It was the rain that did it. Don't you love the rain? Don't you love
the way it changes? Sometimes it's soft - velvet caressing your skin -
or cold and hard, or warm and seductive. Sometimes it attacks,
stabbing from the sky; other times it's a cloak, gradually enfolding,
drawing you to itself. Always the same essential elements, but always
different. Don't you love the rain?

The first time I made love to Ellie it was raining, driving from the
north, flashing hard against the window, thumping a tattoo to drive
the rhythms of our bodies. When we finished I threw open the window
and we stood before it, feeling the rain slash our skin, wind strafe
our faces. It was the most sexual experience I had ever known.

The last time I kissed her it was raining, too. I bent over and wiped
a trace of mud specked water from her lip. "I love you," she said, and
a flicker of a smile crept over her face before I rose and turned my
back on her. As I walked away the rain washed misery over self-pity,
dripping down my face with contemptuous ease. It is possible to laugh
and cry at the same time, I discovered.

Some years, rain is the steady accompaniment of summer. There was a
lot that year, the summer I met Ellie. It started in May and forgot to
stop until September, by which time I had fallen in and out of love
twice and committed murder. It was the rain that did it.

Ellie was magnificent. Her hair was black and curled and long, and in
her eyes was something close to transcendence. She peered at me that
first day, in Spencer's Bar, like a teacher inspecting a new pupil and
deprecating what she saw. With a flicker of the eye she moved further
down the bar, distancing herself from me, and I admired the casual
simplicity of her calculated put-down.

But it was too late: I would not be put down. I had fallen in love.

Crass, I know, ridiculous. How can you fall in love with someone who
has done nothing but give a disdainful look? Well, she did; and I did.

"Can I buy you a drink?" I asked.

"I don't know. Can you?" Her voice was hard, enunciation crisply
precise.

"<I>May</i> I buy you a drink?"

"And why would you want to do that?"

"Because I've had a good day and I'd like to share it with someone."

"Tell it to the barman. He's paid to do that shit." She took her wine
and retreated to a seat at the rear of the bar. My cheeks reddened.

The barman leaned towards me. "Don't worry, she's like that with
everyone."

"She's a regular, then?"

"Yeah, most evenings."

That was all the information I needed.

It was two days before she returned. I was waiting. "May I buy you a
drink?" I asked.

"And why would you want to do that?"

"Look on it as a prelude to fucking your brains out."

She turned and stared, her eyes focusing on mine with supreme
intensity. I could tell I was being appraised. Finally, she nodded.
"White wine, dry, large." She wheeled and walked to the same seat as
before. I began to shake, that wonderful churn of fear starting up in
my stomach. Smiling to hide my nervousness, I gathered the drinks and
turned towards her. She watched me approach, her lip curled in a
curious grimace, and nodded as I laid the glass before her. The
coldness of her expression was breathtaking, her eyes dark and
unwavering, mouth set forbiddingly. She was the antithesis of romance
- and as such, the embodiment of sexuality. My body was tingling.

"So," she said, staring into my eyes, "you want to fuck my brains out.
What makes you think I'm into that sort of thing?"

"Instinct, guesswork, hope."

"Sounds a bit desperate to me."

"Maybe I am desperate."

"Oh dear. I do hope not."

"Maybe I've fallen in love with you."

"Again, I do hope not."

"Sorry to disappoint, but I think I have."

"You know nothing about me."

"I don't need to."

Her expression betrayed derision as her eyes wandered round the bar.
"Grow up."

I felt like I'd been slapped. "Maybe it's just lust, then."

"That's better. More credible." Fixing her eyes on me once more she
settled back in her chair, toying with her wine glass and observing me
casually. "And what would it be like, having you fuck my brains out?
Sell it to me. As a concept."

I stared into my wine glass. "Rough," I said. "Raw. Hard. I'll use my
nails on you. Strafe your body with them. And I bite, and suck. I'll
sit on you and make you lick me until you're dizzy with lack of
oxygen. You'll scream for me to stop, and as soon as I do you'll
scream for me to start again." I looked up, registering the merest
flicker of surprise in her expression. "And then I will." I dropped my
hand to her thigh, resting it against her stocking, feeling the sleek
roughness of its texture on my fingertips. My nail grazed across her
thigh and hand slid beneath her skirt. "I'll keep on fucking you till
you explode. And then I'll swallow the pieces."

