It's All Broken

We are nearing the end. Really. I know I've said that before - repeatedly, even - but this time I swear it's for real. Eben interpreted some of my rantings last night this way: "It sounds to me like you're saying there's this mark on the conveyor belt that's getting closer, and that mark is the end. And you want to tell them, Hey, this is happening." Yes. That mark is approaching, and approaching fast. When I hit a tipping point, I don't waste time. I jump right off the cliff.

Last week, Shelby told me that she was done with Aiden and was going to kick him out. Her tone of voice was different than usual; she was calmer, sounding resigned instead of angry. My first thought was, Thank god. Finally. It took me a day or so to fully accept my own reaction. Then I started preparing for the new future, visualizing different scenarios and how it might all play out.

Some hours into that, it occurred to me that even though she had sounded different this time, she might still go back on her word, like all the other times she's issued threats and not seen them through. Suddenly I no longer knew what I was even preparing for, but the realization that I might have just fallen for one more empty threat upset me. Not knowing what I might come home to or how to prepare for it threw me off balance.

In desperate need of a friend, I went to dinner with Eben and told him what was going on. When I shared with him some of the things that Shelby has said, he was horrified. One that particularly stuck out was when she said to Aiden, "I need my feelings validated," and five minutes later, when he tried to express his side of the story, cut him off and told him, "Your feelings don't count. I don't care what you think."

Those behaviors are unfortunately nothing new to me, and it started to dawn on me how bad that was when I responded to Eben with a shrug and the comment, "That's standard-issue Shelby."

On Friday morning, I finally found the words to tell Aiden that Shelby is emotionally abusive toward him. I pointed out some of the things that she says and does, and how those are unsupportive and nasty, and are things that no human being should have to put up with. He said he has a hard time seeing them, because in comparison to his ex-wife Lily, Shelby is better. I think that's the only comparison he ever makes. But when I compare Shelby to anyone else I've ever known, the comparison isn't favorable. She tears him down, she insults him, she orders him around, she treats him like a child, she tells him he's incapable and unworthy and a mess. She's done these things as long as I've been around. After Friday's conversation, he resolved to stand up to her more. He said he was looking forward to learning some tools to use on her.

When I showed up in the relationship, her behavior made me uncomfortable, but I didn't feel it was my place to say or do anything. I was afraid to be seen as trying to steal him away from her. Eventually they gave me explicit permission to opine on their disagreements, and I started throwing in my two cents here and there. I stood up to Shelby on my own behalf, but seldom on Aiden's, thinking that was his job and it wasn't really my business. I did try to coach him in standing up for himself, but he didn't seem to take most of it to heart, whether because he didn't see a need for it or for some other reason, I'm not sure.

I've taken a couple of opportunities to tell her that I don't like the way she treats him. She's agreed to be kinder, but it hasn't happened. Over the last two and a half years, things have gone from bad to worse. She's unstable, inconsistent, and determined to blame her perceived problems on everyone but herself. One of my own struggles has been to accept that since it's my home too, I get to have an opinion about what it's like there. The truth is, it's a war zone. I don't feel safe or relaxed there. It's not a place I can return to recharge my mental batteries or regain my equilibrium. It's a place for which I have to be fully prepared before I can enter, or I might be caught off-guard by whatever today's fresh new hell is. I tried to tell Shelby that's how it was, and she was confused.

I read an article last night that listed 30 signs of emotional abusers. Shelby demonstrates 29 of them, mostly toward Aiden and his kid. Then I read an article on emotional manipulation, and was startled to realize that those behaviors she actually uses against me: she says things and denies them later, and makes me feel guilty when I try to hold her to her word.

