The truth of the dark months and why I dig Persephone’s kinky winter retreat

I found this POEM online. Someone had quoted it on Facebook and given very little detail about the author. All I can find is this link to a tumblr called spuffyduds. Beats me why someone who can write something this outstanding wouldn’t want to put their name ALL OVER IT.

“Persephone Lied”

The truth is, I was bored.
My mother blissing ahead of me, rosebuds rising in her footsteps,
And I skulking behind, thinking,
Oh look. She walks in beauty.

Her power could boil rivers, if she chose.
She doesn’t choose. She scatters
Heliotrope behind her.

And me, I’ve no powers. I think she’d like
A decorative daughter. A link to the humans
She feeds with her scattered wheat.
A daughter wed to a swineherd’s just the thing
To show that Demeter’s a down-to-earth
Kind of goddess.

Do you know what swineherds talk about?
Diseases of, ways to cook;
“That ‘un’s got no milk for ‘er shoats;
Him, there, he’s got boggy trotters.”

And when he leaned in, smiling,
While we sat in a bower sagged with Mother’s honeysuckle,
When he said, “Now,
My herd’s growing and I’m thinking I could feed a wife—”
That’s when I snapped, I howled, I ran.

And when a hole opened up, a beautiful black, in all the pastels of my mother’s sowing.
Let me fix the lie: Nobody grabbed, nobody pulled.
I jumped.

I thought it was a tiny earthquake,
Thought I was killing myself,
Starting a long journey to Hades.
It was a more direct trip
Than I’d imagined—
I landed in his lap.

He just looked at me, said “Well,”
And kept driving his chariot down,
Flicked his leather reins near my face.
He did not give me flowers.
He never spoke of pigs.

Didn’t speak much at all. Just took me down in darkness
And did dark things.
I liked them.

I stumbled through his grey gardens, after,
Sore and smiling.
And the gardener said, “Little girl,
Little sunlit flower,
You belong in the world above.
Trust that they’ll come for you,
But while you wait
Don’t eat the food of the dead, for it will trap you here.”
And I said give me the fucking fruit.

But when I ate I could hear her howling,
See her spreading winter on the world.
My poor mother, who missed me after all;
My poor swineherd, starving.
Huddled up for warmth with the few he hadn’t eaten.

I spat out half the seeds.

So now I suffer through the summers,
Smile at the swineherd who tells me
Which shoat is off its feed.
Smile at my mother and walk behind her.
My powers have come to me now, and in her candy-colored wake I scatter
Sundew and flytrap, nettles and belladonna.

I smile and wait for November,
For when I come back to you.
Your clever cold hands and your hard black boots.
I don’t ask what the leather is made from.
I don’t think I want to know.


The myth of Persephone always got to me. I couldn’t stand the darkness of the winter months and so I imagined her descent into the Underworld as some sort of torture that we all had to endure. Demeter’s celebration at her daughter’s return to the world in Spring was so joyous and bright, and surely more preferable to the cold and the grey of the long drawn-out days leading up to it.

Something switched in me a few years ago. Winter is soothing balm to me now. In Summer I’m buzzing on full manic power. I’m on fire, shaving away at my sleep schedule for time to do everything that is calling to me. I’m surrounded by people, projects, and work, pulling me in many directions.

By the arrival of Autumn I’m sensing the need to slow down but I can’t find the brakes. The momentum is too strong; the addiction too sweet and rewarding to quit. Come December, the frayed edges of my psyche are peeling back dangerously close to the core. Hibernation tendencies creep in. The craving for sleep, for comfort food and warmth. Digging out cozy jumpers from the back of my wardrobe and thick socks to slip into boots.

Today I’m taking the morning in bed, with trips to the kitchen to make pots of tea (thank you, my Love, for the new teapot and teas). If I could spend two weeks like this, I would, but if one morning is all I can sneak, I’ll savour it as fully as I can. I imagine Persephone snuggled up in the womb of the earth, cradling the soreness in her hips from long nights with her dark Master, Hades, and I know just how she felt: not in any hurry for Spring to arrive.


I solemnly swear that I am up to no good

I am chaos.
The more order you try to instil upon me, the more I rebel.

I could enter a 12-step programme to quit chaos.
What would my life look like then?
I might be less stressed, more effective.
I might be more level and calm.
MIght even be a ‘normal’ person for a while,
Stop dressing like a fuckable slut for ordinary stuff.

Is that what any of us want?

You want me horny all night,
riding you till my hips ache; your flesh is raw,
waves of climax crashing out of me,
wearing us both into exhausted collapse.

