I Am Oblivion Made Real

My skin is alive. I need the feel of you moving against me to sustain it. My eyes are closed and I imagine your lips everywhere. My thighs part. Sense memory. I need no invitation. My back bows, curves. My body rocks, undulates, vibrates. My hair falls forward to hide my face. I am too naked there. Don’t look… don’t look.

I want your voice in my ear. Your lips at my neck. I want you to hear me moan. I want you to hear me struggle. I want you to know how much this body needs you. How well it responds to the need of you. Appreciate me. Coo. Coax. Praise. Tell me. I want to know you want me. I want to make you want me. My skin tingles. Alive with 1000 promises yet to be fulfilled and 1 million memories to recall… to replay.

There will always be you, here, beating in my breast, being wanted, making me wanton, even when you are not here.

I Have Weak Ankles

sustained from an old injury. They only flare up every once and again. Enough to make me fall head over heels on occasion.

My hair grows like a weed. I cut off six inches two or three weeks ago and now, I can barely tell a difference.

I grow my fingernails long and smooth and rounded. I used to file them into sharp little points once upon a time, but I’ve grown out of that phase.

I keep my feet in pedicures… they’re one of the few luxuries I really, really indulge in.

I have a soft heart and it makes me cry easily for animals, small children, the suffering of others, and the beautiful agony that is my own suffering.

I have a strong will that lets me struggle and strive.

I have an unhealthy relationship with food and consequently, my body, that my personal trainer is trying to break me of; instead of seeing food as sustenance, which is all it is, I see it as both the enemy and comfort, depending on my mood.

My favorite parts of my body are all the little bony places: my wrists and ankles, my collarbones and hipbones, the tiny points where my ribs poke out beneath my breasts.

I want, more than anything, to travel, penniless, through the world, making my way the only way I know how.

But that thought frightens me too, because I know the terrible, squeezing grip of poverty well, the way it makes you unable to breathe, the anxiety it gives you, the scars it leaves… and I never want to know it so intimately, ever again.

They say people who drink whiskey straight are real alcoholics. I prefer to think of myself as a connoisseur.

My compartmentalizing skills are legendary: they are how I survive but also have the propensity to ruin me utterly.

The bottom part of the year is my favorite. Autumn is passing into Winter, and the cold air soothes my spirit. I’ve been listening to Christmas music like I need it to live, and I’ve had a roaring fireplace every night for a week… warranted, by the way.

I want something dangerous and exciting and new to happen to me very soon.

If You’re Asking

I’m 95 percent sure that if you asked Sir how he self-identifies/labels himself in the context of BDSM he would not say Dominant/Top/Master. He would (nearly) undoubtedly say: Sadist. I’m not his first foray into the lifestyle, so I am not vain enough to say his Dominance is a reactionary consequence of my Submission, more like it is something natural about him… an aura he wears, so to speak. I laugh a lot at people who claim to be naturally Dominant or Submissive, but mainly internet Doms who are “looking for a natural Submissive.” I don’t know why, it just makes me giggle.

But I think Sir has a “natural Dominant aura” about him. Though most people associate being a Sadist with being a “Top” and being a Masochist with being a “Bottom” that is not always true. There are plenty of tops–D-types, who enjoy having pain inflicted upon them, and likewise, there are bottoms–S-types, who enjoy inflicting pain. So he isn’t Dominant because he is a Sadist. Continue reading