I have a good skill for remembering conversations with accuracy. I can quote many things that are said to me verbatim several hours, days, or even weeks later. I've used that ability to try to hold her to her word on many occasions, and her responses have varied from "I didn't say that" to "Why do you care so much what I said?" to "Do you want to be held accountable for something you said a long time ago?" I wouldn't say that it's worked exactly, because I see the difference between what she said and what she did, and she doesn't change my mind; but it has confused me greatly and made me feel unstable, because I never know what's going on or whether I can trust anything she says.

Shelby tries to force her reality on us. Aiden generally accepts it, and I generally don't. For example, when she's upset about something and he tries to state his own side, she either talks over him or accuses him of yelling. The conversation usually goes something like this:

Shelby: I can't believe you would do that.

Aiden: I didn't mean to make you feel ignored. I did what I did because -

Shelby: I don't care why. You're an idiot.

Aiden: Maybe I am. The reason I did what I did is that I didn't think about what your response might be.

Shelby: That's right, you never think! You don't care about me.

Aiden: (In a level tone of voice.) That's not true. I care about you very much. But I want you to see -

Shelby: (Yelling.) Stop yelling at me! If you're just going to yell, I'm not going to bother talking to you.

I've watched this scene play out what feels like a million times since I became part of that relationship. I've tried pointing out that Aiden isn't yelling, and Shelby usually responds by rolling her eyes and walking away.

The article on manipulation listed 8 behaviors commonly exhibited by manipulators:

1. They turn your words to benefit them. ("A manipulator has trouble accepting responsibility for their behavior, and often if you call them on it, they’ll find a way to turn it around to make you feel bad or guilty.")
2. They say something and later deny it.
3. They use guilt trips to control you.
4. They diminish your problems or difficulties.
5. They use the emotional back door.
6. They suck the energy in a room. ("They want the attention and focus to be on them, and they want to make sure everyone in the room notices if they are angry, unhappy, or discontented in some way.")
7. They use aggression or anger. ("Manipulators often try to intimidate others with aggressive language, subtle threats, or outright anger. Especially if they see you’re uncomfortable with confrontation, they will use it to quickly control you and get their way.")
8. They seek out the sensitive, insecure, or overly trusting.

I don't see #5 in Shelby - she's very forthright - and I only see subtle occurrences of #3 and #6, of a level that I would be inclined to call normal if it weren't for the very strong occurrences of the other items.

She very rarely accepts responsibility for her own behavior, and when she does, it's often with a caveat. ("Well maybe I acted a little crazy, but that's what happens when you do something like that to me.") She constantly tells Aiden that he has no problems and doesn't have a right to complain, be angry, or have feelings. He actually expressed that to me a few months ago; he felt like he was never allowed to express his feelings because he wasn't supposed to have any.

She defaults to using anger in almost every circumstance, and disrespects anyone who can't "take it." We've had a long-running argument about how we argue (oh the irony), in which I've said that I prefer to take space and think my words through and then re-approach, and she prefers to just scream about everything that's on her mind at the moment and apologize for any hurtfulness later. I've made some steps in her direction, managing not to run away when we're fighting and to say what's on my mind. But I've never been able to agree that screaming and name-calling and taking no responsibility for your words just because you're mad is an okay thing to do. It's toddler behavior, something that emotionally mature adults should have outgrown.

On Monday, the small Aiden got suspended from school for fighting. Tuesday he spent the day at home, shoveling rocks in the back yard as punishment. Aiden was home overseeing him and I was home working. Shelby was at work. When she arrived home around 5:15, it was with a nasty vengeance and a cloud of anger that she immediately spewed all over Aiden, telling him that he had punished his child wrong and that all his interactions with the school and the kid were wrong and that he was a terrible parent and a hopeless person, and it was his responsibility to control his child's behavior. She referred to small Aiden as "that THING" and demanded that he be removed from her house.

I stepped in and asked if she really thought he was capable of controlling every aspect of his 14-year-old son's behavior. I asked what she expected him to do, what he should be telling the school, how he should be interacting differently with the kid. She had very little to say beyond, "I don't know," coming closest to a useful answer with the statement, "You're inconsistent in how you treat him." Other statements included, "If he's going to act like an asshole, he should be hospitalized."