You want the madness that possesses me,
so I’ll beg for you to fill me up,
to slam me round by hair and throat
and crush the air out of my lungs.

You want the fear as I recoil from
further pain yet dripping cunt still
egging you on to do those things,
to tear and bruise my skin.

I need it too.
Delivering chaos to me should be your job.
Perhaps I’ll tie you up and keep you here
for days like this? When calm and steady
is too much.

Just this to help me sleep:
the dark intensity you bring.

The First Blow

The first blow comes out of nowhere and knocks me to the floor. I’m up on my feet, sharp, in seconds, spinning around, fists clenched, guard up like you taught me. I have to land a punch but you’re hiding in the shadows, out of reach. You want me on the edge of fear. The adrenaline racing and flooding my cells. Senses sharpen as the night air cools my brow. I catch a glimpse of movement and react like clockwork: jab, jab, cross… I feel my fist connect with head, and bring my right leg up to take you out at the knee with one sharp kick, just like you taught me. I feel the impact, hear you land, the dull exhalation of breath as you’re winded by ground slamming into lungs. This might be my only chance so I take it now, picking up pace and pushing off hard, legs spongy, not fully my own.

You’re light and fast and I’ll tire before I get to the trees. Chest burning, pushing harder now, I run with all I’ve got. I’m freed from thought, pure animal survival kicking in. The trees are getting closer and I just might make it, every inch of me taut and straining hard. And then your breath on my neck, your hands reaching at me. I duck under your arms and move in close, weaving with the punches, just like you taught me. This is my strength: get in close and under their reach. Your best defence is to attack, you always say. But you know this. You know all my moves, my weaknesses and strengths and pushed to the limits of my response it’s simple for you to take me down – I’ve nothing left to draw on here and you slam me into the ground, the prey captured, ready to be devoured.

In that hunted moment, your lips crush mine and I taste iron. There’s no air in me and you could suck the life right from my mouth, a dizzying reality that I can’t fight. The whiteout coming over me so that I’m nothing but where I feel your hands tearing and clawing at my clothes and skin. No barriers between us now. My legs spread roughly by your knees, the weight of you on top of me and stones and branches printing their crude marks on buttocks, ripping through flesh, the rawness keeping me alive. No words exist but your hands pinning mine into the ground and you drive your cock into me hard, in steady, pounding thrusts and tear the climax from my shuddering limbs, a deep and primal longing, as you cum in howling agony and fill me with your load. Collapsing, giving in. I open more, enveloping, taking you in.

We walk back to the car park, rubbing elbows free of grit, shaking twigs and leaves from hair. My thighs are sticky from our lust, drenched in sweat and shaking wildly from the workout you’ve just put me through. I catch you look my way and lightly smile but the teacher in you returns,
“Your kicking’s really coming on. Keep your stance wide, stay sharp and focused, whatever your opponent throws your way. Same time next week?”
I grin. Best £40 I’ll ever spend.

On being a “three hole” submissive


The Rules‘ arrived by email, 9 days ago, after my second coffee date with the Prince of Darkness.  As he’d already taken to instructing me on what to wear, and asking me not to swear, and insisting that I arrive on time (and no, a text message to say I was stuck in traffic was not considered acceptable, and I still received a very public lecture about my lateness that day), I had naively asked him what his ‘rules’ were.  I thought it would tell me more about this quiet, enigmatic man that I was becoming so drawn to.

What I did not expect was a document explicitly setting out the sexual parameters for our relationship.  Parameters that focused heavily on punishment and discipline. Parameters that included my punishment being delivered by other males and females, as The Top might see fit.  And that The Top may outline the punishment before it is delivered, if he desires, but he might not.  And that Punishment may include Corner Time, when The Top decrees (I’m still wondering why so many subs on FetLife get freaked out about Corner Time – clearly I haven’t a clue).

Was this what I thought I’d be doing when I created my profile on FetLife? Holy fucking hell.  Noooo way.  Never.  I was a girl that liked a bit of rough sex, being spanked, sucking cock, and I wanted more.  That’s what I thought.  I can’t help laughing now, at the me I was two weeks ago.  Silly, stupid girl.

I recognised in myself the horror that Ana felt when presented with Christian’s contract (oh yes, I just broke the Golden FetLife Rule and mentioned 50SoG) and it made it all the more surreal.  My life had turned into something from a bad FanFic novel! I walked around giggling about this for a day.

