In Case You Were Wondering

Yes, you.

There used to be a blog here. What remains are the public things… posts that are in some way attached to the rest of this blogosphere. Memes and photos and contests and words that I wrote in hopes of connecting with this community. What remains are the things I think he loved the best, that I couldn’t bear to take down. What remains is the beginning, and the end.

If you’d like to keep in touch, I’ll still be checking my blog email, the new one, for some time. And I will still read you all, my darlings. I made such good friends here. This chapter of my life, this blog that I never thought anyone else would ever see, is over. But a tiger cannot change its stripes just because it would like spots. Just as a writer can never truly stop writing.

Fatal is gone. The woman remains.

FatalSyndrome@mail.com

“Here We Are, You and Me, on the Last Page.”

I knew that one day I would be writing this. Every good story has an end, does it not? I’ve told Sir that I intend to -one day- publish a novel about us, about this… journey, this large part of my life. I crack jokes all the time about how I could do E.L. James one better, but I have yet to put my money where my mouth is. I tell him too that the only way my book would be a commercial success is if I wrote in a sappy, happy, kinky ending for Sir and Fatal.

Real life does not always have happy endings, but if I could write one for Sir and Fatal it would go a little something like this:

 

Afters years of dancing around one another, after intimate moments and heartbreaking confessions, after tears and bruises and promises kept and unmade and hollow words and pained smiles, after misunderstandings and miscommunications, after finally learning to read one another and to speak with one another, openly, honestly, permissively, after the great sex and the clarity, and the real emotions, after all the talks and the sappy movies and struggle snuggles, Fatal and Sir buy a house somewhere lovely, close to a large city, but far enough away not to be bothered, somewhere that Sir can feel the grass between his toes and Fatal can bike down to the shore to hear the waves any night she pleases.

They outfit their bedroom with hooks and restraints and Sir’s favorite spanking chair. They hang their favorite implements in places of honor and they shop for sheets together. They both work, they both have hobbies, they both have friends. Inside of their house, their nest, Fatal wears her collar, always. She cooks dinner and keeps the house and wears retro pinup clothing and defers to Daddy about everything. It is her kinky 50s dream in living color.

They take baths in the large, clawfooted bath tub, and they cuddle to watch black and white movies on an overstuffed couch. She drinks wine and occasionally dips a finger in his scotch, just to taste.  He reads to her and she sings to him. They play hide and go seek and they see operas and ballets and shows together. They attend nerdy conventions together and get excited about the latest technology on the market. She has a clothing addiction and they both collect figurines and other trinkets. They travel together, whenever they can. They make inappropriate jokes to one another, they share secret smiles and have codewords for annoying situations. He tolerates her love of snow and she understands his need of warmth.

He thinks she drives like a mad woman. She thinks he worries too much. They bicker occasionally. They make up with sweet kisses and hot sex. She reads his tarot cards and he acts like it isn’t malarkey. She sits in his lap while he plays video games. He writes and she paints. They sleep on the beach in the sand. They nurse each other back to health when they are sick. She cries on his shoulder, and he collapses in her arms. There are back rubs and shoulder rubs and foot rubs. She shaves his face for him. He brushes her hair. He kisses her tattoos, she hugs him from behind. They hold hands. They slow dance in an empty room on a silent night.

They grow old together.
They have no regrets.

 

And with that… I have said all I will ever need to say.

And so, long time readers, new readers, dear and treasured friends…from the last page… good bye. For now.

xoxo
Fatal

I Think it’s Good to Remember…

That what you read here is half of my half of the story.
You read what I choose to share.
From my perspective.
You’ve never heard Sir’s side of the story about our interactions.
You read me.
Sometimes in the midst of an emotional turmoil.
Sometimes it is raw and the feelings are still with me.
Sometimes I embellish.
Sometimes I edit.
Oftentimes, I omit.

You read a product.
An account of my interactions,
In and out of order,
With a person whose identity I seek to protect,
Even above my own. 
This is a serialized telling of my life with him.
I leave you with half chapters.
And some of you… some of you
who I’ve never even interacted with
choose to believe you’ve read the whole book.