I don't deny that Aiden is a bit inconsistent sometimes. He has moods just like everyone else, and sometimes he can be forgetful. But when it comes to the reactions that an adult has to the child's behavior, I haven't seen anyone act more unpredictably than Shelby herself. Some days she's in a good mood and everything is fine, and she'll chat with the kid and play games with him and just roll her eyes when he talks too much. And then there are the other days, when she's in a bad mood for whatever reason, and she will lose her mind and scream at the kid for having the temerity to even enter a room. She has demanded several times that Aiden lock the kid into his room, and when I point out that that's abusive behavior, she says thing like, "What else am I supposed to do? If he won't control his kid, he can't live here."

Don't get me wrong, the kid is not easy to get along with. I'm not exactly his best friend myself, or a particularly good parental figure. My approach is mostly avoidant, and I have a long way to go if I'm going to be anything like a useful role model to him. But my strengths are patience and my ability to control my emotions, and I try very hard to be consistent. I'm mystified enough by Shelby's treatment of him and how it varies from day to day. I can't even imagine what it's like to be him, to have the lack of understanding that he already has about social situations because of his mental disability and then to have her alternating friendliness or stream of bile directed at him, with no way to ever know which one is coming. Kids with regulation disorders need consistency, and she gives him exactly the opposite, and then demands to know why he isn't fixed yet.

She eventually walked away from the conversation and went to do some gardening. Aiden curled up on me and looked sad, and I asked what he was thinking.

"I felt like I did okay today," he said. "Until she came home. And now I feel like I did everything wrong."

"If you feel like you did it right," I asked, "Why should she be able to come in here and tear you down?"

"Because I know there's room for improvement," he said. "And now all I can focus on is the twenty percent I need to improve."

He asked for feedback on how he had stood up for himself in the conversation. I said that I could see progress. He said that he was looking forward to fixing Shelby by standing up for himself. I had no response to that, but having since read the articles I mentioned above and discussed the issue with Bruce, who's a mental health worker, I have some more insight.

Abusiveness is a personality trait. There is no excuse - not stress, not provocation, not childhood, not anything - to treat another human being like Shelby treats Aiden. Abusers can improve their behavior, but it takes not only a lot of time, but a genuine recognition and acknowledgment of their wrongdoing, a deep desire to change, and individual therapy. Aiden just deciding that he's going to argue with her is not going to change how she sees him or how she behaves towards him and his child.

So this is how we've reached my breaking point. I have a right to a house in which I feel safe. I have a right to a relationship that's supportive and loving, not destructive and stressful. I can't abide the status quo anymore and I will exercise those rights.

If you're asking why I don't just walk already, here's the catch. I want to help the boys. I'm better equipped in both offensive and defensive weaponry. Their shields are not nearly as strong as mine, and if I just disappear and leave them in this situation, I will feel like I failed in my duty to take care of the people close to me. I'm past the point where I could support Shelby in an attempt to change; as far as I'm concerned, she's been given a huge number of chances to change and has passed them all up. I'm out of energy to live under her emotional cloud or even to care much about her at all, except for the well of anger that I'm harboring about how she has treated one of the men I care most about in the world. That anger, however, can fuel quite a lot of protective energy to put between her and the boys. I'm perfectly willing to walk into the fire and take the burns for them.

Playing Dress-Up, part 1 [fiction]

The hand-written note, in purple ink on heavy woven paper, sat on my bureau and silently taunted me. Seeing the piece of paper, folded in half and held shut with a silver sticker, tucked beneath the handle of the shower when I returned home that afternoon had sent a thrill shimmering through my chest. I never knew what those pretty papers were going to contain. They were rare, and I treasured them. The few I had received were socked carefully away in a drawer, a collection of triggers for some of my most interesting memories.

