“Purple seemed more appropriate than red … because, well, your name.”

I took the roses from him and he shrugged off his coat without hesitation, stooped to untie his boots and tucked his gloves into them. The roses were too cold to be fragrant, the crisp cellophane collar around them fogged with condensation after being brought in from the winter night.

“It’s really coming down out there. Feel – cold hands!” He chuckled and slipped his icy hands under the back of my sweater. I winced and he kissed me, part hello, part apology. I stepped back, feigning a smile and turning to take the flowers to the kitchen. He caught my arm. His grip was a little too urgent, a little too much.

“Hey, you haven’t said a word to me yet. What’s wrong?”

I stared into the nest of pale purple petals, the spray of baby’s breath, the stiff, waxy fern. I swallowed hard to keep the tears at bay and pulled away to find a vase, to keep my shaking hands busy. He followed me, leaning past me to reach down the vase from atop the kitchen cabinet. His hands planted themselves on the counter at either side of my hips, boxing me in against the sink. I turned on the water so he couldn’t hear my breath coming faster.

“You’re not going to speak to me? Violet, what the hell? What did I do this time?” His voice rose with his last question, sing-song and condescending. Then a gentler version of him, “C’mon, you can tell me anything.” His arms slipped around my hips and shoulders as he kissed my neck and worked his hands under the waistband of my pyjamas, and into the neck of my sweater. I cringed as he squeezed my breast.

“You’re going to be so mad,” I whispered. “I’m scared to tell you.”

“Scared to tell me what?” He turned me around so we were facing each other, his hand was rough as he pushed my chin up, forcing me to look at him.

“Is it something about Matthew? You know I’m okay with it as long as the rules are followed.” I shook my head yes.

“Then just tell me! What could it be? Were the explicitly clear rules not followed?” I shook my head yes, eyes brimming.

Abandoning the flowers I moved past him to the living room and waited for him to sit down.

“I may as well just show you. Please, please don’t be upset.”

He waited, sitting back into the sofa, an ankle crossed over his other knee. I stepped back and slipped off my pyjama pants and pulled my sweater over my head. At first his silence was deafening and then he spoke.

“Jesus, Violet. He did all of this?” he gestured vaguely, his voice hardly above a whisper as he took in the deep purple bruises mottling my breasts and ribs and thighs, blooming like dahlias under my skin.

“Did … did you want him to?”

I nodded, tears spilling.

“The only rule is no marks. I know you don’t want it ‘rubbed in your face’ when I’m with him, but we got carried away and I didn’t think I’d bruise so badly and now I feel like I’ll be tainted or a bad reminder, and you’ll be mad and I …”

“Stop. It’s alright. I don’t feel like I thought I’d feel. Come here.” He opened his arms and I sank down into his lap, straddling him as he pulled me closer. To my surprise he kissed my hair and exhaled softly into my neck. He kissed my mouth and I felt myself start to relax. We kissed more and I felt him harden against my inner thigh. He ground himself against me, his hand now in the back of my hair, pulling at the roots as he pressed harder against me. With his other hand he crushed a bruised breast and watched as I pulled away, wincing.

“He did a hell of a job on you. You have a thing for sadists, huh?” I cried out as he slapped the same aching breast.

“Get on the coffee table.”


“The coffee table. On your knees, facing me.”

“But … what?”

He pushed me off his lap and undid his pants as I moved some magazines and knelt on the table.

“Knees wider. Show your cunt.”

He began to jerk his hard cock with his hand, immediately concentrating hard enough that the tip of his tongue stayed on his lower lip. I flushed with humiliation but spread my knees and leaned back on my hands.

“Fuck yes. I thought I wouldn’t want to see evidence of him fucking you, but this …. this is so hot. Touch the bruises.”


“Touch them. Press your fingers into them. I want to watch your face while you make it hurt all over again.”

“Tom … this feels … this is a bit fucked up …”

He lunged forward and slapped a deep purple bruise on my thigh. I yelped and bit my lip, the pleasure from the sudden pain was undeniable.

“There she is. There’s the pain slut.” He jerked himself roughly, his fist pumping as my fingertips traced my body, the high of exhibitionism and the deep pain of crushing fresh bruises was almost overwhelming. My thighs grew wet as I watched him watching me.

“You know what I’m going to do, since you like being bruised and used hard? I’m going to bruise you from the inside so when he fucks you tomorrow night and you’re yelping and moaning in pain those moans are mine. Understand?”

My eyes rolled back as I clawed and squeezed at my own battered flesh. He pounced, over taking me as I hurt myself for him, ramming me full, bottoming out hard against the back wall of my squelching pussy, his cock a sturdy battering ram, pummeling my cervix.

He finished quickly, he was crazed as he jackhammered my nearly limp body, reveling in my tears. When he was done, he laid me out on the sofa and sat beside me on the floor. He kissed my brow and covered me with a blanket. I closed my eyes and dozed for a few minutes. When I opened my eyes he was on his phone, texting.

“Oh hey, Sleepy. I’m just texting with Matthew. I hope you don’t mind but I told him about all of this. He’s into it. In fact, he’s on his way over.”

All I could do was nod and smile and enjoy the way the weight of his hand on my hip made me ache with pain and desire. I closed my eyes again and waited for our friend to arrive.

Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.