tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67738173531032706172024-03-08T11:56:52.912+00:00Self Indulgent Outpourings and Intermittent Filth.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger21125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-82711043105116146862012-09-25T17:34:00.001+01:002012-09-25T17:34:51.553+01:00Sometimes. Sometimes a saccharine shmaltzy sentiment gets stuck in my throat.
It's just too corny, too sickeningly sweet for me to say out loud.
So it dances on my lips and is swallowed as I cringe inside.
Silent.
Sometimes there's an ache in my chest.
It's that too good feeling.
And it feels like it can barely be contained.
It's terrifying.
And I simultaneously want to run away from it and run into Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-73844053810261348212012-07-12T08:07:00.000+01:002012-07-12T08:08:02.059+01:00Want.Want big fuck off angry bruises.
Want the kind of lingering achy pain that makes me doubt my sanity for wanting it in the first place.
Want tears of regret and gratitude and hopelessness.
Want the coldness of him when I feel his energy change.
Sadism pouring off him, silencing me.
Want whimpers and those strangled noises that seem to come from a far off stranger to escape my lips.
Want to cry Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-85133465065858833062012-05-23T22:22:00.001+01:002012-05-25T20:48:25.653+01:00SubjugationSometimes I cling to him.
Needy.
Trying desperately to curl myself into his chest.
Pushing my face into him till I can barely breathe.
But still it's not enough.
I want to be so close that I'm enveloped.
Swallowed up.
Eclipsed.
Till all that exists is him and my service to him.
I need to feel smaller, weaker, insignificant in comparison.
Suddenly so clingy and dependant.
So desperate, almost Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-56780915621854194942012-05-11T00:06:00.001+01:002012-05-11T00:10:34.196+01:00I don't want to pick up the phone.I don't want to pick up the phone. The meduim of text allows the repression of emotion. And at the moment I couldn't stand for you to hear me cry. I'd feel pathetic and weak and fragile. All the feelings I spent so many years trying to run away from. Trying not to feel. Which is what got me into this mess in the first place I guess. Today I suddenly felt so alone. Back in the place IUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-21821776806377078292012-02-20T20:58:00.001+00:002012-02-20T21:21:47.394+00:00Bruises.On reluctant heavy legs I stomped into work this morning.
Cheered only by the feeling of his bruises on my thighs.
By the knowledge of the bright red imprints of his fingers on my flesh,
and the bruises not as yet bloomed with colour.
by the secret hidden bruises of my tender battered cunt.
His bruises were like a shield protecting me from the mundanity of the day.
Reminding me that there is Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-49123354073561779432012-02-18T23:57:00.002+00:002012-02-19T00:33:02.694+00:00Whoever I am...Whoever I am, I am because you loved me.
And every time I miss you, I am thankful for you.
I was blessed.
And every tear and every ache of loss,
every time it crushes me that you are gone,
every bad memory of your passing,
every year that's emptier because you're not here,
was worth the years that you were.
was worth the love that you gave me.
Was worth the magnificence that was you.
I'd love forUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-43234954149407242782012-01-04T20:07:00.002+00:002012-01-04T21:04:46.746+00:002011/2012 (Getting out of debt, gratitude & goals)I've seen a couple of the recent blogs reviewing 2011/setting resolutions for next year and as usual with most things, I'm late to the party. I wasn't going to write one because I didn't think I actually had anything to say, I thought that 2011 had ticked along the same as every other year, with nothing new or interesting happening. I feel most of the time that nothing ever changes, Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-81477459883750125412011-11-15T02:00:00.000+00:002011-11-20T12:19:48.425+00:00WorshipI'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, Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-66150894428086865722011-11-07T21:49:00.001+00:002011-11-07T21:52:05.022+00:00Control.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 thatUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-65036273313396884022011-10-09T16:22:00.002+01:002011-10-09T16:22:25.520+01:00I 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 yourUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-84148914331292533032011-09-25T18:48:00.002+01:002011-09-25T18:56:29.281+01:00BurnWhen 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.
IUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-55166081236526026542011-09-21T04:24:00.002+01:002011-09-21T04:24:34.421+01:00the absence of youAlmost 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.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-61957902174967179732011-09-15T20:00:00.000+01:002011-09-21T04:38:44.179+01:00In 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, theUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-26065922275437301522011-05-22T04:17:00.003+01:002011-05-22T04:20:25.361+01:00The 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 Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-10806000479134448502011-05-11T20:21:00.001+01:002011-05-13T21:36:58.118+01:00The 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 needUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-57011544274736302492011-05-04T22:35:00.004+01:002011-05-04T22:39:03.741+01:00The big CThree 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 Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-65673340096420237302011-04-10T16:47:00.004+01:002011-04-10T17:20:03.424+01:00The 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 againUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-59494726632534469072011-04-09T16:54:00.004+01:002011-04-09T17:52:34.202+01:00Fuck 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 Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-87772315464358268022011-03-12T16:58:00.015+00:002011-03-13T23:15:52.097+00:00Piss 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 Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-77344530738982635912011-03-07T01:31:00.002+00:002011-03-07T08:41:07.699+00:00Cocks and CuntsCocks 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 Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6773817353103270617.post-82436062189597959232011-02-24T22:16:00.002+00:002011-03-09T22:19:31.044+00:00The idea of youI 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 Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0