When You Touch Me, It’s so Powerful, I Can Feel It

I never know what I want. Because I always want more than one thing.

On one hand, I want you to be so cruel to me. I want you to slap me–my mouth, my tits, my ass, my thighs. I want to feel my jaw between your thumb and forefinger. I want you to make me look at you through the tears as you pinch my nipples, as your fingers dig into my skin. I want to feel your teeth break my flesh. I want your hand around my throat. I want my hair in your fist. I want you to wrest me to the ground. Knock the wind out of me. I want you to fuck me so hard, my body, inside and out, is covered in bruises. And while you do this, I want you to whisper into my ear all manner of dirty and awful things. I want your fingerprints emblazoned on me like a crime scene. Hurt. Me.

And on the other hand? I am emotionally weak. And so sensitive lately. There are words that bubble up from my toes that I want to speak and cannot. I want to whisper, tearfully, for you to be kind to me. Be sweet to me. Take me into your arms and coddle me. Brush my hair with your finger tips. Kiss my lips until they’re swollen and aching. Suckle at my skin gently. Snuggle me till I can barely breathe. Cover me in your body. Nibble my tattoos. Bathe me in the scent of you. Tell me… sweet… endearing words. Treat me like the baby that I am. Hold my arms above my head and love me with your words until I am crying from my eyes and from between my thighs. Take your time with me. Fuck me deeply, slowly, gently. Touch every inch of me. Break me with your kindness. I am fragile… handle me with care.

The only thing that I know for sure… is that I want you, in any way that I can have you.

I Wanna Shape a Hundred Million Feelings

I’m talking. As I speak, I become more aroused. Besides feeling it in my panties, I can hear it in my voice. I’m speaking dirty talk and ideas and words and my tone is becoming lower and my voice is becoming throaty. Sultry is, maybe, the word.

I’m talking fantasy and I’m aroused. And I know you are too. And I can tell you become more so by the tone of your voice. And I wonder if you’re answering in kind because you are genuinely excited or because by myself I’m boring you. This is how I am. This is how I think sometimes.

“Baby, you’re so careful with your language, with your words. You’re always worried about whether you’re going to weird me out or upset me. Say what’s really on your mind now, let it pour out.”

He’s right. There are words I’d love to say to him. Dirty, disgusting things. Sweet, emotional things. Strange, and maybe disturbing things. In the heat of these moments, I am not really responsible for the thoughts that cross my mind and my heart. But I am responsible for keeping them close to the bone.

“Let it pour out.”

I’m not sure if you know what you’re asking. I am not sure if I let you in behind my last wall, it’s a place where you would want to be. I cannot let the gate peak open. I am an all or nothing girl, and you know this better than anyone else. If the flood is allowed, it will be a deluge that doesn’t end.

I fear what I might share with you or say to you if I did not keep such a tight lid on my mouth, on the things I think about, on the things I want. But sometimes I want to. Sometimes I do want to give you the last inch of me.

But sometimes it is the last thing that I fear.

Romanticize My Very Being

Touch me. Just touch me.

I feel your eyes on me. They singe and burn where you cast your glance. I can feel it to my core. I’m burning from the inside out. If you would just touch me, it would relieve me of the feeling.

More than your fingers, I want your mouth. Will you drag your lips down my throat, across my jaw, cover my lips in yours. Please put your mouth on mine. I want to taste everything you cannot say on your tongue. I want to drink the unspoken things that live between us, while your hand presses against my throat.

Will you take my body to yours? Kiss my shoulders and my collarbones. I want your hands touching all the dark and secret places of my body. I want to feel you trace my scars. Trace the self-inflicted wounds with the tip of your tongue, know me like no other person does. Can you feel the ink beneath my flesh, living, breathing? The map of me exists here, just within your grasp.

Read me, know me, touch me, love me. I want to scale you like you’re mine. Make love to my breasts with your lips. Suck me, taste me. Bite me where my heart beats. Can you taste my blood?

Touch me. And then I’ll do the same in turn.

And Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Some days… nights… moments… the only thing on my mind is being exactly what you need. I play with my breasts in front of you. I am sleepy and aroused. It is late, and I wear only a long, silky-soft robe. I can hear the sleep in your voice. I can see it in your eyes. Your hand is wrapped around your beautiful, meaty cock, and I am hypnotized by the movement of your fingers.

I have a moment of desire for a long, sweaty night, wherein we both fall exhausted into bed at the light of dawn. But it is already late. We are both tired. There is work in the morning. I want to do whatever I can for you. I want to please you. I want to get you off so we can roll over and fall into the warm comfort of sleep. I want nothing but your satisfaction.

“I want to please you.”

“You are my pleasure.” Continue reading

The Feeling you Bring, So Deep in Now, I Could Kiss you for Hours

I have said before that some days I wake up, and without warning, and for no reason, I feel feisty. And more than feisty, I feel violent. Sir would call it Bratty, but I think it crosses the boundaries of bratty (and… I am NOT a brat). When I am in this mood, he often seems to receive the brunt of my violent desires. I want to pounce on him, bite him, fight him. In an effort to get what I want, I mock him. I make fun of him. I gently chide and chastise him.

…Maybe not so gently.

I am a visual person. I imagine this is what we look like, although I’m kidding myself if I think I’d be able to put him down bodily (don’t tell him that):

giphy Continue reading

Drown Me, You Make My Heart Beat Like the Rain

He calls me Pooh in the sweetest, most endearing tone of voice. I can’t explain the complex web of emotions it brings about in me. When coupled with his beckoning me to his mouth for sweet kisses, I can barely breathe. He cups and sucks and lathes my breasts, showering them with attention. His eyes meet mine while he does and I can do little more than pant and squirm against him. He groans against my nipple and nuzzles the pale flash.

“I could spend a whole day here, just sucking and kissing and nibbling your beautiful tits,” he mumbles into my skin.¬† Continue reading