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’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.

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’m a Bad Girl Blogger

I wanted to take a moment to thank HH and Lo from MySexLifeWithLola for honoring me with a bad girl blogger badge. I’m a rule breaker and an absolute asshole blogger, but they’ve already nominated nearly all of my favorite bad girl bloggers! I need to get out into the community and read a little more–but you may check out the original post and their list HERE.

 

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You’re the Secret That I Desire, I Can’t Keep That to Myself

She blinked in and out of consciousness; the lights were bright, too bright, when her eyes opened, but the dark scared her. Still… she drifted. Once, when she half-woke, he and the doctor were standing over her prone body, discussing her recovery process. The conversation floated in and out of her ears, with snippets of words here or there, words like “weak” and “dangerous” and “caution;” Words that served to do little more than frighten her back into the blackness of unconsciousness. Once, she thought she felt his hand against her cheek, though it might have been a dream.

When she was well enough to leave the hospital, she spent six weeks on pseudo-bedrest, flitting between the bed, the sofa, physical therapy appointments, and long, steamy baths that left her feeling better each time she stepped out of them. He was attentive and concerned, but quiet, and she hoped he wasn’t having second thoughts about the operation. He washed her hair during her baths, and escorted her to physical therapy. He cooked her meals for her, and snuggled close, but not too close or hard, to her in the evenings. They watched television shows together, though nothing too funny, or she would laugh and upset the stitches. He read her to sleep some nights, and others, she would drift quickly in the early evenings and be out until well past dawn the next day. Time passed, quick and slow and all at once. Continue reading