Today's note was an order, and immediately upon reading it, my brain had erased my plans for the night without waiting for my explicit permission.

I never would have brought a postal scale into my bedroom unless I developed some plan to mail my mattress, but his instructions had been clear: I was to wear no more than four ounces of clothing, and a pair of heels at least five inches high.

The shoes were easy. Most of my favorite fancy shoes were above that height. I grabbed my black suede ankle boots with the stilettos and went back to the bed, where the hard decisions remained strewn across the covers in disarray.

I couldn't find a bra under an ounce and a half, so that was out. Dressing myself had suddenly become a game of surface area versus heft, and density was the enemy. I had to be decent enough to go out in public for at least a little while, possibly for the whole night. I had no idea how much time would be spent where, so there were no safe assumptions.

There could be no socks or tights. I wondered if jewelry was considered "clothing" for this purpose, and decided that it wasn't. I had enough piercings that were made of steel and difficult to remove that it wouldn't have been fair to count them; it likely would have left me naked.

Of course, that probably meant he was going to do exactly that: work out the weight of my jewelry somehow and tell me I had disobeyed his order. But punishment was preferable to re-piercing several parts of my body.

Pawing through my underwear drawer, I chose the smallest G-string I could find. It was black lycra with five tiny rhinestones glittering on the top edge. Sitting innocently on the scale, it left me three and a half ounces of clothing to dress the rest of me. I bit my lip and looked around the room, hoping some object would pop into my sight and bring with it a brilliant idea, the solution so obvious and so clever I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it immediately.

Curtains, towels, and a bedspread, however, just made the task seem more hopeless. Fabric, I was quickly learning, was heavy. At least when seen as a step to my strange goal.

Giving up for the moment, I stepped to the mirror and started applying makeup. A base coat to even out my skin was followed by some dark purple eye shadow and then some bright silver. I topped it with kohl-black eyeliner, then accented the corners with a touch of glitter.

Pulling back for a moment and shaking my hair down like a model readying for a photo shoot, I looked at my reflection sideways, then picked up the brush and dragged the purple color farther out from the corners of my eyes. Then I grabbed white eyeliner and painted a tiny star under my left eyebrow.

Pouting at myself like a small girl denied a cookie, I painted black liner around my lips, taking care to keep the lines clean, then added purple lipstick inside it. Some light touches with a brush blended the black into the purple, turning the uneven blotches of color into a twilight fade that accented my eyes. It occurred to me then that my white star-shaped contact lenses would have been ideal with this makeup, but it was too late to put them in; the tears created would streak my perfect paint job and force me to do it again. It wouldn't be as good the second time.

And I'd be late. Which I almost was already.

Hurrying now, I yanked open all the drawers in my dresser and the door to my closet, scanning frantically for something made of nothing. I thought of tulle, of chiffon, and my mind went to my box of costumes. There in the mystery chest I could find a ballet tutu, a pair of wings, a pair of shiny strapless dresses, many things with garters, and lots of lace.

The strapless dresses were too heavy, by such a tiny margin that I wondered if it could be coincidence. Might he have gone through my clothes already, knowing what I would do when given this assignment, and deliberately eliminated these as a possibility? They would have been too easy a solution, possibly one that he would find boring.

I shook my head. It wasn't worth worrying about.

Upended in mid-air and shaken with frantic vigor, the box produced a shiny cascade of materials and shapes, some objects that clattered on the floor and some that floated away as they fell or slid sinuously from the top of the pile into the dusty foothills below my bureau. Remaining at the peak of the small mountain was a lavender nightie made of something like stretchy tulle. Spaghetti straps held it up and the bottom had a ruffle that hung just even with my cheeks, if I didn't walk. The top edge was ribboned with little cuts that came dangerously low when I put it on. If I moved the wrong way, sometimes the fabric would grab my nipples and forcibly show them off. Even when it covered everything that I thought it should, nothing was hidden; the fabric was so transparent that it barely even blurred my outlines.