She swallowed hard, but I was impressed by how well she maintained her
composure. Gripping my hand, she eased it from her thigh. "Not today,
thank you, sweetie. An interesting scenario, but I think you'll find
it's me who does the fucking." And she rose and left.

"May I buy you a drink?" I asked the following evening.

"No, you may not." She retired to her usual seat and I sat at the bar,
observing as she sipped her wine. She was tough, that was for sure.
She refused to display any weakness, facing me out with icy hauteur. I
liked a challenge: my love increased.

"I may buy you a drink," I said the following evening. "Sit down and
I'll bring it to you." Quietly, she acquiesced. A frisson of
anticipation shivered through me: she was mine.

The barman raised his eyebrow as he served the drinks. I smiled,
confident of my success, but he didn't return my look and instead
walked away. A tremor of doubt ran down my spine but I turned and saw
her waiting obediently. I sashayed towards her and slid the drinks on
the table, easing myself into the chair beside her.

"Thank you," she said. She took the glass and raised it. At first, I
thought she was about to declare a toast, but she continued until her
hand was poised over my head. After a melodramatic pause, she tipped
it and poured its contents over me, the chilled wine cascading down my
hair and neck and chest. I spluttered and wiped my eyes, shivering
with shock. "Don't you ever give me an order again," she said. "I
don't take kindly to orders. Stick to your own league, little girl."
She rose once more and left me, sodden and humiliated.

I should have conceded at this point. Nothing of what subsequently
happened would have occurred if I had heeded her warning, but I was
obsessed. It was a battle of wills, and I was determined to prevail. I
wanted her so badly. Visions of her filled my mind. I lost myself in
the lustre of her hair, dark and wild, at once an enticement and a
barrier. The mask which concealed her thoughts - blank eyes, cold
mouth - came to obsess me as I alternated between trying to understand
it and wanting to penetrate it.

I had to have her. I returned to the bar on the next three evenings
and on each occasion she arrived, sidled to the bar and pointedly
ignored me. Each time I offered to buy her a drink and each time she
refused. From her seat she would stare, confronting me, and I was
gradually drawn into her web. It was clear she was toying with me,
relishing my discomfort, testing my resolve. <I>`I think you'll find
it's me who does the fucking,'</i> she had said. That was the key. As
I watched her watch me, I knew she was vying for control.

And if that was the case, let her have it. At first, anyway.

"Would you buy me a drink?" I asked the following evening. I felt
sickened by the deference in my tone, but forced myself to smile.

She stopped and turned, and for an instant I saw triumph cast across
her features before, once more, she assumed her mask of
inpenetrability. "Certainly," she replied. "Joe, one wine - large, dry
- and one small, sweet."

I was about to correct her but realised that would be falling into her
trap. "May I join you?" I asked. Nodding crisply, she turned towards
her table. I followed. She walked with exaggerated grace, swinging her
hips expansively, and I was transfixed by the sight of her backside -
beautiful, perfect, encased in a sleek, black skirt, shaped for ardour
and heartache.

"Okay," she said, indicating with a nod that I should take my drink. I
swallowed a small mouthful, trying not to cringe at its cloyingness.
"Do you still want to fuck my brains out?"

My heart was hammering. My senses were betraying my mind. "No," I
replied, swallowing. "I want you to fuck mine out."

She smiled. It was an expansive smile, but cold and calculating. I
felt inconsequential. "What a very good answer," she said.
"Cinderella, you shall go to the ball."

There was a hint of rain as we walked to my house, spots shifting in
the wind, sizzling against the coldness of my cheeks. I had to admire
how she took control. I almost felt grateful as I swung open my front
door and stood aside to let her enter. Wordlessly, she swept past and
headed straight for my bedroom, sliding off her coat and draping it
across the back of my chair.

