I shower with the lights off, my eyes adjust quickly to the deep darkness and the water is hot enough to make the mirrors across from my shower steam and cloud and swirl, making my reflection nothing but a featureless specter in the night. The water beats against my back and I tilt my head back to soak my long locks till they melt against my skin, reaching past my hips. My body aches. My muscles are stiff. My skin is bruised. I can be satisfied, but never sated, and I feel the stirrings of desire rising up from my toes, climbing my thighs, beating in my chest; I can taste it on the back of my tongue. Continue reading
It is 4 am and I feel the warm cascades of sleep threatening to envelop me, but so too do I feel aroused, in need. We’ve talked all night and it’s miraculous that I’ve kept my hands to myself until now. I am feeling pliant–no, more than pliant, I am feeling subservient, submissive. How strange the subtle difference between being willing to be used and wanting to be of use. Not just to be of use. I want… pleasure. Of a kind that only he can bring. Like reading my thoughts, maybe reading the tension, reading me, suddenly warm and fidgety and doe-eyed, he speaks up first.
“What do you want, baby? Anything your sweet little heart desires.” Continue reading
And I will not apply a salve.
The memory is so fresh, it aches.
The words resonate through me like a bow against a string. Continue reading
I am slave to cycle and pattern, rising and falling like the ocean presided over by the changing phases of the moon. I can only resist and sabotage my only happiness for so long, before I surrender to what I need and what I need to do to be happy. I let my doubts fly away from me, like so many leaves on the wind. I let go. I give in. Everything you ask… everything you need… I let it flow through me, consume me. What is good for the gander is good for the goose. Tasks that might have seemed impossible months ago, words that would have remained stuck inside of me, thick at the back of my throat, tasting like acid, sending my mind reeling… for now, I am free of my mental constraints. For now, I do not struggle so much as I did, as I have. For now.
Everything is temporary. Even as I write this I worry that it is a precursor to slipping into old, insecure habits, like I am jinxing myself at the cusp of my happiness. I don’t believe that I am though. I just want to enjoy what I have while I have it.
You told me that my immediate, willing subservience, the kind that is not commanded, the kind that I come up with on my own, just because I’m feeling it, turns you on instantly. You’re happy to know what a happy, submissive little girl I am. It makes me happy too. A large part of the reason I am so comfortable is because of you, because of your kindness, your care, your concern.
It’s the way you take me deep, deep down into the dangerous paths we both enjoy traversing, ruining something inside of me a little, to get me to release, to get me to find exactly what it is I need… to give it to me. To hurt me.You understand just how to work me. To drown me. And then? To revive me. How quickly you shift. Shattering me and piecing me together again. How tolerant you are of my body wracking sobs, content to let me cry it out. There to make sure I’m okay. So fast to offer comfort and words of encouragement.
I appreciate the way you may have broken the cycle. For now.
It’s funny how a single moment can change the tone of the conversation, how one action can set your heart pulsing fast, your breath beating heavy.
I proceed to send upskirt shots, showing the details of the white background with the kisses all over them. They are near virginal and still so flirty at the same time. He comments on the paleness of my thighs, which he loves. He wants more: my pussy, my tits, maybe even a shot of my knee-high socks. He wants more, but I’m at work and about to get off and it’s getting harder to manage. I send him the coup de grace: my hand slid behind the thin fabric, clearly stroking myself, and then I full stop and get to the business of finishing my work amidst the background office noise. Continue reading
He breathes against my mouth. Our lips are a hair’s breadth away from one another, mine parted, aching, throbbing, with longing. Kiss me! I want to cry out, but this is not part of the game. He breathes against my mouth, and our eye contact is intense. I can feel the heat of his body, a long line of heat, so close to me, so near to me. I want to envelop myself in him. But this is not part of the game.
Take off your dress, he whispers into my mouth. Continue reading
Sometimes I just want to tell the world what a dirty slut I am (obviously? Blog… hello). Etsy would let me do that easily.
That is all.