I Think it’s Good to Remember…

That what you read here is half of my half of the story.
You read what I choose to share.
From my perspective.
You’ve never heard Sir’s side of the story about our interactions.
You read me.
Sometimes in the midst of an emotional turmoil.
Sometimes it is raw and the feelings are still with me.
Sometimes I embellish.
Sometimes I edit.
Oftentimes, I omit.

You read a product.
An account of my interactions,
In and out of order,
With a person whose identity I seek to protect,
Even above my own. 
This is a serialized telling of my life with him.
I leave you with half chapters.
And some of you… some of you
who I’ve never even interacted with
choose to believe you’ve read the whole book.

And in your heads, you paint him the villain
you paint me the villain
You make assumptions about our identities.
About why I stay anonymous.
About the realities of our situation.
About me.
About him.
And this is good.
I want you to wonder.
I want you to make up stories in your head.
To fill in the gaps.
To think of Fatal and Sir as what they are:
characters.
Characterizations of two real, flesh and blood people.

But if you think that your filler
makes for good fodder
to feed into my sensitive heart…
If you are an asshole who is seeking to hurt me
I want you to know
that I don’t give a fuck about you,
or your assumptions.
That my heart is sensitive for people that I care about.
But I am dead inside
for those who try to cross me.
That’s not an embellishment.
Nor is it a warning.
It is a statement of fact.

I grow weary of PSAs.
And I feel like I shouldn’t even waste my time with them.
The people who email me their opinions don’t even have the balls to say them in an open forum.
So why do I give them the head space or the blog space?
Because it’s my blog.
And I do as I damn well please.
That’s why.

My new email is FatalSyndrome@mail.com
Please take note.

Telling stories, allegories, letting ourselves go

“Did you miss me, baby?”

I thought briefly about the million and one things I could or wanted to say to him when he asked me, all the little ways in which I had missed him, and all of the small ways in which I worried that things might be different or strange between us. I felt the hesitation I always feel when He returns from a trip or when I do… the small inkling that we are different people than we had been before our absence from one another. All the things that may have happened, all the words left unspoken.

“More than you could know,” I murmured. It was the truest answer I could conjure up. When I was away, learning and teaching in the neon desert, I had missed him terribly. “Did you miss me?”

“I did, Pooh.”

I peel off my clothing and stand before him in matching red and black plaid. He is amused and aroused. He loves red and black plaid. I climb onto the bed on all fours with my ass up and my back arched. My much shorter hair no longer hides my inked up shoulders.

His hands roam briefly before pushing my panties to the side and filling me with one sharp, deep thrust. I lose myself in the feel of him, and the sounds of his voice, gravelly and deep in my ear. His praises and his pleasure resonate deep within me. We are fervent and feverish. I need this. My core heats and spreads out to my skin. I feel the familiar fire in my belly early and quick. He makes me beg for the privilege. Reasserting our relationship. Reasserting that I am his and come at his pleasure. He lets me. He fucks me through my orgasm.

He talks to me through my moans and cries. He rides me hard and moans in my ear. I am wailing and praising him. How good he feels. How much I missed him. How much I missed the way he touches me. How much I need him to fill me, to mark me, to make me his again. As his climax builds, he is already working me to my second. In my haze, in my feverish little mind, my mouth keeps running and I am unaware of what I am saying. Dirty, lovely things. Baring myself to him in so many ways.

He asks if I’m going to come again. He wants me to come with him. He’s so close. Something he says, some words I can barely remember now send me over the edge for the second time. The clenching, roiling, vibrations of my body, some words that I speak make him groan from the bottom of his toes. He’s cumming, filling me  up, just the way I want. Just the way I need.

Our bodies break apart and he turns me over, onto my back. I quickly scoot my bum down the bed and wrap my legs around the back of his thighs. His hands peel my bra down and he pulls my heavy breasts out. His fingers stroke over my skin. He praises my tits: how soft and big and beautiful they are, such pretty nipples, such a sight. I blush beneath him as he admires me. We curl around one another like the fog outside the windows, curling round the city streets. I fall asleep before I know that I am tired.

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.

I’m as Shallow as you are Deep

Imagine for a moment

I am not me.
You are not you.
We are not us.
This is not what this is.

I just want you to imagine it.
I’d love to know your thoughts on it.
I’d never ask.
I don’t really want to know.
That’s just something I said.

But just imagine.

Maybe only one of those things is true. Maybe more.
What do you envision?
What do you see?
Is anything different?
Or is it all just the same?

Even in parallel universes, faraway worlds, lands that time forgot

Are we destined to be this?
Are we destined to be us?
Are you always you?
Am I forever me?

Imagine we’re not.
What could it be?
What could it have been?
What was it almost?

What ripple did the most damage?
What stone changed everything?

If I had done this.
If you had said that.
If we had been… more. than. us.

Just imagine.