You’re Gonna Call my Name

I awake from a nap in the early evening. I am hot and disoriented. My curly hair is still damp from a shower that I had hours ago. My eyes are bleary. My teeth ache with an immediate pressure headache that seems to encapsulate my whole head. What time is it? The sky, barely visible between black out curtains, tells me nothing. It is summer. If the sun is out it could be 5 pm or 8:30.

I pull the thin cotton sweater up until it is just beneath my breasts, my pale tummy bare and warm. I hook my thumbs into the soft fabric of my panties and peel them down to just above my knees. I slide my fingers back and forth against the inside of my thighs. My skin is smooth and hot leading up to my pelvic bone.

I don’t want to touch myself anymore. It’s a dirty trick, it’s a tease. I don’t get to finish. Because I’m not allowed. Days ago, anticipating a long week, maybe, he asked me to make a choice. To give up my orgasms or to give into them. A marathon of edging or a marathon of coming. And wouldn’t you know it? I chose to give them up. To give him the control. To give him the privilege and the pleasure. I edge myself over and over again, in and out of his presence. He is safe in the knowledge that I do it, regardless of whether our schedules allow me to do in front of him. Because he knows me. And he owns me. What he asks, what he demands, what he suggests and even… commands… I obey. I listen. I act.

I haven’t had an orgasm in almost a week now. But I’ve been very close… many times a day and in the wee hours of the night, when I cannot sleep too. I don’t want to touch myself anymore. But I don’t have a desire to come again, unless it is at his hand, with him. If he told me, suddenly, you may come the next time you touch yourself… how deflated I would be. No. After a task like this… I am demanding. I demand. I need him.

My fingers slip down slick, smooth lips, parting the folds at the apex of my thighs. There is a rush of pleasure and sensation and I am soaked… a warm little puddle of rain, waiting to spill over into the road. There is thunder clapping behind my eyes. I am the summer and you are the storm. I await you.

I Taste, I Love, I Come, I Bleed Enough

When did the cane become my favorite instrument of pain?

It has reached near levels of fetishization and I don’t know quite when it happened. It’s not something I can pinpoint. His belt, his hand, these are still the instruments that I love. For what they are. But… the cane is something different entirely.

When he tells me to fetch it I nearly skip after it. In the room, by myself, my hand wrapped around the handle, I feel something electric start to stir beneath my skin. I run my fingertips down the shaft, feeling the smooth, finished rattan. I whip it through the air once, twice… listening to the low whistling sound. My face warms, from arousal… from… embarrassment. What would Sir think if he caught me admiring the cane before a beating?

Twice in three days I was caned. My breasts still bear the marks of my frenzy. I admit I tempted him on the third day with talks of Bastinado. “Whip my feet!” I practically screamed at him, albeit coquettishly.

The bruises I like the best with the cane are always the ones left on my chest. The aftermath of that leaves me a ruin and I get to admire and poke and prod blues and blacks and purples and yellows for weeks after the actual beating.

But the sting I like the best is on my legs. I’m not sure why… but a quick whip across the thighs makes me yelp as well as it makes me moan. And the heavy, measured strikes, leaving stripes across the tops of my thighs, against the back of my calves, even sometimes my shins, makes me lose myself in the deep well that is my masochism. It becomes so much that all I can hear is his voice and the sound of rattan against skin. Everything else washes away in a blur of color and white noise. Are my eyes open? Am I even awake? Do I dream? Do I float in some viscous substance, suspended in some otherworld ooze, my mind safe and happy and warm while my body takes a beating that it so needs and craves?

It all falls away except for the blood rising to meet my tortured skin.

I am Here, No Matter Where You Are

I haven’t felt like yours.

This is not some failing on your part or, as I try to convince myself, mine, but it is a matter of fact brought about by circumstance. Familial obligations and work stress for me, work and sickness for you. Time is ever our enemy. I have known this for a long time. The handful of times we’ve managed to connect over the last month, you’ve done your level best to make me feel… everything. Selfishly, I do not think I have done the same for you… and when I am in this mood, I wonder if these are things you even need from me. It has been rough on me because I have a gaping chasm of need within me that is hard to ever fill. It has been hard to me because I’ve been focusing on the inevitable and worrying about all the wasted time. I stress myself out needlessly.

For the first time in years. I haven’t felt like yours. Not an ounce. Not an inch. I’ve felt… removed. Dormant. Quiet. Alone.

I need to reiterate that there is nothing you could’ve done to change this. That there is nothing that you did to cause this.

I haven’t felt like yours.

And when we came together today… not Fatal and Sir but You and I, as I have come to know us, when we came together and you spoke those heated words, dripping with the knowledge of ownership, with the simple understanding that I am yours… when you spoke those words, it opened something inside of me. All at once there was a bleeding, gushing, hemorrhaging wound in my heart.

I am yours. Everything that I am.

I remembered, like the words of a song I used to know, it returned to me at once. And I was sobbing and could not stop. I could not speak to you, so overcome with need and emotion I was.

I am saboteur of my own happiness. I cannot have what I need and want when I stand in my own way.

I need to sleep. And there will  be a spanking. And I will sob. And it will hurt because it has been so long. And I will weep. And there will be catharsis. And I will beg you to be inside of my body. To mark me in a way that will leave echoes  of ownership on my skin. Because I need it. Because I need you.

I need to feel like I am yours.

Untitled Draft October 2013

In lieu of having time and head space to write about my life or current thoughts… have another deep cut:

 

I will not beg.
I am not a girl who begs.
I stand up straight and tall with with my head high.
I am proud.
I am haughty.

I am a lion.
I am a panther.
I do not concern myself with the desires of
Sheep.
Prey.
I am strong.
I will not beg.

For anyone.
But.
You.

Is that significant to you?
Are you aware of the ways that you…
Change me?
Do you care?
I. Do. Not. Beg.

But I will fall to my knees for you.
With a look.
Just a glance.
With a word.
One syllable.
A single breath.
The movement of your hand.
Of my own volition.

My head bows.
My knees buckle.
My voice shakes.
I will beg you.

Because I need you.
I need what
you can–
What only you do
give me.
I do not beg.

Unless I am begging you.

April is the Cruelest Month

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 Dress How I Feel

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
ever changing.
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
Earth Mother
Fertile land
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.