Charlie joins in with #Lippie: Plum Dandy

At lunch yesterday, I mentioned #Lippie to a couple of trusted colleagues. ‘I might choose a lipstick for myself over the weekend,’ I said.

‘No,’ they insisted. ‘We’ll randomise one for you!’ And that’s how I got Plum Dandy.

Plum Dandy

The therapist gestures in the air. ‘This…’ she says, mimicking a spiky series of peaks and troughs, ‘…is happiness. Everyone aspires to happiness.’

She makes it sound like a bad thing.

‘And this…’ the line she draws with her hand is flatter now, like a bad dance move, ‘…is contentment.’

In my head, the first pattern is red, passionate, interesting. The second is flatlining, blue, cold, dead. That’s not what I want to be.

She can’t tell me he’s bad news, obviously. She can only parrot back the things I say, until can say he’s bad news.

‘Contentment is peaceful,’ she says. ‘Imagine how good it would feel to be calm, to be able to sleep, to not worry about where he is, or who he’s with.’

While I can still imagine him, I can’t imagine peaceful.

‘Wouldn’t that be nice?’

Erm … no. 

I mean, yes, obviously, on some level it would be nice. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t miss sleeping well, or regular meals, or not feeling angry the whole damn time. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t already know this was unhealthy.

I like lots of unhealthy things.

I’m meeting him in the pub. He knows where I’ve been this evening, but he won’t ask for the details. He respects that I have a life separate from him. I resent that he has one separate from me.

We’re good, in public, at pretending we live by the flat line of contentment. We drink a bottle of Merlot, and he tries to wipe away the blue tint it leaves on my lips with something that looks a lot like tenderness. When that doesn’t work, he kisses it away instead, sinking his teeth into my bottom lip until the blood flows in and my mouth flushes pink again.

The wine is finished and the candle is soft and misshapen, spilling wax across the table.

‘Take me home and fuck me.’

‘I have to be up early for work.’

The therapist was wrong. The red line doesn’t just spike upwards. It forms stalactites too, lows that leave me breathless with the fear of losing him.

I like that I care that much. It’s who I am; what I value.

‘Please,’

‘Fine, but it’ll need to be quick.’

It’s lucky I get off on humiliation.

He holds me down as he pounds into me, my arms high above my head, his fingers imprinting him into my skin as he drives his cock deep. These are the moments that I live for, these twenty minute snapshots of violent passion. I struggle, pretending to want to get away. Not only because the idea of having to fight him turns me on, but also because the greater the struggle, the better the bruises.

‘Bite me,’

‘This isn’t about you.’

Oh, it is, my love, it is.

His sharp little teeth sink in just above my nipple. Bite marks are the best marks, somewhere between purple and scarlet, a million miles from the sickly, greenish-yellow bruises he leaves with his fingers. Both are good, but everybody has a favourite colour.

If I stay with him, I’ll never achieve blue calm, except in moments like this, snuggled in his arms after red hot sex, briefly able to forget that I’ll be on a night bus by twelve. And on that bus, I’ll slide my fingers under the neckline of my dress and press down on the flesh that is quietly turning violet. I’ll revel in those marks, and every time I catch sight of them I will feel plum dandy.

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My Erotica Library Top Five: Bites, Bruises and BDSM

‘I still had a pair of tights in my hand, weightless, soft and black. I pulled them taut between my hands, lifted them so she could see what I was doing – winding them around my fists and stretching until I had a strong rope.
I brought it down. Lowered it gently, covered her breasts like a bandeau. I pressed down, my hands on either side of her, binding her tightly. Under the nylon her breasts spilled over, and I began squeezing those beautiful tits. Hard. Until she gasped. I bit the nipples and moved down, dragging at her skin, roughing it a little, pulling the nylon over her curves and hollows.’

Nikki Magennis, Bearers

‘Sol took the belt in both hands. I almost forgot to breathe as he hooked the leather length over my head and positioned the strap across my back. He threaded the end through the brass buckle and pulled the belt tight below my breasts, trapping my arms by my side. The tug of the restraint forced a low grunt of need from me. Jeez, it gets me every time that subtle impression of dominance. It might be the press of bondage, the hint of bossiness in bed, the fist gripping my hair as we kiss goodnight in the street.’

Kristina Lloyd, Undone

‘When he stood up to fit the wrist cuff his breathing was as loud and ragged as my own and I noticed that his hands were trembling. He bent down to pick up the rest of the knives then got up and walked away. He turned round to face me and I instantly saw that he had an erection. ‘Your cock’s hard,’ I said.’

Mae Nixon,  Under the Big Top

‘”Ow!” I’m not used to this, and I’m shocked. I feel completely helpless, and small. He smacks me again and the side of my face stings. Before I can even analyse my reaction, I start to cry. Wet, lonely tears run from my eyes and he wipes them away-and smacks my face again, lazily.
“What?”
I’m spread open, and within a few minutes, he’s put me in a place I could never access by myself.’

Vida Bailey, One A.M. Girl’s Night Out

‘He wrote the words across her chest in black ink: FREE WHORE. She held still, swaying only slightly.
“Arms folded behind your back,” he said. He pushed her bra straps down, lifted her breasts free and grabbed her by the hair. Holding her head firm, he drove into her mouth, increasing his reach until her throat was opening to clasp the last inch of him, so warm and tight. She gazed up obediently, her lips around his root, her eyes watering. Her makeup ran, making her tears as black as the words on her chest.’

Kristina Lloyd, No Sleep