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.