With the Rules, the PoD wrote:  “Something for you to reflect upon. Don’t make a snap judgement but talk to me about them!”
“I would like you to be specific about my ‘general behavioural issues’, please.”
“Timekeeping for one. x”, was all I received.  Suddenly our long written evening communications dried up and I couldn’t fathom this out.
“Are you forgetting that I was early yesterday?” I typed. “Feeling pretty freaked out right now and wish I’d bought 2 bottles of wine instead of just one.”
“Stay with it and breathe.”  Came the very minimal response from him.

And here’s the thing.  I stayed with it and I kept breathing.  We kept having coffee dates; now sitting holding hands across the table, smiling inanely at each other.  If this arrangement is just for the PoD to get his sadistic rocks off, it doesn’t feel that way to me.
One morning I get this text: “I think about you all the time xxxx”
“Ditto xxxx”, I reply.

I go back and read The Rules and now they make me feel horny as hell.  I still don’t know what any of this means but there’s no way I’m quitting yet.  I still have so many questions.  My biggest fear is not about being physically harmed because I trust him to look after me.  But can I trust him with my heart?

Losing my kinky virginity

A couple of weeks ago I had my first scene.  There was a 4-day build up to it, as we chatted online and made that initial connection, and then we moved onto WhatsApp where things quickly heated up, with him giving me instructions to do things that kept pushing me further and further past the limits I’d lived with up till then.  It was intensely charged, highly erotic and my head was spinning as he introduced me to the ideas of the things he was going to do to me, and make me do, that coming Saturday night.

It was also a crash course in the etiquette of BDSM for me.  I had to call him ‘Sir’; he called me a slut a lot, and subPeggy (I preferred slut).  Through his naming of me, I observed this part of my psyche emerge.  She was really there and I’d had no idea.  As I paid attention to her, she grew in strength and became more solid.  As I accepted her, instead of rejecting her as a perversion or a deviation from the norm, I became stronger.  I became empowered.  And with this power came liberation too.  I cannot tell you how rich and fulfilling it is!

Every day I was devouring FetLife for information.  When I develop a new interest I literally eat, sleep and breathe it, so this is what I did.  If I was going to be entering this world, I needed to know the ins and outs.  I needed to know about rules, and safety, and consent…. and toys, and fetishes, and oh my god; I felt like a naive teenager before her very first sexual encounter.  Terrified but eager to break the spell by losing my kinky virginity as quickly as I could.

The thing that frightened me most was the prospect of wearing a collar, which he would put on me when I arrived.  I was sure that my will would rise up and reject this act of domination but when he made me kneel and placed it round my neck something very strange happened.  It was as if the woman that I am in daily life just got up and left the building.  She drifted away and in that moment the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders.  A sense of myself, who I am, still remained, but it was a simpler version of me, with no responsibilities and the only requirement she had was to do as she was told by Sir.

Things became a little vague from that moment on.  I think he put cuffs round my ankles and wrists and lead me to the bedroom on a leash.  I felt remarkably calm, but essentially he was gentle and polite and I expect that probably helped.  I wasn’t afraid.

I don’t know how long it lasted.  My wrists were bound and suspended above me and he beat me with various implements (soft flogger, paddle, riding crop, cane, I think).  I’m sure he didn’t hit me very hard, or I just have no memory of the pain, but the photo he took shows bright red marks and they left a gentle glow on my bum for a few days which was very satisfying to me.

It turned out that when it came to arousing me, he wasn’t very adept.  He wanted to tease me to the edge of orgasm and then deny me my climax but he never made the effort to get me anywhere near it, and then ended up shouting at me to cum now! cum now! which was fucking hilarious.  The thought of this sort of eventuality had never entered my mind.  And the promise of being fucked hard and long also proved to be a big fat wet dream for him, as he couldn’t ride me for more than a couple of minutes without getting short of breath and having to stop.  The general disappointment I felt about his small, limp dick (not the ‘medium endowment’ he had spoken of beforehand, but all men lie about this) would have been erased if he could have at least fucked me properly for a while.

And so I settled in to sucking his sad little penis for a couple of hours and at least found that to be an interesting diversion.  I let him play the part of Sir-giving-Peggy-deep-throat-training and whilst I’ve taken in much bigger dicks than this before, there was some enjoyment in the brutality of it for me.  Being taken to the edge of not being able to breathe, trying not to gag violently, eyes streaming with tears, proved to be something quite memorable…. my take-home moment of the night.