"Take off your clothes," she said. Her nipples showed beneath her
blouse, but otherwise she betrayed no excitement. Her impassivity
served only to increase my own arousal: she was playing with me, using
my desire as a leash with which to lead me. I hated myself for
succumbing to such feelings but, perversely, the discovery of such
weakness within me merely fuelled my desire: it became a
self-fulfilling need. I stripped, self-consciously and with decreasing
confidence, all the time watched by the inscrutable woman. I began to
feel afraid as I unclasped my bra and let it fall to reveal my bare
breasts. She showed no emotion and a dart of dismay pricked my
consciousness: I wanted to please her.

It was almost a physical effort to force myself to take off my
panties. Fear was giving way to a sense of panic as I bent and slid
them over my hips, thighs, knees and dropped them to the floor.
Stepping out of them I looked up, trying to mask the apprehension I
felt. Still, she exhibited no emotion and I began to feel foolish.

"Very nice," she said baldly. "You'll make a pretty plaything." I
should have been outraged, but instead a warmness gurgled through me,
and I was shocked to realise that what I was experiencing was
gratitude. The notion was humiliating but that humiliation was, I
discovered, intoxicating. I didn't want to be treated like this, but
at the same time it excited me.

"Lie on the bed. Play with yourself. Show me yourself." I stood my
ground. This was a step too far, something close to abasement. She
stared at me icily. Her dark hair shimmered in the light and her mouth
was fixed, hard and beautiful. I looked into her eyes and saw the
reflection of my defeat. "Show me your cunt," she spat and pushed me
onto the bed. I succumbed and spread myself wide, sliding my downwards
and cringing as I explored the root of my arousal.

She watched me. She watched my fingers, my cunt, my climax, my
surrender. And through it all I watched myself, and hated it, and
loved it. I could grow to crave this, I realised. I forced my eyes
open as I climaxed and sought her approval. It didn't come.

"Very nice performance." Without another word, she picked up her coat
and walked out. When the front door slammed I crumpled into tears.

I didn't go back to the bar. I felt crushed by what had happened that
night. My sense of humiliation was overwhelming - I had been used like
some performing animal, made to display myself in the most demeaning
manner. That in itself was bad enough, but what made it infinitely
worse was that I had grown to enjoy it. And worse still, I knew, if I
saw her again, I would do it all over. As someone who had always
sought to dominate, that wounded me in a way I could scarcely
understand.

It had rained all day. Driving from the north, it battered my windows
relentlessly and I felt as though I were under siege. The noise began
to settle into my brain, fixed and dull, a permanent rhythm which
underscored the mood of the day. I couldn't get her out of my
thoughts. The sound of the storm pulsed in my head as memories of that
night ran and re-ran, quickening and slowing with the tempo of the
rain, awakening those feelings of humiliation and arousal and despair
and excitement. The air was humid, heavy with failure, summer lost to
the fickle power of nature, just as I was to the  power of lust.

I thought I was going mad.

The noise was spiking through my head and pulsing in my ears, and it
took some time before I realised there was a new rhythm, a peremptory
knocking, vying for attention. It was the front door, and I knew
instinctively it was her. She swished past me and swept into the
living room.

"Tidying up. How quaint. Just like little Cinderella."

"Don't speak to me like that."

"Like what, darling?"

"Don't patronise me."

She stared at me for some moments. "You're quite right. I apologise.
That was uncalled for."

I nodded, grateful to have gained some measure of equilibrium. Making
coffee, I composed myself, ignoring the echoes of rain and trepidation
in my head.

"I don't think I treated you very well the other night."

"No."

There was a long pause as we stared at one another, trying to guess
the other's thoughts.

"But did you enjoy it?"

Did I? Can you enjoy something you hate? Despite myself, I knew the
answer. "It ended rather abruptly."

"Yes, it did rather. Again, I apologise."

She was wearing a sleeveless black dress, the neckline plunging
towards her breast. Only the thinnest of bodies could carry such a
dress with elegance but she looked stunning. Two inch stilettos helped
define the shape of her ankles and drew my gaze up her legs, towards
her thighs, her hips, her breasts. Dark hair hung lush around her bare
shoulders, draping demurely so that when it moved and her flesh was
exposed it was as though it were a moment of revelation. Her
fingernails were deepest purple, livid, as though she had been tearing
raw flesh.

"And if it weren't to end so abruptly, would you do it again?" She
turned, legs stretching towards me, reflected light tracing a line the
extent of her stockings, as though indicating a route to heaven.

