Worship

I've been made to drink piss before, both mine and other peoples. In fact the other people didn't ask, they inflicted it and I accepted it out of service. It has always been humiliating and subduing because I didn't like it but I submitted to it. That humiliation and submission was erotic and affecting and delicious.

This week suddenly I am affected in a different way. Kneeling before him, having choked and vomited on his cock, panting. Feeling both that I'd had enough and that I wanted more. Throat burning. waiting, expectant, subservient. He stopped and he pissed and I watched. On my knees staring intently, unable to break my gaze. I watched that golden stream pour out of him and felt a compulsion I haven't felt before. I wanted to taste him, to stick my tongue into his stream. I wanted to feel it over my face and in my mouth, wanted to gulp it down. I felt overwhelmed with desire to worship in that way but I held myself back from it. Unsure how to handle the unexpected flush of desire. I watched and I wanted, I wanted so, so much and as he finished I was unable to hold myself back any longer and I greedily sucked his cock into my mouth to catch the last drop of piss, and I felt him harden once again in my mouth. It was erotic and affecting and delicious in an entirely new way. There was worship and adoration and delight, and I asked, no I pleaded to have the opportunity again to witness that, so that I could give into my desire and worship him.

Control.

I’d forgotten how it feels.
The ache when I stop at an orgasmic edge.
The mocking throb beckoning for me to touch again.
The excuses I whisper to myself.
“A little more, just to be sure”
I tell myself it’s to make sure I’m close enough.
I pretend I'm trying to be a good girl.
But deep down I know it’s my greedy desire.
I want more of that feeling, more of that pleasure.
I want to cum, I want that release.
But instead I fight.
the curling of my toes, the hint of rage, the gnawing frustration: my bodies siren song.
I reject the lies of my longing.
I glimpse my wanton heart and I struggle to keep control.
My private battle, an extension of his will.
I become his.
Every time I stop.
I listen to the beating of my heart and the throbbing of my cunt.
I listen to my quiet desperation.
I wait for my wanting to subside.
And in those moments I submit.
Ignoring my needy cunt and being his good girl.
His control becoming my control.
Wrenching me away from ecstasy.
Because every time I stop.
I become his.
Every time I tease and torment and deny myself.
And when he lets me cum, if he lets me cum.
It will feel better than any enjoyed in selfish pursuit.
Because it is his.
His to control.

I adored you.

I adore you.

That’s what I wanted to say.

Not that I would if I had been able.

Had I not been tied down and gagged.

That flush of adoration coming as it often does in the face of sadism.

That desire to gush my gratitude seems silly and inappropriate.

So I wouldn’t have told you then, even if I could,

but I want to tell you now,

So that you know that I was grateful.

When you were at your meanest and I was struggling.

The tears and fighting and the anger.

The disappointment in myself for not being stronger.

For not being able to take what you wanted to give, for longer.

The inability to take your mocking,

because I felt you were unfair as I was trying.

Trying to be good for you.

I remember exactly when I thought it.

Screaming, whining into the gag,

crying.

I saw your face, I saw your quiet intent.

Your shining sadism.

And I was awash with adoration,

for the first time.

And it made me want to endure,

the fire that’s inside of you.

It’s fucking beautiful.

I don’t know if you know that,

But I wanted you to know,

That I adored you.

Thank you.

Burn

When hurting me makes him hard, this makes me happy,
and I want to take all he wants to give.
I want to see the fire in his eyes,
and I want to burn for him.

I want to feed the need I feel growing in him.
See his sadism shine while my masochism blooms.
I want to open up, I want to share myself,
and I want to burn for him.

