My Thighs Are Apart For When You’re Ready to Breathe In

I want…

To speak to you of desire.

Desire is a story that falls from my lips, that beats in my heart, that bleeds from my fingers. 

Your Words Burn Me

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.

Words Remembered

In a darker more beautiful world, I’d fuck your heart
right through your chest.

The sad thing is, I think you’re fucking me with, but
there is a part of me that wishes you weren’t.

I’m the Master of Self Control.

Are you? One of us needs to be, because I’d cut my breasts
open as an invitation, given the chance.

I’m aware. It’s why I keep myself in check.

SLAP.
SLAP.
SLAP.

Shiver. Hiss.
Don’t start something you can’t finish, Daddy. I’ve
been ramped up like this for days…

When I put my hands on you next… you will bleed
and squeal and cry. And you will hurt… your eyes
will roll in the back of your head, and your toes will
wiggle… and you might even drown. Pause. And then
you will come.

…Do you promise?

He wants to taste my blood and tears.

TMI Tuesday: The Ways You Paint Me

Color is everywhere–nature, food, clothing, skin, animals. Different colors symbolize or mean different things in different cultures. Finally, color affects mood.

From your life, tell us about an object, experience or idea related to each of the colors of the spectrum:

1. Red:
The way I burn for him and him alone. Flames that consume me, threatening to fill my lungs and drown me in heat… the hue of my cheeks when he says beautiful or filthy words to me… the colour that his hand leaves behind on my skin.

2. Orange:
His vivacity… the way he makes me laugh on a bad day, even when I think no one else can…
3. Yellow:
The bruises ten days later, still marring my thighs and cheeks and feet… reminding me of lessons learned and the sweet pleasure that comes from the torment of pain… the way I feel when a coworker comments on my marks and I’m scrambling for an answer because I couldn’t possibly tell them what a depraved girl I have been…
4. Green:
The impossible feeling of jealousy when other eyes move over him, sizing him up, taking in all that he is, coveting what I want to  only be mine…
5. Blue:
The unfathomable depths of his eyes, all at once beautiful and terrible, all-knowing and unknowable, full of passion and longing, stern with command, dominance, dark and light, reflecting winter storms and snow clouds, bleeding out intensity that stops me in my tracks…
6. Violet:
What it feels like to hear him speak in his mother tongue to me in quiet moments of intimacy, voice husky, raspy, dark… growling out the syllables in beautiful lyricism and desperate intonation… and even the words I do not yet know the meaning of… I can hear the melody… I know the song…

 

Bonus: What is the color of sex?
Golden, like stars exploding behind my eyes, supernovas, while you whisper sweet and dirty nothings, the need in your voice makes a fire move through me and when you plead with me to whisper your name… *your* name and no one else’s, only yours because that is who and what I am—yours… molten, shining gold, like the way I feel when you tell me in the middle of sex how beautiful and desirable I am, even if in that moment, I struggle to believe it, I know your words are true because you’re saying them… honeyed bronze like the colour of your hair, and like the way I feel, glowing from the inside out with an ethereal light, like I am precious because you are so deep inside of my body and my mind, how I could not be…

————

How to play TMI Tuesday: Copy the above TMI Tuesday questions to your webspace (i.e., a blog). Answer the questions there, then leave a comment below, on this blog post, so we’ll all know where to read your responses. Please don’t forget to link to tmituesdayblog from your website!

Happy TMI Tuesday!

He Fucked Me So Good He Broke Me

He canes my ass. He canes my thighs–the backs and the front. He canes me over my tattoos and they are ultra sensitive. It’s a good girl spanking, because he was craving putting cane to flesh and I asked him for it. He increases the weight of his swing with every ‘thwack’ against my skin and it makes me wiggle from foot to foot and whine. The most painful spot, undoubtedly, is just below my ass cheeks, right on the high tops of my thighs. The arousal in his voice increases with every single one of my strangled “owwwwweeeees.”

Every time I answer “I don’t know” instead of yes or no, he raps me hard, just above the knee–on second thought… that may be the most painful spot. He keeps it up until I start getting sassy, and my panties are soaked, through and through. I am bouncing back and forth on the balls of my feet, but not because of the pain, because I am wet and desperate for him to hurt me, to be rough with me, to fuck me. I want his hands on me, in place of the cane.

“Get up on the bed, on your knees.”

Sinful Sunday: Aftermath

 

How I feel after play time: Naked, Dirty, and a little out of focus.

See who else is playing along:

Words Remembered

“I want something I have to break and break and break and that
is never finished or done. Someone who has a soul of steel. Like you.”

Squee.

Lights, Camera, Action

How quickly an idea, a desire, takes root in my head.

My heart pounds, my lips burn, my body aches.

I turn off the lights, and lay in the dark. And wait for the dreams to come.

The dreams of a fantasy I only share with you.

Grease paint and Blood.

The Beautiful Man Takes Me in Hand

There is something beautiful about a man that has nothing to do with the beauty of a woman; it is an alien strangeness, wholly separate from the beauty of a woman. I admire his body. He is a self-proclaimed narcissist, but at times he is utterly self-conscious. He’s had a long day at work, and he is self-conscious about his attire, but I don’t care. He wears comfy flannel pants; his boxers peek out at the top, and just above that, his hips. He is lean and long of limb, and I find him beautiful and arousing.

He has near perfect teeth, and when he grins or smirks–for that is all he does, they are lovely to look at. I am enamored of his eyes, peeking out from beneath well-shaped brows that he likes to raise at me when I’ve said something intriguing or when I’m being a brat. His lips are hard but sensuous, inviting. His hair grows like a weed, and if he cut it today, it would be long tomorrow; it hangs, lazily, like soft, melted gold or bronze. I love his beard, which grows back by the end of the day; it makes him look a little rougher and it thrills me.