"I don't know. Possibly." Outside, the rain was growing heavier,
sleeting against the window as though impatient for action.

"Would you do it now?" The rhythm of the rain and the beating of my
heart began to merge to form the sound of desire. I knew I wanted it.
I wanted her.

"Yes."

She led me to my bedroom and once more I stripped, once more I
revealed myself to the woman I wanted to call my lover. I lay on the
bed and stroked myself wet. There was longing in my loins such as I
had never known, a craving to be touched, to touch, to know. "Please,"
I said, and stretched my hand towards her.

She smiled and began to undress. I watched, rapt, as she unzipped her
dress and stepped from it to reveal that underneath she was naked but
for her stockings. The flare of her hip, the symmetry of her thighs,
the slenderness of her waist imprinted themselves on my mind. Her
breasts were small, delicately shaped, nipples dark and upturned. She
was shaved, her slit pink and hairless and I was breathless as she
began to walk towards me.

"Do you want me?" she asked.

"You know I do."

She leaned over me, her breast grazing my face, nipple sliding against
my mouth. I sought it with my tongue but she pulled away. She stroked
my cheek with her hand, purple nails dragging against my skin. Her
flank was against mine, and the electric clash of skin on skin erupted
in my senses. She traced her hand down my cheek and across my neck,
towards my breast, and rolled her palm across it, dragging against my
nipple. With her eyes fixed on mine she gripped my nipple and
squeezed, rolling it viciously between her fingers. She smiled as I
winced.

"Will you do anything for me?"

The rain continued unabated, slamming against the window, insinuating
itself into my mind. It was relentless, the noise sludging through my
brain, leaving me weary and mesmerised. I couldn't fight it. I
couldn't fight her. However much I hated ceding control, she had me in
her grip. She was undeniable, unconquerable. Even then, part of me
wanted to rebel and fight back, to win her for myself. But only a part
of me.

"Yes," I replied. She smiled and bent to kiss my breast.

$$$

Bursts of light flashed with increasing intensity, the electric spark
of nature in its glory, control lost to elemental fury. The summer
storm was long and livid, vibrant and vivid, circling round and round,
refusing to dissipate, declining to part. On it went, two hours or
more, the air impossibly heavy, fat rain plumping straight downwards,
the smooth-dark sky scarred over and over to the beat of a constant
thunder.

It was a night for madness: the senses must eventually submit to
ceaseless assault. Ellie and I had been together for around six weeks,
our relationship growing daily in intensity. I needed her. I had long
overcome my reluctance to admit to such a need, letting myself slide
into submission, following where my enigmatic Ellie led. She taught me
about myself, introduced me to places I didn't know existed, opened my
mind to emotions and feelings which were too beautiful to be earthly.
The pleasure of pain and the pain of pleasure were my constant,
cherished aspirations, lofty in their seriousness, engrossing in their
physicality and always, always, orchestrated by her.

I submitted myself totally. When she took my hand and led me outside,
into the storm, with the rain thrashing my naked body, it seemed more
natural than if she had taken me to the bedroom. In the blackness of
our garden I knelt before her, gasping in the flaying rain, and
waited. A pulse of lightning cracked the velvet night, throwing
electric light on the world. Ghostly blue, Ellie stood above me,
smiling, and raised her dress. I bent towards her, groping, hoping,
sliding my tongue in search of its home. She waited until I was within
touching distance and then pushed forward roughly, sending me
sprawling backwards onto the sodden grass. Before I could settle she
was astride me, yanking my hair, pushing me hard against the ground.
Another flash of lightning streaked overhead, illuminating a maddened
glint in her eye, shading her skin in peach and silver. She sank to
her knees, sliding herself over my face, settling herself on me,
smothering me with her pussy.

As thunder rumbled incessantly, my ears thrummed with low energy.
Ellie was pressing hard, her knees pinning my arms, leaving me
helpless. Rain speared into my bared stomach and legs, slicing into my
skin and rolling icily to the ground.  Twice in as many seconds her
face was revealed by the night's magic, silver and severe, her eyes
lost to expression, focused on an inner journey. I was genuinely
frightened, struggling beneath her weight, trying to free myself, as
all around the elements colluded in my assault. My chest was
convulsing uselessly in protest at the lack of air and my head was
full of noise. It was a pulsing fear, riving thunder, the gallop of
impending death, and yet even in my panic I remember one thing, and it
is the thing of which I am most ashamed and most proud: throughout, as
I struggled for air, as I hovered on the verges of panic, my tongue
remained in Ellie's cunt, sliding up and down between her lips and
rolling around her clitoris.