It weighed three ounces. I saw no choice but to put it on.

I couldn't leave the house like this. It wouldn't be legal, and I wasn't going to risk getting arrested, at least not for my clothing or lack thereof. If I was going to tempt the law, it would be a little later in the evening's proceedings.

Half an ounce remained in my allowance. Even my lightest bra didn't fit that bill. I nudged the pile of costumes with my toe, hoping for inspiration, and there it was - a tassel peeked out from under the edge of a fairy wing, and I had my answer.

Five minutes with scissors, glue, and an old black t-shirt made me the proud creator of a pair of five-pointed stars, about three inches on a side. I found some double-stick tape in my desk drawer and applied it to the stars, and the stars to my nipples. They barely covered my areolas, and I thought that a cop might have something to say to me about the intentions I demonstrated by going outside in this, but technically I couldn't be arrested for nudity.

It was time. I ran a brush through my hair, grateful for its length and wishing it were even longer - perhaps down to my knees - so I could appear reasonably clothed from at least one direction.

My heels clacked loudly on the stairs as I went down them. I slung my purse over my shoulder, rifled habitually through all the pockets to make sure I hadn't removed the essentials in a moment of absent-minded inspiration, and opened the front door. I locked it behind me, tucked the key away, took a deep breath, and stepped off the porch onto the sidewalk. There I waited.

Turning the Tables, part 2 [fiction]

"You left me such great things to play with," I said. Stepping in close, I let the velvety falls trail along his back, lightly, teasingly. I wondered if he could tell what was touching him. His back arched, seemingly trying to follow the leather as it left his skin. I prodded him with the end of the handle, sinking it firmly into the ropy muscle beside his spine until he straightened back up.

"But you're the best toy of all." I drew my arm back and let the flogger fly, and was pleased when it landed approximately where I had aimed. Aiden jumped, and I grinned.

Taking a step back to allow myself room, I swung again, then pulled into a backhand swing in the crosswise direction. The tails traveled in an arc behind my left shoulder and then my right as I settled into a figure-eight pattern. I focused on the X on his back, right shoulder to left hip and left shoulder to right hip, right to left, left to right, back and forth, top to bottom. My shoulder entered the swing and then my chest, and the skin of his back started to turn pink.

The room got dimmer, and I realized the air stream from the heavy falls had put out the candle behind me. I relit it from the one in my hand, set them both firmly in their holders, and moved them out of harm's way.

Keeping the tails in line with each other presented an interesting challenge, differing on the forehand and backhand strokes. They wanted to get away, to cause trouble I hadn't permitted. I focused hard and breathed slowly and deeply. They did what I wanted them to do, within reason.

Eventually my shoulder tired, and I switched sides, but realized once the handle was grasped in my off hand that I didn't trust myself to land on target. Making a mental note to practice that, I stroked the tails into a compliant river of red suede and wrapped them around his neck with my hands. I pulled him back against me, nuzzling my face into the top of his neck and taking his skin between my teeth. I bit down, gently at first and then harder, and was rewarded with a small squeak.

"You're being such a good boy," I told him. "Isn't it easier when you're not fighting me?"

He shook his head side to side.

"No? Well, that's all right." I sighed, feigning disappointment, wondering if he could hear my smile. "Nothing good comes easy." I released his neck from the tails and drew my free hand down his back. His skin glowed warmly under my fingertips. I caressed him softly for a moment, then dug my nails into him and raked a set of lines from shoulder to waistband. They flashed white, disappeared, and then reappeared in light red, accentuated nicely by his pink flush.

"You just need a little encouragement." I put the flogger on the floor and made both hands into claws, sinking into his skin on either side of his spine. Some of the purple wax trails caught under my nails and flaked off, fluttering to the floor at my feet. When my fingers reached his ass, they caught in the top of his shorts.

