‘Hands Away!’

He repeats it, I think, the words cutting, cold.
I’m lost inside myself, concavity of thought producing a skewed reflection.
All I can think about, focus on, feel, is how much I hate how I look in these cut scenes of intense interaction.
On the surface, I’m caught up with aesthetics, but apparent shallow motivations conceal hidden depths, an innocent expanse masking rip tides of malignant emotion.

His will should be mine, His command obeyed.
Not because I want to, wish to, desire to please, but because His word is final, the decision not mine to be made.

I obey, ofcourse I obey.
Not gracefully, though, with a humble ‘yes, Sir’ to further cement His role in my life, but with a selfish calculation, an attempt to silently manipulate the scene.
Nothing as crude or as general as topping from below, that would not be tolerated.
But even with my cheek red, head spinning from the repeated collision of His unforgiving hand against my face, I conjure detachment.
I may not be able to stop what He’s doing……..

I glance down, repulsed immediately by what my eyes can see.
His hand on my breast, kneading, pulling, twisting….asking a question to which my body always knows the answer. But I don’t want to play that game, I don’t want to cum. He’s demanding it, but I can’t, I don’t want to….
I will
Resentment bubbles, I fight it, fight it, yet futility mocks in injurious tone.
My body’s a whore, it’ll give Him what He wants, and I detest it, in all it’s fuck ugly glory….
The shape my breast makes, the way it moves under His hand…..THIS is what I see.
I despair at how deeply unattractive it looks, how the skin droops and wrinkles, how the breast sags, and grieve for a body I wish I had.
The strength of revulsion is overwhelming, my eyes squeeze shut, and I hold my breath….

……but I can still hold up my shield, the brat, and put her to use as my deceiving ally.

My hands, again, find His as I attempt to reclaim the revolting flesh beneath, prevent His access to that which, from Him, I’d rather hide. Self loathing dictates to me both action and reaction, from it’s grasp I cannot escape.


There is no jollity in His voice. Patience is thin, no room for negotiation. I consider none compliance, a bloody minded will to push Him further, but another visual aberration catches my eye, and in a panic my hands swiftly retreat. They tug frantically at the flacid hem of my top, pulling it down, conceal, conceal, another part of self I wish not to be seen.

He remarks at how easily I give in, part mockery, part surprise, and for a split second I’m defiant, even smug.
He thinks I gave in, He thinks He’s won.

But sorrow swiftly follows, guilt soon after.
This is not the flavour I wish my submission to be.
Deceit tastes bitter, and tears well as the rancid nuances coat my silenced tongue.

I feel increased urgency in His actions, His will shall not be denied. He knows the tune on which my body to play, He knows compliance will eventually be His reward. He feasts on it, devouring me, oblivious to the demons I fight.
He’s lost within Himself, within the moment, His dominance will not be denied.

I cum, ofcourse I cum.
But there is no pleasure in this moment for me.
I fought myself, I fought Him, at every step of the way.
There is no winner when transparency is clouded by something so dark as that which currently resides within my subconscious.

To this day the guilt remains, guilt even this purge can not assuage.
It, guilt and hatred of self, casts a shadow over everything I do.

In this state my mind cannot fully focus on Him, a disconnect I don’t know how to repair.