Thinking about it

I have avoided writing about this, hiding it from the page as though it will hide it from knowledge.

Hide it from memory, hide it from admission.

Part of me is ashamed, I suppose, of the pleasure I take in those brief times of submission to you. That's not who I am, not who I'm supposed to be.... and yet it is, and it is a reality that to pretend away would somehow lessen, cheapen, and I will not to do that.

It was my trust in you, my willing submission to you, which prompted your choice to wear the collar, and I will not cheapen that by pretending it away.

I think about it, you know- about the brilliant psychopathy in your eyes, and your twisted grin. I know what you're imagining, know the pain you'd like to give me and the blood you'd like to spill from my skin. Yes, I know.

I think about it- about the sensation of your hand on my throat, just thisside of terrifying, the back of my mind fear that this time the collar will slip a little, this time no one will check you, and you will squeeze too hard, too long, grinning that maniacal grin while the blood drains from my brain and I slip into the darkness.

I think about it- the contrasting tenderness and cruelty of your hands, so like what I give to your other side, and yet so uniquely yours. About the way that they make me writhe, and whimper, and moan. About the way that the madness in your eyes makes me want to please you.

About the madness in your eyes that makes you want to break me.

I'd almost let you... if I thought I'd survive it.

Yes, I think about it.

Image

The image, a week old now, won't leave my mind: you, spread in naked glory across the warm hardwood floor of your home, the sunlight streaming behind you and bathing you in light as you wrap your legs around me and drag me deeper into you. Your mouth, that hot little 'O' of pleasure and need, the small sounds dragged from your throat by the movement of my cock inside of you. Your face flushed with arousal and your eyes glazed in desire...

I can't get it out of my head,and nor do I really want to.

Missing you

I am gone from you, and it grieves me. I miss you, all of the many facets of you.

I miss curling up and watching a chick flick,my fingers softly stroking your cheek while you blush and hide your face.

I miss your arms around me, tight when I am sad and insecure, your voice calm and strong and soothing.

I miss your cocky grin, half smirk and half pure lust.

I miss your voice soft and halting, as you curl into me.

I miss your hands obsessively refolding.

I miss your smile, evil and a little deranged, as your fingers dig into my sore spots.

I miss your rambling about computers.

I miss you spread beneath me, panting and moaning.

I miss you.

All of you.

More than you know.

Now

My body stretched atop yours, my cock moving in and out of you while you whimper,moan, and plead in a language I don't know.

My arms around your shoulders, giving me leverage for the fucking of you just as much as holding you close while I do so.

Your face turned half to me, dark eyes distant and turned inward toward your own pleasure... I want to take you and rip you away, rip you away from your pleasure and back to me, and I want for you to feel this, to enjoy this, forever.

You are riding me now, as I rest and let my hip recover from fucking you. Your body moving atop mine, my hands on your thighs and your head thrown back in pleasure and release, your are beautiful.

Your hand wrapped around your cock, lovely little cock, and pumping with the rhythm of your hips fucking yourself on my own, and I can only smile, groan my own pleasure and contentment while you whimper and ride me.

Soon your eyes are wide, begging, your hips and hands frantic as you whisper to me, "Now? Now?...."

Yes, darling..... Now.

Wounded Healers

“Without your wound where would your power be? It is your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble into the hearts of men. The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human being broken on the wheels of living. In Love’s service only the wounded soldiers can serve.” -Thornton Wilder

My best friend, who is well on his way to becoming a priest, gave a sermon today with this quote as its basis.

As always, it put tears in my eyes.

I have wounds. Some scarred over, and some still healing. A few bleed even now.

I have wounds. And yet, I am the one to whom many turn for healing, for safety, for trust and love.

For years, I wondered why. Did they think me unwounded? More whole than they? Surely not, when I have allowed my wounds to show for years now and it hasn't slowed the flow of requests, but truthfully sped it up (my academic studies have also influenced that, of course...).

So, I'm left seeking another answer. Why? Why would someone come to a wounded healer? Physician, heal thyself.

A doctor who treats herself as a fool for a patient.

Why would they come to me?

And then he showed me this quote, a few years ago.

"In love's service, only the wounded soldiers may serve."

In love's service, only the wounded soldiers may serve.

Only the wounded soldiers.

Only the wounded healers.

My wounds haven't made me less fit to heal, to serve, to teach.

They've made me more.

"Without your wound, where would your power be?"

Without your wound, where would your compassion be?

"It is your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble in the hearts of men."

It is your very fear, your very wounds, that show that you know, you understand, and you care.

"The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human broken on the wheels of living."

Your wounds stand as testament to your knowledge, to your compassion, to your understanding of their pain.

"In love's service, only the wounded... (healers) may serve."

Already

There is an edgy high to the air tonight, a rising pressure and I want to ride it. The warm, humid air rises around me like the warmth of my own cunt and every stray breeze is another caress against my sensitized skin.

I've just left you, reluctantly, at your home and I'm already thinking longingly of your bed again, of the sensation of your skin pressed to mine and the warmth of your body against me,the softness of your mattress and the heat of your mouth.

You are beautiful, although I don't know that you realize it. Your skin golden against my own still winter-pale pallor, the soft sweep of your eyes and the warm solidity of your legs.

I'm already thinking of the soft, mewling sounds that you make when my mouth is hot against your skin, the way that you open to me with slutty eagerness, begging silently for more, more!

I shouldn't miss you this much already, but I do, and every rising rising degree of pressure from the coming storm around me just sensitizes me more, awakens the violence in me which has slept for so long but you have brought out again.

The puffs of wind preceding the storm tease the thin layer of hair on my arms, on my wrists, reminding me of the sensation of yours in my hands, and the sound of metal nearby makes me ache for the chains to wrap around you.

As the pressure rises so does my violence, and I want to take you now, here in the wind and the clouds and the coming storm, stake you out and open your legs to me.