"Why didn't you take these off earlier?" I demanded, hooking a finger in the waistband and snapping the elastic against his side. He managed a shrug. "Because you were too busy fighting me," I answered, pulling them down to just under his cheeks and smacking first one and then the other with my open hand. I walked to the table, selected something that had apparently been borrowed from me without my permission, and walked back.

"Do you like these shorts?" I asked, and he nodded. "I hope you enjoyed them while you could," I said. "This is what happens when you're stubborn." I held out the waistband with one hand and sank my pocketknife into the knit fabric with the other. It took some work to get through the elastic and the seams, sawing carefully to avoid stabbing Aiden in the leg while I worked. When I had opened one leg, the shorts gave up and slid down his other leg, falling in a heap around his ankle.

I put a hand between his legs and stroked his balls. "Much better," I said. "Now I can get to all of you."

Correcting a Pathway

Starting to learn about this game from the other "side of the fence," as Bruce calls it, has restarted my learning in general. Some time ago, I looked for information about being a good sub, and there was a surprising dearth of it. It seems I was looking in the wrong places, as I'm now learning almost as much about bottoming as I am about topping.

I'm not sure exactly what went wrong or when; it was a process. But I let it take me to a negative headspace that I'm only now starting to see. I don't have the words to draw anyone else a picture of it yet. It's not that clear even to me. I will say that I let a lot of things happen that I shouldn't have.

I don't refer to boundary pushing, at least not in its usual sense. I'm not saying that Aiden has pushed me too hard. I enjoy testing the limits, and it has nothing to do with having gone "too far" in any given activity. It's a switch in my head, like the switch that puts the train on the left or right set of railroad tracks, that's sometimes just wrong.

When the switch is in the right place, I can be pushed hard and far and things will probably go well. When it's not, even the smallest thing will shove me off in the wrong emotional direction, and I don't stop and correct. I roll with it, waiting to see where it goes until it crashes into disaster, because that's the only place it has ever gone, the only place I know how to reach.

It feels strange, realizing I need to back way up and almost start over, but I think that's the necessary correction. I think I need to safeword out of that headspace the next time I feel it, to prove to myself that I don't have to go there and to start building a new pathway over the old one.

The question is, will I remember at that time that I decided this choice is important?

For the Sake of the Thing

Yesterday I took the opportunity to grab a mulligan of Thursday. I had more and better plans, and had acquired some better props in the interim. I also remixed my playlist, making it longer by two tracks and removing an irritating pop that had snuck into version one. I set up the iPod and speakers, put a nylon strap under the mattress, laid out my chosen toys, and dressed in a black rhinestoned bra, black lace thong, and black knee-high socks with a pink and purple heart motif.

Not all of the toys got used, which was the plan. Getting out more than I need gives me flexibility to choose the right one for the moment. A pair of wolverine claws alternating with a fuzzy boot cover worn over one forearm were good entertainment when used on his back. A large portion of the scene became an experiment in flogging with music. I'd listened to the songs I was using enough to know the high and low points, the bridges and bass drops. I made use of it, striking with the rhythm, pausing when the beat did, teasing with the breeze of whiffed tail tips on long suspended notes.

Aiden didn't react to most of it. His only communication was when a tail got away and struck him in the neck. My flogging skills are okay but not yet wonderful. I'll get there with practice.

I closed by rolling him onto his back and riding us both to orgasm, removing his blindfold before we got there but leaving the cuffs on. Even my approach and entry into orgasm patterned itself with the music; it really is part of me. It's easier to control and manipulate me with music than with anything else.

When we were done, I dropped hard, curling into a panting, teary-eyed mess on his chest. I got so far into my head in scene, thinking and watching and listening and planning and analyzing and moving, that I was amazed at the emotion that emerged afterward. The passionate side of me was watching the scene from the corner, I guess, waiting patiently for its turn at the end. I wrapped myself around Aiden and held him tightly, grateful that he seemed to be in no hurry to go anywhere.

