There is Power in Words

I remember the first time I heard your voice. It was like no other voice I’d ever heard. You might think it cut through me clean and surgical, tearing me asunder, rocking my world, touching me in ways unknown. But it did not. No. Your beautiful voice, with its lovely cadence, its deep timbre, its raw honesty and feeling… it could have never cut through me so perfectly.

Your voice was a ragged blade, tearing through the skin and muscle and marrow, leaving rivulets of blood blossoming from jagged edges. Your voice became a deep wound within me, unable to heal–every scab, no matter how newly formed, ripped fresh from the gash to let me bleed again. I feel you distinctly, an unending scar cut into the fabric of my soul. You are like a tattoo that only I can see, something living and breathing, a constant reminder of all that is you.

And like a tattoo, you are an addiction. I want a fresh needle, a raw wound, new blood. I ache for the sound in my ear as much as I ache for you, your body, your mind, the feel of your hands on me, the feel of my hands on you.

I thought about the first time I heard your voice, and the way it sent me spinning, reeling, flying into every moment that has passed between us since.

Who knew it would lead us here.

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.

Post-coital Meanderings

Sometimes when I am still floating in the after sex haze I have thoughts that course through my mind completely unfiltered. I pick up my phone and type out a draft and save it for later. This is what this is:

 

I love the way I say “oh, god” when I am at a loss for words and you answer, “Yea, baby?”

I know that you are asking me to elaborate on what I’m feeling, instead of just calling to a nameless divinity.

But part of me…

Thinks that part of you…

Is acknowledging that when I’m calling out “oh, god” I’m calling out to you.

And I’m not saying you’re a god… because I’m not that far gone. But when I am so far gone, and so deep in our play, and so mind fucked by you… you are the only one that exists for me… in the whole world. In that moment it is just you.

And so for moments… you are the Alpha and the Omega, as it were. When I’m calling out “oh, god” I am calling out to you.

He is Generous

I have a generous lover.

He pushes me when he knows I want and can take more.
He goes easy on me when he knows I need it.
He asks me what I want, even when he has an idea of what he wants.
He is patient. He is kind. He is understanding.
He doesn’t bat a lash when I ask him to maim me.
He doesn’t bat a lash when I ask him to treat me sweetly.
He indulges me in all things.
He laughs with me.
He is turned on by me and never fails to say it.
He makes me feel wanted, needed, beautiful.
He speaks to my body in a secret language that is all his own.
He marks me and makes me feel base, possessed, owned.

I am his princess and his slut and his girl and his pooh.