “Don’t,” he growls, suddenly angry. “Don’t look at me.”

Even as the words have left his mouth, his other hand has pushed between my thighs, and his fingers are digging into the sodden fabric at the front of my panties. He knows exactly how to make me raise my hips in avoidance of the pain, and he persists until I have to use my knees to gain some relief. Only when my ass has risen to the height he requires, does he relent. The cruel fingertips that have been digging into tender flesh are suddenly replaced by a cupped, closed hand that smoothes and squeezes me until I start to gasp.

“You’re so fucking ready for me, girl.”

“I know. I am.” I consciously make myself say the words; the least I can do is avoid hypocrisy.

“Fuck, yes.” He groans a knowing approval.

He kneels close behind me. The fabric of his trousers is rough and scratchy on the exposed skin of my left upper thigh. Pressing closer, I can feel his erection against my ass cheek as he teases himself, fully clothed, against it.

His hand slews sideways, and his fingertips curl under the inside leg of my panties, pulling the crotch aside. Thick, blunt digits skim into my cunt, parting the swollen, wet lips.

It becomes impossible to stay still or quiet. Growling like an animal, I push my hips back. Want to feel something, anything inside me. But even as I do it, I know he won’t give me that right now. This is the game we play: I beg and he refuses.

While one hand torments me, the other follows the line of my spine, from my tailbone up the center of my back, dragging the hem of my silk blouse with it. I know what’s coming. Even before his dripping fingers have withdrawn, I steady myself and tense my muscles.

When the first blow comes, it’s so fast, so sharp, I don’t have time to make a sound. Instinct locks my hips so my knees won’t give out and my jaw clenches tight. I’ve paid for my eagerness; his hand is wet and the sting is worse. If the smack hurts him, he doesn’t let it show. Instead he pauses, watching my skin turn crimson. Only when it does, does he hit me again.

The second slap is as hard as the first, and this time I yelp. The sound pleases him; the covered cock pressed against my unslapped cheek twitches. A few more hard spanks and the tears start, hot and wet, soaking into sheet under my face.

I don’t hold back. Sobs ascend from some riotous place in my belly, at first stale and hesitant like something shut up in a closed place for too long. But then they emerge louder and freer with each successive burst of pain, as if every blow scythes away another choking tendril.

This is our transaction: the culling of my creeping, strangling vines of confusion for his love of the pain he inflicts in the process of culling them.

When he’s heard enough, he stops. His breathing laboured, he bends over my upturned ass and presses his lips to the burning skin. The heat of his mouth intensifies the sting, but the same hand that has beaten me returns between my legs to revel in the strange quirk of my nature. My cunt has also wept, so freely that the inside my thighs are slick and the juices have soaked into the tops of my stockings.

“Want my cock?” he murmurs against my seared flesh, lifting his mouth only to pull my sodden panties down my legs

I take a staggered lungful of air and nod. “Yes I do.”

He backs off to unzip himself. That’s all he ever has to do because he doesn’t bother with underwear. Then he’s back between my legs, sliding his thick, pulsing cock along the moist skin of my inner thighs.

“Well, that’s good. I want your cunt. Or should I fuck your ass?”

This is always the question he asks while guiding himself between the lips of my pussy. I never answer him and, for some reason, he never chooses my ass. Perhaps because that’s the location of pain and now he’s focused on pleasure? I’ve never understood it, but I know, with absolute certainty, that it wouldn’t matter what I said anyway; he’ll choose the orifice he wants.

And so he does, easing into me with surprising gentleness considering what has just passed. Still, the penetration makes my cunt ache. I’m wound up, tight from the pain and it takes my muscles a while to accommodate him.

Instead of holding my hips, he reaches beneath with both hands, gripping the tops of my thighs in a way that forces my pelvis to spread. My inner architecture is changed, and as he begins to thrust, the head of his cock pushes hard against the end of my passage. And again there’s pain, deeper now. It gives birth to guttural, strangled noises that escape my throat, even when the hurt leaves me breathless.