I want him to taste my tears.
To know that I am grateful for that gift.
I want to meet his every dark desire,
and I want to burn for him.

the absence of you

Almost 4am and I should be asleep.
Instead, teary eyed I’m thinking of you.
Someone elses words reminding of the time you made me feel the worst.
Of the time I hated you.
Because of what you could do to me with your disappointment and your absence.
Of how much I wanted you to take it back, just so that I could feel better.
Though I am sure that if you had, I would have known that it wasn’t true.
Still, I wanted to pretend that I hadn’t let you down.
How I resented then, the power you had.
How I longed to be able to make it right.
To be your good girl again.
I miss the fucking awful/wonderful, saddening/comforting head fuckery of it all.
And I miss you.
Seems silly that after all this time I could still feel so strongly,
the absence of you.

In the absence of pain? Chips!

Today I tweeted: "Maybe I should stay in the house and not speak to anyone when I have #pms I think I may go a teeny tiny bit crazy :S"


I walked all the way home thinking about trying to describe how it feels, it's a combination of quietly suppressed rage, anxiety, sulkiness, a hint of sadness, an edge of despair, frustration, irritability, impatience. No wonder they also call it PMT, the T being tension... how could you not be tense with all that going on?! Plus there is also the gnawing horniness, that at least gives some distraction from what could be an all round slump, but only adds to the frustration.

I've felt out of sorts all day, worried I was being short and snappy with colleagues, at the same time as being kinda irritated by them for no good reason. Though perhaps they didn't notice and my guilt at feeling internally mean spirited and moody made me a bit paranoid... Gah!! Fucking hormones.

On my way home I tried to think what would make me feel better... my first thought: Pain
It would wash through me, pushing out the tension, taking away the edginess I feel. There would be nothing in that moment but the pain and then after my body, my mind would feel relaxed, not tied up in knots, not on edge like they do now. *sigh*

However given that I am no option of receiving aforementioned lovely cleansing pain, I opted for chips and curry, nice and stodgy and potatoey and comforting. Yum.

A smack in the mouth would still do wonders though. *sigh*

The wolf at the door.

I am only a smidgen of wanting away from climbing the fucking walls.
I feel the beginning of that old familiar ache, the wolf at the door.
Desire building.
As regular as fucking clockwork here I am again on the edge of consumption.
I ache.
I feel a hollowness inside me that wasn't there before.
A nervous energy tingling in my cunt and to the very end of my fingertips.
I am teetering on the edge of rage: irritable and anxious and frustrated.
Moody.
In fact, at times, a fucking horrible bitch.
In truth I want to cry as much as I want to fuck, but I don't do either.
I want to be silenced, I want pain to cancel out the wanting that's building within me.
I wish I could shut my fucking mouth.
I just want someone to hit me, hit me until this feeling goes away.
This old familiar ache, the wolf at the door.
It's relentless and mocking, and it leaves me hanging on the edge of despair.
Desperate.
Pitiful.
Yet too raw, too vulnerable to do anything about it but protest.
To ride out the discomfort till this feeling goes away.
I already know that tomorrow it will be stronger.
I'll want to scream as much as I want to fuck, but I'll do neither.
I'll want violence and cruelty, to be used and abused - even more than I want it today.
I'll want it all, till I can't take any more.
Till this feeling subsides,
this old familiar ache, the wolf at the door.

The habit of a lifetime...

Emotional repression.
It's the habit of a lifetime.

So much so that I sometimes don't even make a conscious decision to do it. It's like an autopilot kicking in and taking charge, pushing feeling and emotion away.  Then it hits you out of the blue that there's this tidal wave of emotion hidden underneath the surface and you can't let it out, even though you want to.  The tears you need to cry get stuck behind your eyes.  Or you might even be able to begin to cry, but after just 2 tears your eyes are dry and mocking.  Your emotion sits there in the pit of your stomach and heavy in your chest, immovable.

Of course sometimes it is a conscious choice. I am well versed in the practise of keeping oneself numb, of running away from tears and emotion and pain.  I was taught that being upset was unacceptable.  Then pushing all feeling away became a way to cope when I was little and I didn't know what else to do and it stuck. The habit of a lifetime.  