I asked him for feedback, since I got pretty much nothing in scene.

"I have a great time any time you come that hard," was his response. That made me smile, but wasn't informational.

I tried asking about his boundaries and preferences, and he said he didn't know what they were after not thinking about them for fifteen-plus years. I pointed out that he gave very little feedback in the moment and he seemed slightly surprised, then said that perhaps the lack of reaction stemmed from watching BDSM porn, in which the bottom is expected to be as stoic as possible. (Not in my experience, but apparently in his.)

He agreed when I suggested it that he has more fun as a top when I'm a reactive bottom, so at least there's that. I explained that I can just take his lack of reaction as boredom and an indication that I need to make him react with more stimulation, but that I didn't want to wave that assumption around without stating it first. I'm willing to find his boundaries by exploration, but I need him to know that's what I'm doing before I begin. Playing top is already scary for me, since it's new territory, and playing with a nonreactive bottom makes it even more nerve-wracking. I certainly don't expect wanton screaming if it's not obviously called for, but complete stillness and dead silence mess with me. It feels like dropping a rock into a pond and having it mysteriously disappear without a single surface ripple. Was that good? Bad? Indifferent? Now what do I do? More of that? Something else? Quit and walk away?

He told me that there's a wide range of things he can enjoy if I'm enjoying them, but that just leaves me feeling at loose ends. I'm not doing these things because I like going through the motions. I'm doing them because I like what they might do to him; I like his reaction to my actions. If I wanted to swing a flogger or draw with a knife for the sake of exercise, I could do it without my favorite sexy human being on the other end.

Misstep

I like newbie practice nights when Aiden can't get childcare...if I stay home, we get several hours of time together. Disadvantage: we have to keep the noise down to not wake up the kid. Advantage: it's not work hours, and it's dark outside.

I wanted to add music to our scening; I've wanted to do it for quite some time, but the last time I suggested it to Aiden, he said "That's a great idea!" and then ignored it like all of my other "great ideas." Now that I'm doing my own scene design, though, it's up to me. I spent a couple of weeks sifting for new music, building playlists of old and new, sorting it into categories and giving it ratings, rearranging my playlists, and finally, using Audacity to build one of them into a smoothly transitioned single track.

I took advantage of last Thursday, or I tried. It went fine, at least from Aiden's perspective, so that's something. But I learned a lesson about insufficient planning that I won't soon forget. My playlist was a tad too short, I couldn't find half the physical objects I wanted, I started to chicken out of the scene as soon as I got home, and then I forgot several of the things I did get together once in scene. He said it was an interesting experience to be on the receiving end of something that got labeled "incorrect" when it didn't seem that way from the bottom. I was glad he had a good time, but Disappointment took a solid chomp out of my ass and I gave myself a very bad evening.

Note: making your own vampire glove by sticking thumbtacks through the fingers of a glove sounds like a good idea, but the result is that the tacks turn themselves around when applied to a victim, and insert themselves in your fingertips instead of his back.

Suffering some post-scene drop and a lot of frustration, I went to bed early with my iPod. Aiden came to find me. He sat down and asked why I was in bed, and I couldn't bring up good words, but I knew I needed a hug. He started to get up, and I sank my fingernails into his arm; my first reaction was to turn away, but I made the effort to reach out and say I needed him in the only way I could muster at that moment. He walked away anyway.

Feeling like I'd taken a punch in the stomach, I got out of bed, put on slippers, and left the house. It was a chilly fall evening. I took a walk around the park across the street and finally settled under a tree, out of view of the street. Hiding in my hoodie, I listened to my playlist and wondered where it had let me down.

The problem, really, was exactly the opposite: I had let down my creation. I'd set out to bring Aiden into my musical world, to show him my experience, to invite him to a part of me he'd never experienced, and I did it badly. His introduction to my world should've been explosive and amazing, but a series of small screwups that would have been inconsequential alone or in a different circumstance instead combined to an experience that was not exactly as I imagined, and was therefore a complete failure. The scene itself was fine when taken by itself. The scene as it served a purpose in my head, the purpose of showing my private world to Aiden, failed.