In another lightning flash I saw her reach back and felt her hand on
my breast. She gripped my nipple and twisted violently. I tried to
scream as shock slithered through my body. Somehow, it afforded me
unwonted strength and I bucked beneath her, thrusting my shoulders
upwards. Off balance, she fell forward and I felt a surge of air enter
my mouth.

Ellie quickly composed herself. She slid her knees sideways and fell
on top of me once more. She was soaking, her velvet juices sliding
into my mouth, and I flashed my tongue against her clitoris. Her dress
now covered my head, but even through the dense fabric I could see
lightning every two or three seconds. Again, I felt the delirious
dizziness of suffocation as she pressed herself to me, her thighs
tensing and  muscles jerking. She rode me harder and faster, rough and
truculent. I was on the verge of passing out, my brow cold and mouth
metallic, when I heard her scream and felt her body tense to a climax.
My mouth enclosed her clitoris and I sucked fiercely. Ellie screamed
once more, the storm darkened, its noise engulfing me, and I passed
out.

It was the rain that did it. No other explanation.

I've been in control all my life. I've sought control all my life.
That was what made Ellie special: she made me cede it. "Will you do
anything for me?" she had asked and I agreed. Over the weeks she
tested me, sought the boundaries of my obedience, but each time I
performed to her satisfaction, and I began to think I had no
boundaries. She spanked me, bound me, dressed me like a tart and
paraded me through town. She even bought me a collar which I proudly
wore, panting with quiet restraint as she slipped a lead onto it and
trailed me behind her. Truly, the hunter tamed. Our games became
increasingly wild. There was a three week period, in late July, when
only we existed, where our lives were consumed by sex and
experimentation. And, of course, rain.

There was gargantuan rain that night, too - huge, sliding, oozing rods
suffused with such certainty you began to doubt they would ever stop.
We had had an argument - something trivial, but the day had been tense
and sex-laden: we were both exhausted and it was obvious that only a
slap would resolve it.

"Bitch," she said and slapped me hard across the cheek. Refusing to
cry, I stood my ground, facing her out. I wanted to see love in her
eyes but that night, for the first time, it wasn't there. I think I
knew then it was the end for us. Seeing my resolve, she began to
waver. "I'm sorry," she said.

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not. Do you mind?"

Walk away, walk away. If only I'd walked away.

"Why should I? I'm just a bitch."

Even now, I don't know what I meant by that: fantasy and reality were
becoming too blurred. She grabbed my hand and pulled me outside, into
the embrace of the rain. Facing me, she slapped me again and waited
for a response. I made none. Rain slid down my face, like a balm
against the sting of her hand, seducing me with its magic.

"Thank you," I said.

Enraged, she slapped me again, and again and again. Five times in all,
each time searching for the limits of my endurance, each time seeking
affirmation of her own dominance. And each time I thanked her,
refusing to be cowed, and her control receded. She pushed me to the
ground and fell on me, snarling and pulling my hair. Wrestling herself
into position, she sat astride me once more.

"Bitch," she repeated.

"Bitch," I replied.

She pulled up her skirt and slid forward onto my face, and once more I
felt myself entombed by her crushing weight. Despite my anger, I slid
my tongue into action, parting her lips and darting inside, but this
wasn't about sex, or love, or control. At first, I didn't understand
what was happening. A burst of warmness filled my mouth and it was a
moment before I realised it was liquid. Confusion gave way to
disbelief, and disbelief to anger, and anger to impotent fury as my
mouth was filled by a stream of piss. I struggled, but Ellie held my
head fast, pressing herself against me so hard I couldn't even close
my mouth. Frantically, I swallowed and swallowed, feeling her piss
rise up through my nose and gather helplessly in my mouth like a
rain-flooded drain. At first I tried to gulp it down, but that merely
triggered the reflexes in my throat and made me choke. Finally, I
relaxed and let it wash into my stomach, a rain which broke my heart.