It isn't so simple and easy as it sounds of course, the strain and effort of being numb leeches out into other ways to cope, other ways to feel.   I used to cut myself to let my feelings out, but I  haven't done that in over 10 years.  I channeled all my anxiety into food and sought refuge in obsession and restriction but I saw through that guise.  I learnt that repression long term is damaging and self destructive and I stopped hurting myself like that.

Over the years I have learnt so much, how to get it out by writing, how to talk to friends a little and I know that letting emotion out isn't unacceptable. Yet still I haven't been able to master the skill of just letting myself feel.  I know that's not so uncommon, when a big important crisis happens we all have our own kind of auto pilot.

I know now that play, being beaten would probably do me the world of good, because it would force the tears. But I won't play, I'm too raw and I might get too emotional, I don't even now what "too emotional" is. Perhaps it just means that they might glimpse more of my vulnerability than I could cope with. That it would mean opening myself up, and I need to be able to do that myself, in my own time, on my own terms.

I need to learn how to feel this without leaning on something else.  This week I have been pushing my feelings away, apart from 2-3 tears on Wednesday when I found out my mum has cancer, I haven't cried, and for the most part I haven't felt very much, just the pressure building, the feeling of stress.  The tears behind my eyes sometimes and well of emotion when I am walking to work and this morning on this train where I am writing this.

Today I have decided I need to let it out, not now of course, I don't do public emotional displays, but maybe later. That's the plan anyway.  As absurd as that might sound, how controlled and calculating it may be.  I don't know how else to approach it, just trying to let it happen doesn't usually work.  Though sometime the damn breaks unexpectedly and it spills out and it will come, I know it will eventually, because in truth I am so full of fear and grief that I can't hold it in much longer.  I'm just ready now, to try and let it out, I don't want to run away from it anymore.  That itself is a huge step, that in itself is another step towards changing me, changing this, my habit of a lifetime.

The big C

Three years ago, just after I lost my sister I told the universe, "that's it now, don't let anyone else in my family get cancer, that's enough".   The idea of going through that ever again was horrific.

So I said that out into the ether and despite not really believing in anything, I hoped.

Of course life doesn't work like that.  Today my mum told me she has breast cancer and as soon as she said she had to go to the hospital today I knew.  That dread griping hold of my stomach and my heart, while I waited for the word to be spoken.  Only a small lump she said, she wasn't worrying she said, in a voice shaky and as fragile as I have ever heard her.  I won't worry I said, when I managed more than a one word reply, cold chill on my back, voice forced into cheeriness.  Too cheery, no doubt it was as obvious to her that I would worry, as it was to me that so would she. 

I stayed at work, no point at all in coming home and doing nothing.  A bit of deep breathing, sucking in my feelings and pushing them out as air to float away.  Plus some internally spoken “keep it together”s.  I spent the afternoon trying to concentrate, trying to remind myself how treatable breast cancer is, how it's all going to be fine, of all the people I know who have faced this and are doing so well.  Of course your head likes to slip in the what if's, the worst case scenarios, likes to remind you of the last time.  Of what cancer has already taken away. 

I want to run away to a dark room and cry, but I don't.  I shed a few tears with my head in my hands in the disabled toilet and then I pull myself together.  I go back to work and I smile and I chat on the phone, voice forced into cheeriness, just that little bit too cheery.  Especially when I speak to my sister, who is numb.  I want to be numb, I pretty much am.

After work I go and spend some time with a friend, she know's where I am, she lost her mum to cancer 10 years ago. She reminds me how treatable breast cancer is, how it's all going to be fine.  We talk about the people we know who have faced this and are doing so well.  I tell her how I don't know what to do, that my colleague asking me if I was going to do things I hadn't even thought of made me feel like I was doing this wrong.