I returned to the house and went to sleep.

The Presentation [fiction]

There is one problem with office dinners, and it's not the company or the food - it's the speeches. I stole a glance at Aiden, unable to tell for sure but guessing he was as bored as I was.

"...from the beginning we have been supported by our friends and neighbors..."

I'd lost track of how long Fred had been droning on from beside the projector. The dinner was gone, the lights were dim, and I was having trouble not falling asleep. I dug my fingernails into my palm, hoping the pain would make me feel more alert, but it didn't do much.

Aiden stifled a yawn, and I grabbed his hand and sunk my nails into his forearm. His eyes widened in surprise, and then the sleepy look was gone and the corners of his mouth were twitching. The sidelong stare and raised eyebrow only made me want to do it harder.

"...the communities in which we live and work..."

I tightened my grip, breathing into my fingers and wondering if I could draw blood. Aiden shifted slightly in his chair and his chest peaked as he took a deep breath. The room was silent except for Fred's voice and the occasional click of his mouse as he moved between slides.

Leaning forward slightly gave me better leverage. Aiden tried to pull his arm away, but I squeezed his wrist and pressed it to my thigh. The force required for him to get free would cause a noticeable commotion. He stopped moving.

"...but things were a little different back then." Scattered laughter arose from the tables.

Aiden was no longer watching the CEO, but had fixated instead on some point in the ceiling. Slowly, deliberately, I dragged my nails up his arm, watching with satisfaction as the white tracks I left turned pink and then red. He took another deep breath but stayed otherwise still.

We were at the back of the room, all the people in nice clothing with their sides or backs to us. Only Fred was looking my way, but I was willing to guess that the light from the projector had him pretty well blinded. I slid my chair back a few inches.

"As you can see here, there was a problem with the design..." He turned slightly so he could point at the image on the wall, and I grabbed my chance. As quickly and quietly as I could, I pushed my hips forward and slid off the chair onto the carpet. Ducking under the floor-length tablecloth removed the rest of the light, and I took a second for my eyes to adjust.

Putting my hands out to avoid attention-getting incidents such as cracking my skull on a table leg, I turned awkwardly on my knees in the cramped space and found Aiden's feet. My hands slid slowly over his knees, up his thighs, to his lap, where I unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his pants. The belt made its distinctive clinking noise, and I grabbed it, hoping no one had noticed but unable to check through the tablecloth. Aiden's hand closed over mine, and I released the noisy buckle into his care.

I took took caution with the zipper on his pants, more than I needed to, knowing that the light brushing of my fingers over the fabric was a torturous tease. When I eventually freed him, he was hard as a rock, and I grinned hugely to no one as I wrapped my hand around his shaft and squeezed him tightly.

There wasn't much room between the table and his lap, but by putting my shoulders between his knees and my chin on the seat of his chair, I was able to get most of his cock in my mouth. I reached my arms around the sides of his chair and grabbed his ass, holding tight and pulling his hips toward me.

Unable to adjust my position, I came frighteningly close to choking, but swallowed hard and pulled it together. I teased him with my tongue, licking and sucking, brushing him with the just the very tips of my teeth. One of my hands just fit under the edge of the table, and I snuck it up his shirt. He tensed as I sank my claws deeply into his chest and raked them downward, and then he was shaking and I was swallowing frantically to avoid drowning.

I had sat back on my heels and was licking my lips when I heard applause. I panicked for one eternally long second, thinking somehow we had been caught, and then realized that Fred had finished his speech and everyone was expressing their gratefulness that he had stopped. The lights came up as I scooted out from under the tablecloth and returned to my chair. If you act like nothing out of the ordinary just happened, people will believe you remarkably often.