My mind is solely focused on the way he swells inside me, the way his fingers dig into my thighs, the way his hot skin presses against mine, still smarting from the spanking. When I’m empty of all thought, when he’s fucked the last existential, angst-ridden worry from my skull, my body takes over.

Chemicals stream from synapse to synapse and trigger a storm of mindless pleasure. My muscles obey, contracting like anemones in a warm current. I flood around his punishment and begin to orgasm.

He speaks as I come, but the words are just so much noise. The mechanism that makes meaning is broken and in its place is a gripped fist of blind, stupid bliss. And when the words fail him, too, he grunts at my contractions, forcing his way through them, past them. Hilting himself in the spasming flesh, he erupts with a jagged exhalation.

“Slut,” he whispers, once he’s caught his breath. He reaches down and tries to brush the hair off my upturned cheek. Strands of it are caught in the streaks of tears; he picks them away with a strange, precise delicacy.

Even as he does this, a few thorny tendrils of abstract anxiety slither back into my consciousness. I give a hollow laugh tinged with weary triumph. Today they can’t win. He’ll cut them all back to the root, one by one.

When he pulls out of me and lets me curl up on my side, still mostly dressed, he asks the question he always asks: “More?”

“Yes, please.”

It will start again, in some new place. He always finds the best locus of torment for the occasion – he’s an expert. I don’t love him or even like him and, for many weeks, I can pretend that my interior garden is beautiful and colourful and doesn’t need weeding. But it never lasts.

He tends my dark garden with a skill like no one else. That’s why I promise myself, each time I leave, that I’ll never return. And why I always do.

…this story now appears in the “Coming Together Anthology: Remittance Girl” which is a collection of my work. All proceeds from this book go to support free speech, through the ACLU.

Please consider purchasing it.

  55 comments for “Dark Garden

  1. City Different
    August 22, 2009 at 9:17 pm

    Oh, Rgrl! What a RICH story. And hot. Dark, yes. Ugly. Beautiful.

  2. August 23, 2009 at 9:54 am

    A deep sigh. I think I held my breath as I read. The desire for not just the pain but also the brutality… I shouldn’t have read this when I’m not allowed to cum… and I’m never allowed to cum except when specifically instructed to…

    I love the metaphor of a dark garden for what many of us just refer to as our dark desires. It’s a richer image, recognizing the beauty of them as well as the choking vines, and the relief that can come from some brutal weeding. But now I can’t help thinking of how pruning a plant can cause it to grow back fuller than it was before… the relief is only temporary and the more we experience the more we can come to need.

    A frustrated thanks for a stark and beautiful piece.

    • August 23, 2009 at 10:34 am

      Hey OM,
      Thanks for the comment. I really wanted to make the point that it’s not the pain she’s after, but the calm that follows it, and if I haven’t managed to make that clear, then I’ll have to go back and re-evaluate the story. I do think your point about the metaphor of pruning is very insightful. Thanks for reading!

      • Anastaria
        July 8, 2014 at 2:22 pm

        the point was very clear making the situation more enticing. I thought about the cleansing effect that comes with injury and also with a good cry, you may feel tired, sore all the rest, but nothing ever seems so bad after words and suddenly there is a new strength that had been locked away and forgotten. its wonderful, thank you

  3. August 23, 2009 at 6:45 pm

    “really wanted to make the point that it’s not the pain she’s after, but the calm that follows it, and if I haven’t managed to make that clear, then I’ll have to go back and re-evaluate the story.”

    Think Pavlov. The bell rings, the dog salivates for the bone, whether it is there or not.

    • August 23, 2009 at 9:56 pm

      Well, they say the story is in the eye of the reader, but I certainly did not intend to make it an autonomic reaction. She’s conscious of it, and goal oriented. Pavlovian reactions aren’t conscious.

  4. summer
    August 23, 2009 at 7:51 pm

    You have no idea what existential angst is.