It was the rain that did it.

I told her I didn't want to see her again. There was nothing else to
say, and she didn't argue as she gathered her belongings and left. The
trouble with searching for boundaries is that eventually you find them
and, once found, they scream to be crossed. I was miserable. For days
I didn't go out, didn't speak, barely lived. When I swallowed I could
taste her piss, so I never ate.

July turned to late August and gradually the wounds healed. I began to
visit the bar again and formed a friendship with the barman. We never
mentioned Ellie and her memory dissipated.

Until she appeared.

"May I buy you a drink?" she asked. Her voice was thin, uncertain. She
was smiling, but her smile revealed nervousness.

"No, you may not," I replied and swung away from her. I meant it, too:
there was no place in my life for her any longer. But then she said
the words which sealed our fate.

"Would you buy me a drink, then? Please?"

You can't control your emotions. It's the downfall of us all,
eventually. A burst of sexual excitement erupted through me, a
momentary surge of lust which filled me with dread. I tried to fight
it but I knew I was lost. I turned to her.

"And why would I do that?"

"I owe you a huge apology. I behaved atrociously." She paused, her
eyes pleading. "I deserve to be punished."

I was stunned. Ellie, the control freak, was offering herself to me. I
wanted to fight, but it was pointless: lust won. I smiled. "Joe, two
wines. One large, dry, and one small, sweet for the little lady."

As soon as we returned home I made her strip - in the hallway, with
the front door open. I knew she hated it, but she obeyed meekly. I
left her there while I fixed a drink. In truth, my mind was in
turmoil. I could never forgive what she did and part of me wanted to
throw her out; but equally, there was a thirst for revenge, a sexual
urge to finally control the woman who had so entranced me. And more
than that, although I fought to deny it, I knew that I loved her. It
was a reckless love - ruinous, doomed - but love nonetheless, and you
can lie to anyone but yourself.

More's the pity.

"Come here," I snapped. Silently, she padded into the living room and
stood before me, naked and vulnerable. I sat in my armchair and
appraised her. "So you're sorry?" She nodded. "And you want to be
punished?" Again, she nodded. "I don't know. I don't know if this can
work, Ellie."

"Yes it can, please."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to lose you."

"Why?"

"Because I love you."

We were alike, Ellie and me. Neither of us liked to show vulnerability
and I doubted she had ever said those words to anyone before. Nor had
I. I shook my head. "But things are different now."

"Yes, I know."

"And you don't mind?"

"Not if it means keeping you."

"So will you do anything for me?"

"Anything."

I smiled, through relief rather than triumph. "Get over my knee,
bitch."

I spanked her until she screamed. I spanked the anger and frustration
out of my body. With each stroke I felt my fury decrease and my love
grow until, by the end, I knew that I loved Ellie more than anything
in the world. We would surely destroy each other, but we couldn't be
parted. She slid off my thighs and crumpled to the floor. Taking her
face in my hands, I soothed her tears into her red-soft skin.

"If you ever do anything that comes between us again, I'll kill you,"
I said. I didn't realise then that I meant it.

She smiled. "Never. Never."

We were together, and she was mine. There was happiness in the world.

I didn't want to kill her. I really did love her, but it happened,
like rain, like shit, like things happen. And the funny thing is -
even now, knowing how bad I feel, how much I miss her, if I could go
back and undo it, I wouldn't. Some things are meant to be.

Love blossomed second time around. We fell in love again and it was
magical, a mix of domination and devotion. Ellie was my girl, my
plaything, squealing at my spanks, screaming at my licks, squirming at
my touch. Summer dripped by, August into September, and every day was
an exploration. But gradually - and I can only really see this in
hindsight - the tone of our relationship began to change. It had
always been a game played at the edges of decency -  pushing and
testing - but increasingly it became personal and bitter: arguments
which once had an element of contrivance were now full-throated;
punishments which before had a spark of mischief now reeked of
rancour; and mute obedience sullenly slipped towards dumb insolence.
We lost the joy.

It was clear Ellie was struggling with a submissive role. She was
exotic, a bird of paradise, and in captivity her soul died little
deaths with each passing day. I wanted to set her free, but I needed
her too much.