Then an update from my sister, she sounds too cheery too.  They said my mum should still go on holiday next week, and come back to more tests results (they are not sure about the lymphoids) and an operation.  No mention of chemo or radiotherapy yet.  I think that sounds hopeful, that they don't feel they need to offer chemo before, that they are sending her on holiday.  I am basing this on my previous experience with this disease, but then my sisters cancer was rare and aggressive, and I suspected from what they were throwing at it, that it wasn't so hopeful.  But the google searches about breast cancer are so much more positive than the last time.  This is just a little lump that they are just going to whip out and then it will be gone, it will all be fine.    Of course my head likes to slip in the what if's, the worst case scenarios, likes to remind me of the last time.  Of what cancer has already taken away. 

I haven't cried again yet, I am holding back the fear and the grief and the crushing devastation.  I don't want to feel it yet. I almost feel I shouldn't be like this, because this it just a little lump and it will be fine, it has to be fine.  I feel overdramatic and silly, because I am getting myself so worked up (well I would be if I let it out) and that feels inappropriate when some people have to deal with rare and aggressive cancer like my sister had, that isn't as treatable as this.  I feel like I am overreacting some how.   It's just a little lump.

So I'll try not to worry, I'll be positive, I'll try not to think about the last time and what cancer has already taken away and with everything I am I'll hope.

The importance of being earnest.

I am sure I am not the only person in the world who has trouble deciding what they want.  Though in fact, in all honesty I know exactly what I want.  The difficulty lies in finding it.  I am not sure it even exists, not fully formed and complete, the way it is in my head.

I want love, real genuine romantic love, despite me hiding from it mostly.  I would like to feel it again, I would like someone to really know me and for me to really know them, and actually to still think each other is pretty fucking cool.  To smile at the thought of someone, motivated by more than just my cunt.

I want sex, regularly; fucking great sex.  Not just sex though, sex is pretty easy to come by, even good sex isn't that difficult to source really.   I want passion, that feeling when you really want someone so much they make you're stomach flip, they make you daydream of the times when you're together, you masturbate thinking of them.  I want the strength of desire that overwhelms you, that is based in a genuine like and attraction for that person, that is more significant than a passing lust.  I want to feel that kind of passion flowing from another person. Knowing someone wants you like that is one of the best feelings in the world. Though that kind of wanting doesn't stop at sex I suppose, that passion for me manifests in wanting to be hurt by them, wanting to be submit to them, wanting to be owned by them.

I want D/s, and I have always wanted it, and that seems oddest of all.  Wanting love or sex is really pretty standard I'd say, but this need, this drive inside me, that is what I can't explain.  It's like a fire, and it burns so bright and strong that it consumes me.  I want control.  Which seems so at odds with my nature, because I am at my heart a control freak, unable to let go.  Perhaps that's the very thing I seek some peace from.  Though just that doesn't seem to explain the strength of it, how it not only makes me feel settled and content, but that I eroticise it more than anything else.   Restriction and control and the desire to do as someone else wants, my god, that gets me.  That's seduces and entraps me. I think I would say control is my main kink and everything else sits under the umbrella of that, except a small selfish masochistic streak.  It's not just any control though, it's meeting someone who makes you want to behave, who makes you want to be vulnerable and give everything you are to please them. That's rare, or so I have found, even for someone who wants it as much as I, it doesn't come easy and it just isn't there with most people.  Even those who want the exact opposite.

Herein lies the problem, can all that exist, truly exist in one person?  I say one person, because while I have not totally ruled poly out (because I have never really tried it), I generally seek out monogamous relationships and I fantasise about getting all of the above from one person.  All that desire and wanting coming together into a chemistry that is just, well right.   I have been sexually active since I was 19, and I have been practising kink for that long too and I have yet to find all 3 in the one person.

So, that's what I want.  I think my quandary is that it feels like I have to choose; love or great sex or D/s.  At the moment, I am choosing D/s. It nourishes me, it comforts me, and all feels right with the world somehow.  I have a purpose that wasn't their before, and I know that it could feel so right that it would almost feel like it could be enough. I don't ache for the things I am missing so much as I did when I could have them freely.  Yet I know to accept just D/s would be cutting myself off from so much more.  So I know I have to step away from it to pursue what seems impossible, to give it up for a dream.   Its what I need and it's what I deserve.

