Denial

I crawled to your feet today.  You patted my head as if I were a child, and sent me away, with love and kindness. 

Cruel Master.  Denying me your touch. I ache with need for you, for someone, anyone.  Would you give me leave to sate my desire? Shall I chose someone else?  Or would you choose for me? 

Ohhh... someone new.  A new playmate, a toy, a new playground for me to explore!  Would you like to watch, my Beloved? Instruct me how to please our new companion? Would you like to see my mouth open to receive another?  Watch as I spread my cunt open for the eyes of another... the cock of another?  Would I make you proud?  Would your cock swell with pride, knowing how my tongue would feel sliding up the length of his cock?  Or would you rather see me with another woman?  Watch as I lick the wetness from her pussy, suck on her clit and bring her screaming to orgasm?  To spank her, at your command, knowing the sting so well myself?  Would you let me come at all that night, or would you deny me yet further?

Sometimes, while you play with me, making my body hum and vibrate and explode, I imagine someone watching us through the window slats. I love the thought of someone being turned on by how well you play my body; having them be so captive they just stand there watching as we make each other come. Would you  let them watch quietly?  Would you invite them in to have their way with me; your plaything on loan?  I am excited and terrified by that thought. 

But tonight, denied, with the wind howling outside, I retreat to solitary pursuits. 

The Weight

The weight of your body

I feel safe

and loved

Hold  me tighter

Fill me
Empty me

Never let me go
I am yours
Always.

First Touch

I love that first touch.  Cuddled together on the couch, safe in your arms, happy and content... until that first touch. That touch that is somehow so different from any other. Sometimes it's a direct touch; your hand gently brushes over my breast to show your intent; other times it is simply a change in the way you stroke my arm that whispers "sex."  My body responds to that touch so powerfully.  Last night, you made me come twice, just from that touch; teasing and stroking my nipples and breasts until I was gasping, moaning so loudly I fear I'll wake the household up. Twice, with not a single touch below the waist.  Then you invited me to the bedroom, where I started to get ready for you; but you growled "I can't wait" and grabbed me, held me down and took me so hard I saw stars. Almost twenty four hours later, I still see them.  I love you so completely, my Beloved.  

Home Alone

Not entirely. The offspring have all gone in separate directions, leaving P and I alone. Almost as soon as the door closed, he started dropping hints that I was in for an interesting evening. After I cooked dinner, he looked at me and said "When the children are gone, I see no reason for you to be wearing clothing, unless you're cooking."

Years ago, in the dark ages before we actually met, he had told me I would not be allowed to wear clothing except at his discretion. It was a wonderful fantasy; one that was less than practical with kids about during the daytime hours.

So now, I sit in my knitting chair, almost naked (it is a little chilly, so I'm allowed a robe over my shoulders and back. And I sit here, wondering and thinking what plans he has for the evening. I know they include the woven leather belt he's draped over the back of the couch, but what else I have no idea.

He knows that sitting here with my nipples hard must be driving me crazy. I'm glad for the robe to sit on too; otherwise the chair will need spotbot treatment! He's across the room, ignoring me, knowing I'm only going to get hotter and wetter the longer he makes me wait. I know it will be worth it.

When it rains

It's here again. Storm, the literal and the figurative. My brain filled with images I can't control. My body vibrates with desire, the need to be touched, to touch, taste, feel. Incoherent scenes flash through my mind. My fingers gently tracing the soft swells of a woman, painting her skin with my tongue, my touch. I'm drowning in the sensations of my imagination. I need to focus, do the daily things I am responsible for, but I cannot escape the driving desire. It will not leave me alone.

I wonder if other women feel this way; are they slave to their sexual desires? I don't see the hunger I have in anyone else's eyes. Do I cover it up that well? It seems so bare to me, that surely everyone must know how wanton I am.

I can only be at peace when I surrender. His acceptance gives me permission to be hedonistic. It absolves me of responsibility and keeps me safe from myself.

Tonight I want to experiment; to see if I can orgasm simply from having my nipples teased. In the middle of the storm, I feel like almost everything makes me shivergasm.

Vulnerability

Leaving oneself open to hurt, to criticism, to ridicule and pain is no small thing. To do it repeatedly, even after betrayal and injury, would seem madness.

I must be mad.

Allowing myself to show the most vulnerable sides of myself has been difficult, but also very rewarding. P somehow manages to tread the very fine line between Mastery and humiliation. When he calls me his slut, it is devoid of the connotations most people would derive from it. Instead, I hear his pride of ownership, his pride in my sexuality and in my need for him. Rather than embarrassing me, or humilitating me, it validates me. I am totally rewarded for my vulnerability. He gives me what I need in every way.

Stage Three

The pleasant stage has passed. I'm now in the throes of Stage Three.

Hunger.

It's all consuming. There is not one thought in my head that isn't screaming sex. My body vibrates against the air, aching to be touched. I try to muddle through my ordinary day but every moment is a struggle to keep myself under control, to not let on how my body is poised, waiting for a touch to burst into flame.

I know that it must be written on my face. I've never been good at hiding my feelings. I know that every nasty thought, every twisted fantasy in my mind is telegraphed to everyone I pass by, but no one seems to notice. I feel powerful, and I feel shame. I am unsure of myself, unable to convince myself that I will not act inappropriately, that I will not molest someone passing by.

I'm home now, waiting. Waiting for the dark. Waiting for the children to be put to bed. Waiting for dark. Waiting for silence. Waiting for the time that I can let go; when I can unleash the full fury of wantonness that is so desperate to be released. Waiting to implode.

Soon, if only I can wait.