    • August 23, 2009 at 9:47 pm

      Hello Summer.
      Since I don’t actually describe the existential angst in my story, how do you know? I think different people experience it differently, Summer. Just because you don’t experience it the way this character does (and BTW, she is not me), I don’t think it’s fair to make the assumption I don’t know what it is. Actually, I know what it is very well.

  5. August 24, 2009 at 3:39 am

    Just awesome from start to finish. Seriously, this is as perfect as writing gets.

  6. August 24, 2009 at 4:37 am

    A reminder I need my garden weeded, the calm that follows is the drug. It clears the murkiness away if only briefly, one can walk away rather enlightened. x

  7. August 24, 2009 at 4:25 pm

    Thank you for a dark, sexy piece, RG. It clung to me yesterday, like the tendrils she needs pruned, and this morning, upon rereading, couldn’t help but think it could be a form of self-flagellation.

    I know that I find that calm on the other side of tattoos and piercings…I imagine, to an extent, her method leaves less external marks but more internal…

  8. livingston
    August 24, 2009 at 5:02 pm

    You want to tell the world, that beating someone up helps them coping with their angst?

    • Remittance Girl
      August 24, 2009 at 6:54 pm

      Livingston,

      I am not doing ANYTHING OF THE SORT YOU FUCKING MORON. Read my manifesto, “livingston” with the bogus email address.

      Then fuck off. You’re a waste of comment space, you cretin. And your punctuation sucks.

      • livingston
        August 24, 2009 at 8:09 pm

        Your denial is not surprising but that’s exactly what you do. Getting aggressive only underlines that you are out of arguments.

        I refuse to condescend to your level of discussion.

      • August 30, 2009 at 6:17 pm

        My lack of patience with imbeciles is legendary. And the fact that you have left yet another comment and you did respond is proof that indeed you do condescend. It also suggests that you’re as dumb as a brick.

        I also see you’re back with yet another fake email address and another fake IP address (by the way, you spelled your own pseudonym wrong on your fake email address). So you’re not just an imbecile, you are a cowardly, dishonourable imbecile, who doesn’t even have enough strength of conviction about your opinions to wage your battles without hiding behind anonymizers. You’re no better than a person who hits and runs on highway. Despicable.

        Livingston, you are a cowardly, cretinous, uneducated, unsophisticated illiterate who really needs to get a life, and stay the fuck off my site. Next time you comment, I will not give you a pixel of space. I’ll click the little ‘delete’ button and flush your pathetic ass into the digital abyss.

    • reader_amanda
      August 24, 2009 at 7:50 pm

      if you don’t have the courage to identify yourself, then keep your comments to yourself.

      there are like 17 disclaimers here, you’d have to be exceptionally stupid not to have seen at least one of them.

      or – you could open your eyes and READ. what a fucking concept.

  9. maydeva
    August 24, 2009 at 10:02 pm

    Brava RG!

    “Livingston, you are a cowardly, cretinous, uneducated, unsophisticated illiterate who really needs to get a life”

    Just so. What a very small person.

  10. August 25, 2009 at 1:41 am

    Absolutely lovely. Was hard for me, in the sense that it was challenging, and made my mental stomach turn more than a few times. This should not be taking as a put-down, of course; but rather an indication of how well you conveyed the squalour and true, ground-in ugliness of that dirty little bedsit and that vile man. And yet….how powerful ugly, vile things are! Often the most effective, actually, at doing those dirty, thankless jobs and clearing out the muck; the man seemed to me like some human dose of cod liver oil. *shudder* Brilliant.

  11. Ashes
    August 25, 2009 at 5:08 am

    Wow … hot & darkly powerful.

  12. August 25, 2009 at 5:50 am

    RG~

    Livingston’s not worth your energy, which should be spent crafting deeply satisfying works of art like this one.

    I love that you never tell us much about these people, yet tell us everything. I love the way you describe the dynamics of addiction (any addiction) while wrapping it in the familiar. The garden metaphor is especially lovely, and heart-wrenching.