I know in my heart that I want it all, I just don't think I believe that it really exists.

Fuck I'm horny.

Fuck I’m horny.
I suppose that’s the point of this whole orgasm control lark.
But today, that combined with a peak in my sex drive means I am only a smidgen of self control away from humping the furniture, or so it seems.
In fact I should give myself credit, I have a lot of self control.
Otherwise I’d be cumming now and probably for the rest of the day, until my knees locked up and I’d worn a friction mark into my cunt.
Well it wouldn’t be the first time, would it.
Fuck I’m horny.
Hanging on the precipice of a full on strop.
I feel the tears and frustration behind my eyes.
I feel the indignation in me, that it’s just not fair, and I can feel the desire to stamp my feet and shout building.
I find myself wishing that 20 guy cream pies were safe, I blame the porn.
I find myself wishing I could go and get fucked.
I almost considered asking if I could just find a cock to suck, if it was a vanilla cock, surely that would be ok, wouldn’t it, that would be allowed?
Fuck I’m horny.
I begged to touch, but now I am almost wishing I never had to touch again.
At the same time as wanting to touch more.
I said I wouldn’t beg today, but I did.
I figured it was going to happen sooner or later, so why not today when today it would feel so fucking nice.
And it did, and I was there at the edge, so quick I almost didn’t have time to enjoy the journey.
And I used some pain to ruin it, which I have never had to do before.
I lay there feeling my cunt convulse without me touching myself at all.
Fuck I’m horny.
You’d think that would have taken the edge of my desire, yet it seems to be even worse than before.
This isn’t fair, there I said it, and feel slightly juvenile and silly because I actually want to cry.
But I won’t.
Even as I wrote that tears began to prick my eyes.
But I won’t.
I want to scream too, Hmph!
It’s so annoying that it’s so inevitable that in a little while I’ll be begging again.
Wanting to touch.
I said earlier that I didn’t want to cum, and in a way I don’t, I enjoy the idea of long term denial.
But when I am on the edge, and now, now I want to cum over and over and over and over and over.
Even though if I did I would be disappointed at my weakness.
Fuck I’m horny.
I feel it to the very ends of my toes, to the tips of my fingers.
In my throbbing cunt.
I hate this.
As much as I love this.
And it’s so fucking unfair.
I am not even sure why it’s unfair.
It just feels it.
Aching to fuck,
Aching to suck,
Aching to touch,
Aching, just fucking aching.
Fuck I’m horny.

Piss pig.

When I think about it now, I get a slight shiver of disgust.  I am reminded of the stickiness of the piss on my face and the acrid bitter taste in my mouth.

An hour or so ago I was on my knees and elbows, naked, arse in the air, and face poised over a bowl of my own piss, waiting.   I had been ordered by him to wait with my face over it, inhaling the scent and waiting for his call, and so I did, face an inch of two above it.  It didn't smell that bad actually, just a faint aroma.  I would have been slightly comforted by that maybe, if the colour wasn't as dark as it was. It more yellow than it should be, the colour of straw, no perhaps a little darker.  Not the light slightly yellow they tell you to look out for as a sign your properly hydrated anyway.  The wine drinking last night and too little water in the last 24 hours had guaranteed that.

So I waited, breathing in through my nose, to ensure that I was benefiting from the full aroma.  It's hard not to feel like a slut, with your arse in the air, cunt exposed to the cold air.  I wondered if I was going to be allowed to touch it, be allowed to cum for the first time after being denied for a week and a half.  I tried not to slip off into daydreams about being fucked roughly from behind with my face pushed into my own piss.  My cunt throbbed.  

I actually didn't think it might be that bad, if he did make me taste it, it didn't smell that bad after all.