And in your heads, you paint him the villain
you paint me the villain
You make assumptions about our identities.
About why I stay anonymous.
About the realities of our situation.
About me.
About him.
And this is good.
I want you to wonder.
I want you to make up stories in your head.
To fill in the gaps.
To think of Fatal and Sir as what they are:
characters.
Characterizations of two real, flesh and blood people.

But if you think that your filler
makes for good fodder
to feed into my sensitive heart…
If you are an asshole who is seeking to hurt me
I want you to know
that I don’t give a fuck about you,
or your assumptions.
That my heart is sensitive for people that I care about.
But I am dead inside
for those who try to cross me.
That’s not an embellishment.
Nor is it a warning.
It is a statement of fact.

I grow weary of PSAs.
And I feel like I shouldn’t even waste my time with them.
The people who email me their opinions don’t even have the balls to say them in an open forum.
So why do I give them the head space or the blog space?
Because it’s my blog.
And I do as I damn well please.
That’s why.

My new email is FatalSyndrome@mail.com
Please take note.

From the Tip of Your Tongue, Mercy Awaits


His hands slide up my hips, beneath the silky fabric of my panties and he hooks his thumbs into the waistband before dragging them down, past my thighs, my knees, my calves, letting them tangle briefly in my toes before finally ripping them from me. I move fast to cover my nakedness, to tug my dress down to hide my body. I cross my ankles and he tuts at me. My panties are against his face, and he inhales deep, smelling me; my anticipation, my desire, my apprehension.

He throws the cloth down on to the bed and wraps his hands around my ankles. His index fingers stroke the bones there before he rips my legs open. I whine. I struggle. He slaps the insides of my thighs until they are stingy and red and hot. Until I stop struggling.

“Lift your dress back up.”

I blush. I giggle. I close my eyes.

“Lift your dress up, girl.”

The word strikes a chord in me. My fingers wrap into the fabric of my dress, circle and knot until my hands are covered in the fabric, and all at once, I yank the dress up, over my breasts, letting the fabric loose to rest on the crest of them. I peek at him, watch his eyes as he looks me over. I’m wearing the lace bandeau bra he enjoys, black and so see through. I know he can see my nipples perfectly, pebbling beneath the soft cloth.

He presses his hand over top of my mound, heel of his palm putting a pressure against my clit, long, sinuous fingers tip-tapping against my pelvic bone. He presses and motions for me to scoot back, to wiggle until  I am nearly at the headboard. He climbs in between my legs, on his knees, lets his hand slide to wrap around my thigh, the second one follows. His thumbs stroke that soft, sensitive place where my legs and pelvis meet and I shiver for the first time.

His fingers dig into me, and he pulls me up by my legs. I yipe in surprise as he lifts my hips up and leans down simultaneously. I squirm in his firm grasp. The way he holds me leaves me helpless and vulnerable. I am wide open to him.

He breathes against the core of me and inhales deeply.

“Daddy,” I whisper, in a trembling voice.

“Mmm?”

“Don’t…”

“Oh? Don’t?”

My entire body is covered in a blush. He can taste the lie in the scent and sight of me. I say nothing.

“Don’t you want me to eat you, baby? Don’t you want me to lick you? To suck you? To drink down your sweet, sweet girly juices? Don’t you want to come on my tongue, Pooh?”

I moan at the last, unable to help myself. My fingers rip into the sheets and hold there, anchoring me.

He dips his tongue between my folds, tasting the sticky sweetness he finds there. I bend to his will beautifully, twisting and writhing beneath him as he laps at me, as his tongue circles the powerful ring of muscle, the entrance to my body. His tongue slips inside of me and I can feel my cunt spasm around it. He groans into me, and it reverberates through me. His powerful arms pull my legs to his shoulders as they snake around my hips, palms resting flat on my abdomen. He creeps closer to the bed, burying his face against me, nuzzling in my slick juices, my warmth. My thighs squeeze, trying to pull him tighter to me, force him deeper.

I lose control like I never had any to begin with… and truthfully, I did not. I come undone beneath him. I can barely recognize myself in the sounds that leave my lips. I am desperate. I am needy. I need him like this. I can feel my body reacting, throbbing, pulsing, gushing. I am a trembling, crying mess. The sweet torture makes me sob softly and his fingers tighten around me.

His tongue cups and strokes my clit, and it aches beneath the tender ministrations. I want more from him, but he’ll have what he wants of me first.

