Even If You’re Never Awake Travel made it easier. A convenient decompression chamber, buil

Even If You’re Never Awake Travel made it easier. A convenient decompression chamber, build into her schedule without the need for time outs or long baths. She could just curl up on her seat and zone out, let Stars of the Lid or Eluvium drain into her ears and through her mind until she was swimming in strings, lost in a drone.  Then, slowly, the night previous would begin to bob to the surface. Unhurried, unbidden, scenes flashing through in bits and pieces, out of order, the chronology jumbled into some hastily written best of.  “You’re still going to be putting yourself back together when I see you next Friday."  He’d said that when he first rammed himself home, when she was already a wreck. He’d beaten her, with the flogger, then his hand, then the cane, and each individual stroke could be felt, the fire of it accumulating without one drowning out the other. Those words, at that moment, had made her crumble. They hit some mental pressure point and she had fallen into pieces. Onto him. Into him.  The train slowed into a station, and the track turned over from Dungtitled (In A Major) to Tippy’s Demise, and for a moment she opened her eyes, blinked at the colourless countryside that was half-infected with the urban sprawl. Watford, maybe. Or Hemel Hampstead. Fuck, but he’d pushed her hard last night. Before the fucking, before he’d even taken out the ropes, he’d pulled her over his knee and onto his lap, yanked her underwear halfway down her thighs and set about her bottom with that flogger, the one he’d picked up when they’d wandered through the Fetish Fair together. There was no rhythm to his strokes, no relief in between either. Just a relentless hail of swishes and swats, each one barely slapping against her before it was away and around again, the momentum blistering.  She’d yelped, squirmed, struggled against him, but he knew her too well to let her go. Her arm was up against her back, tight against her shoulderblade, and if she moved too fast there was a twinge of pain far beyond anything he was doing to her. Either way, it wasn’t long before the flogger was laid aside on the bed, and he’d switched to his hand. Which, all things considered, she wouldn’t exactly call a downgrade. Especially when she was already rosy.  Luton loomed. Tippy’s Demise petered out before the sound picked up into The Daughters of Quiet Minds, and she closed her eyes again, nestled up against her coat and tried to pretend she was sleeping.  "Why don’t you ever dress up for me?” That was the question she’d been greeted with, and in her memory it sounded distant, perhaps a little hurt. She remembered her answer, and the smile that had followed, but she still felt a little guilty about the look in his face when he’d asked her that.  “I do, just underneath. I like to have a pervading sense of normalcy until I wander into your place, and then shed it like snakeskin.” She remembered twirling, but she couldn’t tell whether that was just the embellishment of retrospective. Regardless, it had been more than enough of an opening for him to seize, and he did, her along with it.  Dress up over her head, jumper hurled to the floor almost spitefully. In less than thirty seconds she’d been standing there, in his foyer, in just her underwear, each piece picked out specifically to separate his lower jaw from his upper.  “See?” She’d asked, and he’d nodded.  Flitwick. Nearly home. The music stopped, and she realised she was at the end of the playlist, the artist running out of tracks before the train had. Didn’t really matter, she was ready to be home, to get out of these clothes and into the bath. Just because she didn’t need to specifically schedule some time to relax didn’t mean she wouldn’t.  “How are you doing?” She’d barely heard him over the deafening vacuum of her absence of thoughts. She was exhausted. Fucked out. Orgasmed into oblivion. Her body was trembling, her skin soaked in sweat, and her makeup was scheduled for demolition. How was she doing? Pretty fucking dandy, thankyouverymuch.  “Mhm.” She’d about managed out, the minimum amount of syllablage required to satisfy his concern. She appreciated the way he doted on her post scene, but it was always so intrusive, a needle to the comfortable bubble that formed once they were done. She just wanted to bury her face in his chest, feel that light tickle of hairs against her cheek, and think of nothing for an hour.  The train stopped, and she put away her things. Stepping off the carriage, she could already feel the weekend falling away in her memory into the same filing cabinet as ‘dreams and fantasies’, in the even larger category of 'the person I’m not’. Not here, anwyay. Far enough away from London and perversion to be a whole other person, to have whole other thoughts, and a whole other life.  Until she bought another ticket, and resurfaced a few hundred miles down the tracks.  -- source link
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