Break her. Protect her.

Friday morning. 4.45am. Sitting at the desk in my office. Upstairs, my girl lies sleeping. I should be next to her, curled up under the warmth of our duvet, but I am too wide awake and restless. I’d disturb her, and she has a busy day in store. After the dreams I had – in which I tried and was failing to protect her from harm – I’d need to hold her were I next to her. And she needs her rest.

She’ll be in here no doubt on Sunday, once he’s finished with her. He plans to break her. Physically. Emotionally. Break her hard. He’ll take pleasure in doing so. In almost our first conversation after meeting him at the weekend, he happily described himself as a “bastard”. A charming, intelligent, trustworthy bastard.

She’s overwhelmed. I can see that she’s been thinking of little else all week. Since he first played with her. Since he first abused her sexually: raping her, forcing her to do things I know she hates, as I watched. Since we three worked out the time at which they could play. I asked her last night how she was feeling. One word: “Sick.”

My girl. The girl I love more than I knew it was possible to love someone. The girl I’d do anything to protect.

And I want him to hurt her. Want him to make her suffer. Want to see her broken. Want her to wince at my touch, when I hold her after he’s left on Sunday night. Want to see her marks for days after, as a reminder of her abuse. Want her to need the safety and comfort of my arms, and of more gentle and loving intimacy. And I know she might want or need none of that: that play plans are fluid and her mind, his mind, their interaction may fly in ways as yet unforeseen.

She’s the mistress of her own destiny: has to be, in matters of kink and sex. This is her choice.

But I’m complicit in it, too.

Behind me, under a sheet, lies a large pile of implements. He sent through his requests: “Canes of various thickness. Floggers. A tawse. Four lengths of rope. Clothes pegs.” I had to disappoint him on the last item. So it’s me who’s selected the instruments of her torture. His choice as to how hard he wants to be. My choice to even include some of the more vicious items in the pile: I hope he doesn’t use them. I hope he does.

There’s a camera, too. Just in case he wants to use it. He’s been clever in soliciting ideas from me as to things that will help him to humiliate her.

I only struggled with one item on his shopping list: a pinwheel. I know it’s only marginally above a hard limit, rating just 1 on a scale of 0 – 5 on her limits list. As I wrote to him:

Not going to leave my pinwheels as I know she truly hates them. (Given they’re a ‘1’ on her limits list, it’s not something that I feel comfortable helping you with – sorry. But you choice of course as to whether you bring your own to use).

Something in me rather hopes he does. Something in me wishes I could have simply acceded to his request without question. But I have to be allowed to listen to my own emotions, too.

I’m due to be out, dropping a weekend house guest back home. I’ll text him as I leave, so he knows the coast is clear. He’s going to deal with her until I’m back. Two hours? Who knows with London traffic: I might be back sooner, if the traffic gods are kind to the Sunday drivers. Kind to her. It could easily take more. I can drive quickly, to get back and bring her ordeal to a prompter end. I could take my time: I don’t want it to end too quickly. An afternoon for enjoying the consequences of every minute in the inevitable traffic jams? I want her to suffer. I want him to have plenty of time to take his pleasure at her expense.

Let me save her. Protect her, this girl I love.

Break her for me. Break her for her.