[If you missed part 1 of The Turning, it is alive and well and living in our archives. Feel free to click on archives and check it out. But for now, here's where we left off last week:

"He was striking the same raw spot at the fatty underside of my butt cheeks with the end of his belt. Shortly it made me tremble and my thighs start to quiver. It began to feel like carving instead of slapping and suddenly I let out a hiss of pain.

Dead silence from behind me. I was afraid to turn around. I was afraid he would get me in the face with the belt, or that I'd see he was out of control. So I just waited, feeling these sharp daggers shooting over my ass. I waited..."

And now for the conclusion of The Turning:]

I waited, until finally I heard him whisper softly, "You OK?"

"I didn't say the safe word," I said, my voice sharp, irritated. It was pure instinct. But his taking me out of the moment pissed me off. I waited again.

Suddenly I felt him push against my back up between my shoulder blades, push me into the wall. He ran his hand gently over the burning fires of my ass. Then I felt his finger slide up inside my vagina. "Wet bitch," he said. "Get over there on the bed." He spun me around.

"Fuck you, you pig."

We struggled some. I was having afterburn on my ass and he was pushing me backwards now onto the bed. His face looked really twitchy, his eyes flickered. I pushed against him; he pushed back. When he got me down on the bed he straddled me at the waist, his fully clothed body towering over my fully naked one. I tried to sit up, he wrestled me backwards, pinching my nipples hard. The surprise of it knocked me back against my elbows and I had to wriggle to adjust them comfortably.

"Your arms OK?" he said in his submissive voice. It was daunting to me the way he could come and go from that persona.

"What do you care, you pig?" I shouted. "You're a pig!"

"Don't say that!"

"You're a pig."

"Shut up!"

"You'll never fuck me!"

He had one hand at the base of my throat and another at my crotch, his thumb on my clit and three fingers up my wet cunt.

"You're not in much of a position to say that, are you?" he snarled nastily. The fingers he had inside me were forceful, but the thumb lay ever so gently on my clit that I felt myself go all wet again -- I probably streamed all over his fingers.

"I'm going to take this pussy because it's mine, bitch," he said.

I really struggled now. I kicked and thrashed. This was the part that he most and least wanted. The part I would have to fight him for. I could see the tension wrenching his face.

Suddenly, he was pressing down on my upper chest, just below my neck, and I felt almost winded. I froze. His face went all knotted, twisted, unrecognizable. "Now, I'm going to punish you for fighting me," he said coldly. With his free hand he grabbed the belt. He seized it about 4 inches from the end and flapped it against the tip of my breasts, first one, then the other. I had seen it coming and braced. I shut my eyes and the belt whipped back, forth, back, forth, precisely -- not to the fleshy part; only as far as the areola each time, alternating breasts. I feared they would be purple when I next saw them.

"You're going to regret denying me," he snarled. Leather sting. "You whore." Leather sting. "You bitch."

Between my ass and my tits my body felt like a series of brush fires. And I was a little afraid of the tone in his voice. Part of me still wanted the extreme. It was like I couldn't stop, like an aching curiosity to see what was beyond the next sting. I thought that my eyes being closed made it easier for his animal to come out, yet I didn't want to open them. Was I afraid to quell the animal or afraid to face it? I never found the answer because I felt him forcing my legs open and I let him. I felt myself open up. He got up roughly and took off his pants. I enjoyed waiting there, open, hot, sore, for him. He was so hard he looked like he would come in the air, but when he tried to enter me, I bucked. I surprised myself. Having so much fight in me. I wanted him to fuck me, but I wanted it to be hard for him. Rough for me. I never knew I had such a sub in me.

"You're never going to fuck this, you pig!"

"I said don't call me that. You trashy little slut."

He got all spark in his eyes. That look again, like he was someone I didn't know. And he slapped at my inner thighs and opened up my legs forcefully and he was strong and it seemed desperate, and I went into a state where I was just fighting to see how much I could fight, with no desire behind it, just something blind and dumb and willful.

We were both wrestling hard, but he was not brutal, and always careful, so in spite of his faraway looks, I could feel that he was there, the concerned lover was there. But this other person was with him. It was like this other person was his dominant, taking me by proxy.

Somehow in the struggle, he ended up inside me, though I didn't know exactly when it happened.

"That's my cunt between these legs," he said while he thrust and slammed. The rhythm of abuse. "It's my cunt, isn't it?" He wasn't looking at me. He grunted these snippets, "deserve to get fucked," "when I'm through with you," "take that fucking hole," "you're never going to forget it" "get what it deserves" and so forth, never picking up steam at all, never escalating like a guy who's about to come. More like a guy who's given up, going through the motions. Still I was mesmerized by the rhythm. Mesmerized by these new sensations of pain, by the forcefulness of his cock inside me, by the stretch and pull of my breasts as his momentum shot them in one direction and then yanked them sharply in the other.

Suddenly he grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, as if to wake me from a sleep. When he stopped, he shuddered from one end of his body to another. And then he gasped and I saw his body wrinkle and fold like a blanket dropped from the air on top of me and he buried in there, shivering. I realized that I was all trembly myself and began to wonder who was going to bring down whom. He was lying on top of my soreness, squeezing himself all into my flesh, as if he could burrow inside me, and trembling like he had hypothermia. It was weird. And I just waited.

I knew there had been some childhood trauma around . We had talked about it, but never the details of who whom. We had anticipated something like this. But when it first happened, it caught me off guard for a minute. When I regained my wits, I extricated myself and went into dominant mode, comforting, holding, calming, soothing. Fortunately, I did not feel the need to come down myself -- not then, at least. It took him about two hours before he could talk about it. He sat at our kitchen table; I stood. My soreness was at the stage of not being fun anymore.

"There was another person in there," I said.

He just nodded and tossed me that look. The one that says we know each other's minds.

It's taken us quite a while to process all that. For a while before a scene, he would ask that I really beat him hard, really hurt him. He wouldn't use his safe words and he would push me, sucking up my sadistic energy to where I might break its back. That creature inside him. I didn't. I just let it pass. I took it out on him in the emotional range which only took a lot of energy from me. Took me beyond fun. But eventually, all this calmed down a bit.

Lately we've been talking about switching again. Just to see. And I admit that though it's not my thing, it is somewhat intoxicating. I wonder, will we eventually be fluid switches? Will this thing keep coming back like an addiction, or will it dissipate and fade away? I guess we'll have to play it out and see.