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
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.