“Please,”I begin to whimper. “Please… no… no…”

He growls from between my legs and I can feel him grow hungrier. His touch becomes savage as he digs into my hips with one hand, the other slips in beneath his lips and presses against me. Three fingers push inside of me and he strokes my inner walls before building a rhythm. My cries grow loud, uneven. I fight him now. I struggle. My legs shake. My toes stiffen and flex. My nails dig into the mattress.

I don’t know the words coming out of my mouth. I am talking in streams of consciousness. I am begging for him to stop or for him to never stop. I’m not sure which. My eyes are closed tight. I cannot take the arresting, erotic look of him between my thighs.

A flip in me switches and I can feel the heat coursing out from the center of me, warming my blood, making my skin flush. Something in my movement, or maybe something in my voice, my taste… something sets him off. He knows. He picks up the pace and I writhe beneath him as I fall over the edge. My tears flow freely as my body gushes around his lips. He replaces his fingers with his tongue, and, as promised, drinks me as I come. His groan sends me shivering again. I can see the universe behind my eyes–bright and dark, all at once. I am panting, and trying to ward off the little hiccups and tiny tears. My lips are trembling.

He slides my legs from around his shoulders and I feel his body crawl up against mine. I roll into his arms and regroup there. Trying to find myself behind the roiling of pleasure and of emotions. He kisses me on the mouth, and I taste myself there. I marvel at the intimacy I feel in this moment with him, as we breathe for each other, lips locked, the thick taste of my orgasm shared between us.

When our kiss breaks, he nuzzles his cheek to mine.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

I can only have this with him.

There is Power in Words

I remember the first time I heard your voice. It was like no other voice I’d ever heard. You might think it cut through me clean and surgical, tearing me asunder, rocking my world, touching me in ways unknown. But it did not. No. Your beautiful voice, with its lovely cadence, its deep timbre, its raw honesty and feeling… it could have never cut through me so perfectly.

Your voice was a ragged blade, tearing through the skin and muscle and marrow, leaving rivulets of blood blossoming from jagged edges. Your voice became a deep wound within me, unable to heal–every scab, no matter how newly formed, ripped fresh from the gash to let me bleed again. I feel you distinctly, an unending scar cut into the fabric of my soul. You are like a tattoo that only I can see, something living and breathing, a constant reminder of all that is you.

And like a tattoo, you are an addiction. I want a fresh needle, a raw wound, new blood. I ache for the sound in my ear as much as I ache for you, your body, your mind, the feel of your hands on me, the feel of my hands on you.

I thought about the first time I heard your voice, and the way it sent me spinning, reeling, flying into every moment that has passed between us since.

Who knew it would lead us here.

When You Touch Me, It’s so Powerful, I Can Feel It

I never know what I want. Because I always want more than one thing.

On one hand, I want you to be so cruel to me. I want you to slap me–my mouth, my tits, my ass, my thighs. I want to feel my jaw between your thumb and forefinger. I want you to make me look at you through the tears as you pinch my nipples, as your fingers dig into my skin. I want to feel your teeth break my flesh. I want your hand around my throat. I want my hair in your fist. I want you to wrest me to the ground. Knock the wind out of me. I want you to fuck me so hard, my body, inside and out, is covered in bruises. And while you do this, I want you to whisper into my ear all manner of dirty and awful things. I want your fingerprints emblazoned on me like a crime scene. Hurt. Me.

And on the other hand? I am emotionally weak. And so sensitive lately. There are words that bubble up from my toes that I want to speak and cannot. I want to whisper, tearfully, for you to be kind to me. Be sweet to me. Take me into your arms and coddle me. Brush my hair with your finger tips. Kiss my lips until they’re swollen and aching. Suckle at my skin gently. Snuggle me till I can barely breathe. Cover me in your body. Nibble my tattoos. Bathe me in the scent of you. Tell me… sweet… endearing words. Treat me like the baby that I am. Hold my arms above my head and love me with your words until I am crying from my eyes and from between my thighs. Take your time with me. Fuck me deeply, slowly, gently. Touch every inch of me. Break me with your kindness. I am fragile… handle me with care.

The only thing that I know for sure… is that I want you, in any way that I can have you.