    Z

  13. Mina
    August 26, 2009 at 2:44 pm

    An amazing piece. Left me breathless and nodding my head in agreement. Sometimes being the man you despise, is what makes him the sadist you crave. Well done. Now I want to go write some more smut. It will have to wait. I must sleep and maybe wake with a story already written.

  14. Lola
    August 28, 2009 at 7:47 pm

    Thanks once again RG. I enjoyed “Dark Garden”as I enjoy your writing always. Not only is it hot and sexy, but well written, well thought out and emotionally wrenching. It captures the imagination and takes the reader into the world of the characters, be they beautiful and sleek or ugly and ashamed.

    And BTW, I know you won’t let comments by moronic pricks bother you… (o;

    Lola

    PS: Please excuse my english, second language… *blush*

  15. August 30, 2009 at 8:22 am

    And to the very sick individual who keeps leaving messages on my blog using my own email address, it is a symptom of your pathology that you keep using my identity to leave comments. I deleted them all. You require psychiatric help.

  16. Amelia
    August 30, 2009 at 12:58 pm

    Beautiful, again. I love the garden metaphor, and the images and feelings you evoke. Keep it up, and ignore the likes of Livingston. You’re doing us all a favor and giving us such beauty for free. He has no right whatsoever to criticize you.

  17. rmpled
    September 2, 2009 at 8:32 pm

    Took two tries to read the first paragraph. Once upon a time, this was my world. I thought I had forgotten all about it. Amazing writing to take me back to a place that I didn’t even want to go to….and enjoy it.

  18. September 2, 2009 at 8:56 pm

    rmpled,

    Oh, dear. If it took you two tries to read the first paragraph, that is not good! I’ll have another look at it and see what is making it awkward to read.

    Hugs and thanks for commenting.

    • rmpled
      September 16, 2009 at 8:54 am

      It is most certainly not the flow of the words that caused me to have to start it twice. It was the fact that she was back at his doorstep. And I knew that if I kept reading it meant that she would go through the door. And if she had spent time talking herself out of going, in fact over the course of a month she might have spent a LOT of time talking herself out of going…but there she was. I had a moment where I had to stop and take a breath before I let myself walk through that door with her. If that makes any sense…

  19. marianne
    September 13, 2009 at 1:55 am

    Beautifully written, and so evocative. We don’t have to have lived an identical situation to understand that dark need for release, and yes, the calm that follows.

  20. September 27, 2009 at 10:53 am

    This was a fantastic read. Very dark—- very deep. I loved it.

  21. Jess
    November 16, 2009 at 3:45 pm

    Wow.

    I read this story and bookmarked this website straight after.

    Yum. Well done.

  22. Heloise
    December 18, 2009 at 7:00 am

    You know what rmpled said? I agree. At first I was a little hesitant to read this story because it reminded me of memories I buried a long time ago, but now that I have read it, it truly is a beautiful story. The little bundle of nervousness and, I admit, a little bit of fear trembling in my stomach might have actually added to the eroticism and power of this story.

  23. February 24, 2011 at 10:59 pm

    wow !

  24. Squeaky
    February 25, 2011 at 6:57 pm

    everyone needs catharsis, now and then. just like everyone needs a good cry. sometimes everyone needs their own special drug to get them through the bad place, and give them a little peace. and it sounds like they were both fully aware of that. despite his sadism, it seemed like a kindness, to me. a beautiful piece, RG.
    thank you.
    XXX

    • Sharron
      March 7, 2011 at 3:47 pm

      I agree Squeaky. I too thought that it seemed a kindness of sorts on his part, an understanding of what was needed at that moment in time.
      A beautiful piece indeed RG

  25. Audrey
    February 25, 2011 at 9:20 pm

    Thank you RG.

  26. Nerotozero
    February 26, 2011 at 9:19 am

    My gf in the Netherlands sent me this today. She said she read it 3 times, I read it twice myself. This is the kind of thing I’ve been hoping you would revert to. I’m sure you remember us, she visits me once a year (so far) for the past 4 years. We’re very much in love but immigration keeps us apart since I don’t make enough money to import her permanently just yet. Anyway, she has a ticket to ride come the end of next month, and this story will make her visit just a little bit hotter. This story is one I think would work good as a movie. Yes, I’m still into filmmaking. Thanks RG

    • February 26, 2011 at 12:47 pm

      Well, I hope things get a little easier for you and that the course of love runs true. Hugs

  27. Caitlinn
    February 28, 2011 at 6:10 am

    I love you for writing this. It is superb.

