This is what I crave.
granted or not,
is sought, not to abdicate responsibility, but so that I may feel the solid cage bars press unforgivingly against me.
The orgasm would have been hollow without it.
I’m in the mood to be destroyed, to be used, by him, for his own selfish pleasure.
I’m in the mood to get off on thoughts of my destruction by the icyness of the cruelty he nurtures so well.
I’m not in the mood to be shown any mercy, no tenderness, or heed paid to my tears.
I need to hurt, if only in my mind alone.
I use memory, not fantasy, to act out my desire, pulling emotion and remembrances towards me to further set my mind alight.
Recollection indicates he was fucking my mouth, and I open it instictively, whimpering softly at it’s absence. I recall how it felt, choking, Him laughing at me, yanking my hair to hold me in place, tears escaping, defiance melting away.
I remember he pushed his cock as far as it would go, holding it there whilst I struggled to breathe, making me wait before releasing me to gasp for air.
“Hands away!” the command I was given.
My path branches and I tiptoe along it, pulling another memory from the ever growing archives.
He cums on my face.
He knows what this does to me, and that that’s one of the reasons He does it.
It makes me feel small, ego-crushingly humiliated, owned.
That’s the whole purpose of this trip down nostalgia lane.
I need to feel owned.
I get off on being owned, literally in the moment as the orgasm leaves me breathless, and figuratively as my enraptured mind is held captive, by Him.
I wonder if He knows that that’s what He does to me,
by placing around me those cage bars against which I longingly press? </interlude>
I imagine Him pulling out, twisting my hair just so, and cumming on my face.
I remember what it felt like as each spurt fell, landed, dripped…..
I remember He wouldn’t let me look away;He wanted me to see my downfall reflected back at me via His demeanour, His smug grin, He wanted me to know He’d seen me fall, the one situation I would do anything to avoid.
I hate being seen.
In order to be fulfilled, I have to be seen.
I allow myself a flight of fancy and see myself curled, sated, at His feet, His cum drying on my cheeks, streaks in my hair sticking it to my face.
Lying back in a post-orgasm haze, I reflect a little on my motivations.
The orgasm wasn’t the point. If anything it was the direct opposite of what I sought, in conflict with the purpose of that initial text that resulted in permission being granted.
Had he denied me, I’d still have been sated, my mind would have welcomed those bars, however cold their embrace. I’d have felt the weight of His collar around my neck, been acutely aware of Him during every moment of my day. Permission being granted gave me that exact feeling, except those bars felt a little warmer huddled around me.
It was not la petite mort I sought, but His control, however intoxicating it’s flirtation with my senses.
I needed Him to either grant or deny.
I needed that in order to be fulfilled.