 From selfishness stems such sorrow.

It was the rain. Rain like I'd never seen, never heard, never felt. It
was alive, a sobbing, seething mass pulsing through the air and
through my head and mind and consciousness, pummelling my body,
driving my clothes cold and stiff against my protesting skin. It was
the rain that made me kill Ellie. It drove me mad, that's all I can
say. Knives cut through skin alarmingly easily, you know. The initial
penetration is a bit of a strain, but after that it's easy. You can
feel metal rasping through flesh, sense its serated edge finding a
route through sinew and fibre, vein and flesh. It's a memory that
never leaves you.

And nor should it.

We were barbecuing in the garden when the rain arrived. With it came
ill-temper and incaution.

"You're going to leave me." I didn't look at her as I spoke. I didn't
want to see the lies.

"Really sweetie? What makes you think that?"

Her words confirmed it and my heart sank. She hadn't spoken to me like
that for months, condescension dripping from every syllable. I looked
into her eyes and saw the blank look of someone who had already made a
decision.

"Oh Ellie, you really are, aren't you?"

She denied it for some minutes, her voice shrill but unconvincing. I
pressed her and finally she snapped. "And why would I do that? What
would drive me to do that, do you think?" Her voice was cold and
challenging, as it had been in the bar those months before. "What
causes someone to leave? Because they're happy? Fulfilled?"

"You should have talked to me if you weren't happy..."

"Oh grow up."

"No, you grow up. Don't patronise me every time you go on the
defensive and can't think what else to say. It's a coward's way of
arguing."

"Oh, I'm sorry sweetie. Have I been naughty? Do you want to spank me?"

I slapped her hard, the crack echoing round the room like a rallying
call for indignation. Instantly, she slapped me back, and in that
moment love died. Though neither of us knew it yet, so did Ellie.

Her voice was heavy with sarcasm, lip curled in a dismissive sneer. I
felt a surge of anger as she spoke. "You haven't a clue, darling. You
stride about, playing the madam, showing off your `<I>dominant</i>'
personality. Can't you see, that's not dominance? It's just your
insecurities calling. It's a subterfuge, little girl, concealing your
inadequacy. You're just too vanilla, dearie. No imagination, no
adventure." Her voice was rising to a shout. "Do you know how boring
it is, being bent over your lap every fucking day, same crap, same
dreary, dismal rubbish? Do you know how boring it is? Really? How
boring you are?"

I tried to say something but no words came. My hand was on the
barbecue knife and I gripped it unthinkingly. Rain was thundering on
my head, its pulse driving dementedly into my mind, insinuating, a
slew of madness slushing over my thoughts.

"I tried, I really tried," she continued. "But frankly, I don't think
you're worth the effort." She was facing me, her demeanour
confrontational. Fear, anger and confusion swirled round my brain.

"Bitch!" I yelled.

"Temper, temper."

Her patronising voice was the catalyst. Almost blinded by rain, I
swung my arm at her. I don't know if I knew the knife was in my hand
at that moment, but it doesn't matter: I'm not making excuses. It slid
through her skin so easily, so beautifully, it was almost a moment of
poetry. Ellie stared at me, open-eyed, then slid meekly to the ground.
Keeling over, she lay on the grass and looked up at me, smiling.

"You silly bitch," she whispered. There was a fleck of mud on her
mouth which I eased away before caressing her cheek. "I still loved
you. Still do."

I shook my head, crying. "You don't. You love what you want me to be.
But I'm not that."

"And nor am I." Her face was creased with pain, the smile erased by a
mask of death. People look so vulnerable in the seconds before dying -
it's the moment when you can truly read a soul. I stood and watched
her life depart, pooling in a viscous, seething sludge at her side,
then walked inside, out of the rain, tears coursing down my cheeks.

I felt numb. Ellie's words speared me, her accusations of inadequacy
firing my indignation while at the same time finding some resonance.
We all play games, and I more than most. But how do you know when your
mind is playing games with you? I stood at the window and watched her
lifeless body cool to oblivion, drenched by the dying rain, and tried
to determine what to do next. To control or be controlled - the
central dichotomy of my life.

So tell me, what would you have me do?