Today was my first beach day of the season and it was perfect. The temperature never got above 85. The sky was crystal clear as far as the eye could see. There was a breeze coming off of the gulf and the water was like glass. The last vestiges of winter over the last few weeks left the water chilly rather than the familiar blood warm summer temperatures.
I let the water cradle my body like a child and closed my eyes behind my sunglasses, listening to the sound of water crashing against the shore, of the gulls crying out to one another, of the wind blowing.
The ocean does not extinguish me, it renews me. I am reborn in the waves. They bring again the quiet, still place in the core of me that I need to survive. I feel the tension in me relax and then release. I become the water. I let it lull me. I let it take me. I float until I float away. Far away from what pains me, what troubles me. From the reality of what I am. Of who I am.
The water confirms it. I am the ocean. I am the sea. I am the salt and the sand and the secrets that hide beneath the deep.
I am fire made real.
Hot and unpredictable and dangerous.
But today I feel like a water goddess.
Soft and cool and rhythmic.
I am life-giving
and flowing and rippling
I am all encompassing and
I am drowning in hues of
crystal and cornflower and cerulean
I am seafoam and turquoise and beachglass
I am wrapped in linen and lace and silk
tight at the bust and around my wide hips
Accentuating the curves that make me
the hills and valleys of ancient mating lands
converging and conversing
Where the fabric tightens and then flows
My feet are bare,
my toes disappear in the sand
My ankles caressed by the lapping water
My hair is sun and salt and sea
I am the Siren singing,
I am the rhythm of the waves,
I am the ocean’s beating heart.
I frequent Fetlife. The groups make for good entertainment and sometimes good conversation. I enjoy speaking with like-minded people, and since living alone again, I think I’ve really craved some more social contact without actually having to be face to face with new people. I’m not a hermit, per se, I’m just going through a cycle of not wanting to make new friends. It happens. On the other hand, I also go through social butterfly cycles.
That is neither here nor there .
I frequent Fetlife. I rarely add people as friends, but I often have chats and participate in discussions. Sometimes, more than entertaining me, this pisses me off. This is sort of one of those times. On Fetlife, if you don’t know, there are two kinds of relationship statuses: a traditional relationship status and a D/s relationships status. The latter, on my profile reads: Owned and Collared (which is actually a drop down menu option, not a written in status, fun right?) and the former reads: It’s Complicated. Why? Because it is. If there was a an option for “not not single” I would’ve put that because I’m not in a traditional relationship but I’ll be damned if I’m looking. Continue reading →
You’re deep in my brain. You live in the warm places of my pulse. When you speak, my heart beats in time. My body trembles at your voice. I ache when you look at me, when you fix me with your gaze. There is no one but you. My body fits to yours perfectly. My cunt drips at the thought of you. My skin warms. I writhe with need.
I love to be of use. I love when you call me dirty, sweet names. Whore has never sounded quite so lovely as it does when preceded by my. I love when you savage me. I love when you wreck me. I love when you hurt me. I love when you talk nasty to me. I love when you make me confess. I love when you make me beg. I love when you make me wet. I love when you make me gape.
Treat me like a doll.
Treat me like a slut.
Treat me like your baby girl.
Tell me about my pussy. Tell me how pretty it is. Tell me how much you love it. Tell me how much you love being inside of me. Tell me how good I feel. Make me a creamy little baby.
Your cock belongs inside of me. My pussy is made for you. My cervix is just for you to bruise. My womb is just for you to cum in. My body is made to fulfill you. My body is made to be filled by you.
I should’ve known I was different from a tender age. From very young, I used to watch this show for hours at a time. I was deeply attracted to Major Anthony Nelson, and used to fantasize about being a tiny, scantily clad genie, living in a bottle, waiting for her Master to pop the top and call her out to fulfill his every desire.
I was reminded of this while watching a marathon of episodes this morning. I whine a lot about a lack of masturbatory material that is suited to my myriad of weird little fetishes, but my needs were well met this morning.