I am Here, No Matter Where You Are

I haven’t felt like yours.

This is not some failing on your part or, as I try to convince myself, mine, but it is a matter of fact brought about by circumstance. Familial obligations and work stress for me, work and sickness for you. Time is ever our enemy. I have known this for a long time. The handful of times we’ve managed to connect over the last month, you’ve done your level best to make me feel… everything. Selfishly, I do not think I have done the same for you… and when I am in this mood, I wonder if these are things you even need from me. It has been rough on me because I have a gaping chasm of need within me that is hard to ever fill. It has been hard to me because I’ve been focusing on the inevitable and worrying about all the wasted time. I stress myself out needlessly.

For the first time in years. I haven’t felt like yours. Not an ounce. Not an inch. I’ve felt… removed. Dormant. Quiet. Alone.

I need to reiterate that there is nothing you could’ve done to change this. That there is nothing that you did to cause this.

I haven’t felt like yours.

And when we came together today… not Fatal and Sir but You and I, as I have come to know us, when we came together and you spoke those heated words, dripping with the knowledge of ownership, with the simple understanding that I am yours… when you spoke those words, it opened something inside of me. All at once there was a bleeding, gushing, hemorrhaging wound in my heart.

I am yours. Everything that I am.

I remembered, like the words of a song I used to know, it returned to me at once. And I was sobbing and could not stop. I could not speak to you, so overcome with need and emotion I was.

I am saboteur of my own happiness. I cannot have what I need and want when I stand in my own way.

I need to sleep. And there will  be a spanking. And I will sob. And it will hurt because it has been so long. And I will weep. And there will be catharsis. And I will beg you to be inside of my body. To mark me in a way that will leave echoes  of ownership on my skin. Because I need it. Because I need you.

I need to feel like I am yours.

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.

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.

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