When we’d finished that part of the scene, he stood me up to face the mirror and tenderly said, “Look.  Look at her.  There’s Peggy.  She’s beautiful.”
And I saw her for the first time, and he was right: she was beautiful.  Something burst free inside my chest and I sobbed wildly because she was so beautiful, so natural, naked and pure.  Even with the collar round her neck, and the smudged mascara under her eyes.  Especially with these things!

When our play ended we were laughing and chatting.  He gave me water and told me to drink.  It all became quite mundane.  Putting toys away and looking forward to sleeping.  I wondered around naked in this stranger’s flat feeling completely at ease in myself; that has never been me before.  Perhaps because we’d shown so much of ourselves to each other there was really nothing else to hide or feel self-conscious about.  He loaned me a t-shirt to wear, I remember, as it was rather chilly then.  He made some remark about me being ‘high maintenance’ when I asked for a cup of tea and I felt a bit miffed, I mean, come on, I’ve just sucked your cock for two hours, at least offer me tea!  But he bought me a few slices of ginger cake and I realized how bloody hungry I was, and we sat in his bed eating cake and talking about our mutual love of the countryside.

Something strange happened after the light went out.  We started kissing and he finally became hard, so I got on top of him and rode him until he was exhausted and sore.  There was no giant orgasm for me, but it was orgasmish and sometimes I’m happy to settle for that.  I would have enjoyed it more if he’d employed less dirty name-calling during this interlude, but I think men do it because it turns them on and he was trying to stay hard until I came.  Maybe he was just trying to play the part of the mean old Dom. Either way, it wasn’t the real him.  I felt what he wanted to say and it was tender and sweet.  Just a lonely man looking for love.  So when it was done I let him hold me in a gentle spoons position and he drifted off to sleep, snoring peacefully.

I don’t ever sleep in a strange place but I lay there feeling at peace, reflecting on the strangeness and the non-strangeness of it all.

On Sunday I struggled through the tiredness I felt but it was mixed with elation at the new barriers I’d broken through.  The real prize, however, came on Monday morning when I woke up and discovered a huge beautiful bruise on each forearm, which must have been where he’d restrained me with the cuffs and tied my arms behind my back.  Inspecting the bruises gave me a deep sense of calm and satisfaction.  This lasted the best part of the week, until the bruises faded and disappeared.  I was proud of them.  They were a sign of my strength.  They were talismans that could take me back to that space of weightlessness, liberation and purity.  They were the tells that indicated I’d come home and found my kinky self before it was too late… that I wasn’t going to get subsumed by the heartbreak I’d been experiencing anymore.

The Ballad of Kali and Shiva

The phone has been silent for 18 hours now.
Your daily flow of messages dried up. The morning announcement of your feelings for me, missing. All day I’ve waited. Sent thoughtful little texts to nudge you… trying not to seem needy or neurotic. Now it’s 5pm and the desperate panic has arrived because THIS is new territory. We’ve been in each other all along: we never had to find each other but now I’m lost.

Two days ago we fell hungrily on each other in the afternoon, ripping clothes off without care. You pushed my face into the carpet, thrusting your hips against my ass and burying your giant cock inside my cunt…. waves of pain and bliss rolling through me. It was always like this, as you tore orgasms from me with greedy glee. Delighted at your own mastery, as you could demand, “One more for me, you’re not done yet,” and time meant nothing, measured only in our cum, the dampness of the sheets, the daylight passing, you riding me, into a state of shared exhaustion.

When we met we fucked so much, so hard and long that you injured your knees. One kneecap swollen up to twice its size. So we fucked standing up. We fucked in the kitchen, me pressed against the counter as you slammed into me hard. Me bending over touching the floor, your hands pulling me in tight against you and then sliding the length of your glorious cock in and out of me slowly until every inch of my pussy could feel the power and the strength of you. I thought nothing so beautiful could ever exist. We didn’t seek the orgasms that day, just the sensation of being inside each other, becoming one. We didn’t seek orgasms but they’d always come.

Perhaps no mere mortal can live with the burden of all that beauty. Perhaps we were always doomed to be consumed by the forces we created, the many lifetimes that we’d shared, stretching out across dimensions. The millennia of hatred for each other accumulated after every time we’d left or scorned the other. Who can live with this kind of knowledge? I’d hoped we could.

I take my evening walk along the river, the dog by my side, and try to find calm. The water, the trees, that usually work their magic on me, do nothing tonight. I’m torn apart and barely holding in a wail of agony because this is where we talked about our love. This is where I challenged you to admit your feelings for me and where the flood began. This place always empowers me to be bold. This is where the visions come in thick and fast. But in this moment I feel the hollow pain of your absence and know that you are truly gone.