Incomplete

This post was written over a year ago, although I have no idea why, back then, I didn’t push the ‘publish’ button on completion.
Reading the words back to myself, they are as relevant now as they were then, those same feelings wrap themselves around my mind when I wake in the early hours and curl up closer to Him as He sleeps.

~

I crawl into bed beside Him, and mould my body to His.
He stirs, moulding Himself to mine.
I ache, lying at this angle, but I endure.
In 24 hours I’ll lament the absence of that ache, I’ll wish I had savoured it, or rather the moment, and so, in His warmth I take consolation, banishing all thought of bodily discomfort.

I close my eyes and take each detail in.

The heat He generates, the way His skin feels against mine, the way our limbs naturally entangle as proximity automatically draws us together.
I know, tomorrow,
the sheets,
I,
will be cold without Him.

From nowhere, tears burn, and I fight to hold them back.
I castigate myself; I should be used to this by now.

Emotion is raw, I wish He didn’t have to go.

Truth.
Each time we part, the wound of missing cuts deeper.

More tears, silently shed, and in anger at self, I brush them away.
I think back a few days to the emotions with which He toyed.
I cried.
I screamed.
I begged.
I yielded.
Raw, vulnerable, honesty coated every reaction.

But, it isn’t just the physical I miss, nor the elementary emotion inherent within.

I miss the active dominance, the dynamic protocol, the mental connection that only togetherness can provide in order to fully sate the submissive needs which gnaw at my psyche if left, untended, too long.
At a distance we are still Sir and pet, that does not change,
yet,
it isn’t enough that I tell Him, in textual form, that by the bed I kneel when missing overwhelms.
Without Him present to bear witness
to my surrender,
to the emotion,
to the yawning chasm His absence creates,
the act feels hollow,
incomplete.

Observation, stark.
Without Him, without Sir, I feel incomplete.

Motive

Everything we do is dictated by motive.

My motive in rope is to feel.
It’s inescapable when thus enslaved, imprisoned within the emotion itself, until the orgasm I tear from my body heals the rift.

The tie was experimental, vague ideas, my only need was restriction, to feel the rope’s bite, not it’s caress. To feel the knots press uncomfortable, painfully uncomfortably, aesthetics not a consideration.

<wry smile>
To feel;the one thing I’ve avoided of late.

The tie wasn’t perfect, tension uneven, one boob compressed, the other merely held. Any other day, disappointment would leave me disheartened, and from the rope I’d turn.

But today, somehow the disparity worked, fitted the mood.
I was restless, unsettled.

I needed what the rope provided.
I needed to feel, no matter what that feeling was.

 

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boobday

KOTW:Bukkake

Bukkake is the sexual act of multiple men ejaculating on another person covering them with their semen…

Just reading the description makes me feel uncomfortable, uneasy.
Multiple men. I can’t go there.
It’s an immediate roadblock, one that makes me want to cover up and shrink away from that kind of attention. It makes me feel crowded, and I need to get away.
I don’t want hands on me, mauling, groping, grabbing my body.
Even in fantasies where I imagine being taken by two, it’s the feeling of the cocks fucking me I get off to, not the presence of the faceless men they’re attached to.

And it’s not that I don’t like jizz, I do, but I like it hot, and fresh from source. I love the feel of it hitting my skin, especially my cunt or tits, molten desire that I can spread over my clit and get myself off with.
But cooling, cold, congealed, I hate it. Honestly, it makes me feel a little sick.
If Sir requires me to clean his cock after he’s fucked me, then I do it as soon after as possible, when any left on him will still be warm as my tongue laps it gratefully up.

The thought of being naked infront of multiple men with whom I have no close, romantic relationship terrifies me. It’s only now I’m happy with my nakedness infront of Sir, yet even then I sometimes relapse and try to cover up the parts of myself I dislike the most. Nakedness equals vulnerability, to me anyway. It isn’t the freeing feeling I’ve heard others describe.
*sigh* I often wish it was.

When I think of bukkake, I automatically equate it to jizz on my face.
Jizz on my face equals humiliation.
<pause>
There’s an odd dichotomy there, a disparate duality within that word. I have a humiliation kink, I can be poked and prodded, have my emotions and feelings twisted until I feel utterly broken, but I can only do this with an audience of one. Infront of that one, I am free to explore the ugliness of humility, to process every emotion that surfaces, however that manifests.
But add many to that equation, and the humiliation is multiplied to the point of being injurious to my state of mind.

I can be used by one, fuck, I love being used by the one, but to be the one infront of the many, to be used by that many, and to ultimately wear their seed upon my body,
my skin,
my face.
I can’t go there.

Ultimately, when I think of bukkake, it’s difficult to put a positive shine on what feels, to me, like a threatening situation.