Then he called, and I performed, what a fucking slut I am.  Pathetic, that's what he said, and I disagreed, indignant.  Pride biting in then.  How can you feel proud when your on your hands and knees rubbing desperately at your cunt, performing like a trained seal?  Begging to cum, begging to be allowed to drink your own piss.

Sticking my tongue in it wasn't actually that bad, I have since decided that it's because you taste it most at the back of you mouth.  Sticking my face in it was a little worse, not sure why, or perhaps the pulling the face out and feeling it trickle down my face and neck.  I guess that felt a little pitiful.  

The first gulp, the first mouthful, and yes it is disgusting, and I hold it in my mouth, not wanting to keep it there, but not really wanting to swallow, which of course I know he'll make me, and he does.  Not sure how to describe it, for those who haven't had the experience, but it makes me shudder, and I can't help but have a physical reaction to it.

Still doesn't stop me performing does it?  I hate that you know, that as much as I hate it, I don't stop, I carry on playing with my cunt, gulping and swallowing mouthfuls of my own piss while he goads me.  He laughs a little, and it ignites a flash of anger and pity, but I push both aside and be what he wants me to be, and hate that too.  Pride being pushed aside too, to be a pathetic desperate little slut. He tells me that it is exactly what I wanted, and it's a bit hard to disagree, when I am drinking it down so eagerly.  He instructs me to hold the last mouthful in my mouth for around 30 seconds, while I rub my clit, moaning through a mouthful of piss.  I'm told to let a little out over my face, and I do, it misses going up my nose, but hits my eye instead. 

When that last mouthful is swallowed I am thankful, at least that's the end of it.  I feel nauseas.  

Performance isn't over of course, not yet, after a week and a half of being denied, the slut might actually get to cum, and I want it, I want it terribly.    Too much perhaps, because I think about it too much and it moves further and further away. He goes briefly…Fuck!  I say that more than once actually, cursing out loud at my growing fear that I might not be able to give him what he wants.  Fuck!  I try really hard to concentrate, not to think about failure or disappointment or the word pathetic.  Fuck! Or the word useless.  I almost cry, suddenly hit by the hopelessness of it all.  I can't even cum when I am supposed to.   I've not cum in a week and a half, and now I won't be able to and then it might be weeks until he gives me the opportunity again.  Pathetic useless little slut.  

I try to filter out all the pressure, stop thinking, stop concentrating too much on the sensation of my hand on my cunt, my clit varying between oversensitive and numb.  I curse the amount I have played with it over the last few days, only a greedy slut like me would take licence to touch as an excuse to abuse her cunt to a degree that it's useless now she needs to do what he wants.  

It's his orgasm and he is having it he says, and that makes my cunt twitch like you wouldn't believe, and I am determined.   Even though I could still get to the edge and be denied, I have to get there, for him.  I try to think about those words, I repeat over and over in my head “pissy piggy slut” a mantra that does get me closer and closer to orgasm.

Still, still not close enough, Fuck!….Rejecting my clit as now completely useless, I find a bottle to fuck myself with, and almost immediately I am at the edge, moaning and desperate and needy.   Fucking myself hard, moaning to him, a desperate wanton little slut again.  When the orgasm comes, there is also a wave of relief.  As I cum, he tells me that my penance for cumming will be to write this blog and post it here, and I groan both in dismay and still in the throes of climax. He tells me that I have done well, and he is proud, and I cry, and then feel silly for crying.

Now, writing this I feel slightly disgusted and slightly nauseas, face still sticky from the piss I am not allowed to wash off, acrid bitter taste in my mouth,  but I am happy and a little proud too.

Cocks and Cunts

Cocks are quite nice, I don't find them ugly I mean, I quite like looking at them from time to time, they can be rather beautiful.

It seems on the porn that I have watched this week, that they all look fucking gorgeous. Lovely and thick and just... yeah bloody great. As this is a new phenomena for me (to find every cock I see a bloody huge turn on), I think that's an indication that this current bout of orgasm abstinence is affecting me more than I realise and I am in fact, what could maybe described as "cock hungry".