  28. Becca
    March 6, 2011 at 9:39 pm

    Hi RG,

    One of my favourite pieces! Please keep writing, I love finding new treasures from you.

    All the best.

  29. Dani
    March 24, 2011 at 8:31 am

    I love all your stories, and this one makes me think of the movie Secretary, which I love, though I don’t ever tell people that. I love the way you phrase everything and the language you use, it’s fantastic. I hope you never stop writing.

    • March 24, 2011 at 8:57 am

      Thank you for taking the time to comment and say so. There are parts of the Secretary that I like very much. However, I guess I wish that the first mainstream representation of a submissive wasn’t of someone who was also a cutter. Because the mainstream then assumes that all submissives are somehow mentally ill.

  30. April 4, 2011 at 8:35 am

    Possibly the first story that addicted me to you as an author, RG. I keep returning as to needle and spoon for more. Your story is greater than its components. Where have you been?

    • April 4, 2011 at 9:03 am

      Sadly, not writing as much as I’d like. The world of earning a living has been taking up a lot of my time.

  31. Sum
    May 28, 2011 at 12:33 pm

    I may be fairly young, some might say considerably so, for reading stories such as these..but i can’t seem to stop wanting more and more. The pain and spanking thing isn’t my ideal focus, but i like aggression and disconnect. Are there any stories on here where the girls tease the guys completely; where he’s they prey and she the hunter? I also like them both unclothed for some reason. Ha. Anyway, thanks for the stories. I will explore others another time.

    • May 28, 2011 at 12:58 pm

      You’re way too young to be on my site. Go away

      • Sum
        May 28, 2011 at 10:53 pm

        You don’t even know how old I am and I enjoy your stories. Way to be a prude.

        • May 28, 2011 at 11:12 pm

          You just said you thought you were not old enough. Hey, I’m just taking you at your word.

          And if I’m a prude, little man, that makes you a fetus.

  32. Sum
    May 29, 2011 at 1:26 am

    I said “some”, meaning arrogant adults who denounce the fact that I can handle my own and I have my own mind/opinion.
    I am mature enough to read adult fiction without age being a problem. Also, I am a young woman, not a ‘little man’
    Just wanted to write a comment saying how much i admire your work. That is all.

    • May 29, 2011 at 1:29 am

      Firstly, I apologize for the mistake in gender. In my part of the world, Sum is usually a male name. The fact that you keep going on about what ‘adults’ think about what you can handle is what makes me worried that you aren’t one yet. That’s all.

  33. bklynmermaid
    January 17, 2013 at 10:22 pm

    So happy to see this story back up. It is one of my favorites. I’ve felt that pull towards someone, something we know we need in a dark recess of our soul, from someone that we may not love or even like, that is the essence of life. It is not black and white but the grey in between that makes us interesting….

  34. Lucia
    June 13, 2014 at 12:13 pm

    This reminded me so much of my own play time with my Master. It sent chills down my spine and was written so well.

  35. happyforit
    July 8, 2014 at 1:22 am

    Very dark but in the end your female character gets what she came for and has left me with a new appreciation for rough sex.

  36. Slither
    October 27, 2014 at 2:02 pm

    I love the calm and sort of peace that comes after the sobbing and pain. It’s a cleansing reality that settles in the dark parts of the mind and allows the bad parts of life to sleep for a while. I find that in those moments, I feel right, whole, and my mind turns off to just be present in that moment.

  37. V.
    August 1, 2015 at 11:58 pm

    You’re an excellent writer. Thank you for sharing your work.

  38. Moe
    May 7, 2016 at 10:03 am

    Great story girl, keep up that hot imagination

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