“When you come close … I just tremble”
Paloma Faith ~ Only Love Can Hurt Like This

~

Bedtime beckoned, we’d said our goodbye’s, but an ache still gnawed, bubbling restlessness beneath.

I was going to text Him and ask,
‘Please Sir, may I……?’,
A first.
I’d never done that before.

My fingers hovered over the buttons,
typing,
deleting,
typing,
deleting….

Because….
because what if…?

What if He said No, permission denied?
would He have understood what I was asking for?
Even worse,
what if He said Yes, and permission was granted?
Yes….
That would have been much worse.

Reason.
It wasn’t permission I wanted, not permission that was being sought.

~

My mind is not my own today.
It’s flooded by thoughts of need and want, begging and denial, by being taken, owned, subjugated, used.
Deny me, deny me everything.

My mind is blown, and all it took was the fantasy of Him.
That’s it.
Just the fantasy, such is the hold He has over me.
‘What fantasy?’ He asks, and I refuse to tell.
Make me, make me tell, every blush inducing detail.

It goes way beyond just being horny.
My whole body aches, infused with an absolute need to be objectified.
Don’t just make me say Yes, Sir, make me scream it.
Don’t just make me ask, make me fucking beg for it.
Please…
don’t
make me
beg.

..and by beg I mean not just once, but until the pillow is soaked with my tears, my throat hoarse from screams and misuse…

Then give me what sates us both, make me wear every ounce of your need on my skin.

Fantasy.
Kiss it, He says, and by ‘it’ He means that.
That which I detest, that which subdues even the most turbulent of rebellions.
Count, He says.
You will lose that attitude, He says
You are mine to hurt in any manner I please, He says

as He controls every emotion and reaction elicited thereafter,
striping my skin,
pink, red, purple welts
raised
as both the rebellion,
and tears of submission,
fall.

In some ways, I wish this was just about getting off
because then the need would die along with the orgasm.
But it transcends the physical.
It isn’t about this orgasm, or the next, or the next.
It isn’t about the fantasy which taunts me, daring me to send that text..
Please, Sir, may I…?

Each high leaves an echo in it’s wake, an expanse of discontent.
Release is not what I need.

My body aches because the mind is unsettled.
It craves dominance,
craves being overawed,
by his words,
by the power of proximity.
It craves that fear which crawls alongside it,
the uncertainty of
what next
which disturbs and off balance throws.
It needs it’s fears to be made to face,
to confront that which chips away at the submissive psyche.

It craves His control,
it craves that which makes it
tremble.
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