Writing that and thinking of... well cocks, made me shiver. You know that full body shiver you get sometimes, that seems to start off from between your legs?

I want them, I practically salivate I think and I obsess about fucking and sucking and just cock, in all it's shapes and sizes, in every hole, till it hurts.

Hmmm, this is a little too frank and honest I suppose, but then I think most my blogs do tend to be a little that way. Despite me worrying that they show a completely one sided view of me and give the wrong impression. I find it impossible to write of anything other than desire and need and wanting.

Anyway, so back to the cocks… or maybe the abstinence. It's only been 4 days in truth. Well no, a week of control and abstinence, with one little tiny orgasm by mistake on Wednesday, really, honestly a mistake. I played too close to the edge and it ran away with me. So one mistake, the first and the last.

I am trying to make "it's not my cunt" my mantra, it's a reminder to take my hand away when I am so close it seems so hard to stop. I have edged before, but seem to be finding it so hard this week, perhaps because I had been through a period of cumming a lot before this venture. Or because it is the time of the month where my libido starts to peak (I am not really looking forward to next week, expect more smut, or desperate wanton poetry).

I feel I need to learn how to do it all over again. It's the struggle between getting close enough for it to ache (after all that is the intention) but not so close that it runs away with you, or that you can't stop, with the added problem that it's always tempting to get closer and closer, nearer and nearer to the point of no return, because after all it feels so fucking good. Cunt aching, pleasure radiating in greater increasing intensity "just that little bit further" you think. Which of course is getting caught up in your own pleasure, convincing yourself that a little bit more won't hurt, that you can control it. Which was the cause of the mistake on Wednesday, playing too close to the fire and getting burnt.

There is something quite seductive with being curled in a ball, body rigid, taught with passion and wanting, knowing that if you were to touch your cunt for a second you might explode and waiting for the ache, the dull mocking ache to subside from between your legs.

I've been playing it a little safer since the mistake on Wednesday, but I feel my edging isn't edgy enough. Perhaps I am trying to run before I can walk, I need to build it up, practise. I need to learn how to play safely at a lower intensity and build up, getting closer and closer to the edge. So I know exactly how far I can go, so I know exactly when to stop, and there isn't that occasion selfish internal voice that whispers "go on, just one". So that I can always remember the purpose of the exercise, and so that in the moment that I get caught up in my pleasure, I can remember his pleasure, and the reasons I am playing with my cunt and what it is I am to achieve, and what it is he wants. So I can take may hand away and not find my fingers wandering back.

So that I can remember that it's not my cunt.

The idea of you

I don’t really know you, not really, not really at all.
I am enamoured with the idea of you.
With the idea of what you could be.
How silly that seems.
Even to me.
There isn’t any real reason for me to want you the way I do.
I am puzzled by the irrationality of it all.
Of this longing for a man who doesn’t really exist,
outside my head.
But the idea of you, of what you could be. Oh!
Now that is what’s seducing me.
And I can’t seem to lose this feeling,
Of being yours.
Though I don’t even think you want me, really want me at all.
But even that doesn’t seem to matter as much as I know it should.
Even that smarts less than it ought to.
I think you’re just enamoured with the idea of me.
With the idea of what I could be.
Or maybe that’s fantasy and you're not even that.
I know I am not your type at all, I can see that from a million miles away.
Perhaps I am just a silly little girl, with silly little romantic ideas.
Yes that, I know it’s that.
(Can it even be called romantic when it isn’t at all about love, when it’s about power and pain and sacrifice and desire).
How silly it seems.
Even to me.
The things I want to give.
The words I want to say.
That I want you to see me, really see me.
That I want nowhere to hide.
That I can’t stop thinking about you.
Of my idea of you.
Of what you could be,
Of what I could be for you.
However fleeting, however transitory.
That I would give all that I could,
For that.
The idea of you.