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.

Back, With a Vengence

Out Of Control.

I am. At least, my thoughts are. My fantasies have turned down roads I previously could not have fathomed, turned dark and somewhat frightening. Terrifying, actually, if a whisper of them were to find their way to the real world. Desires so overwhelming I cannot contain them, I barely restrain my fingers from grazing against my cunt with the longing - these are bad enough. But the object of desire - now that is something of which to be terrified.

The Beloved, he tries. He tries to sate the fever, tries to break its possession of me, but it is as grains of sand in a whirlpool. He touches me, fingers lingering over my breasts, teasing my nipples, pinching them into painful, aching points. Long kisses, his tongue taking his rightful ownership, drawing the breath from my lungs. Firmly now, owning me now, his hands move lower, directing the dance as our bodies undulate. The scent of my pussy is strong as he slips his fingers into my wetness. Claiming ownership, he fucks me. First, sweetly with love and tenderness. Then again savagely, spanking my nipples, my ass, my pussy. Hard. Twisting my nipples, calling me his slut, making me come several times in gasping, blinding explosions before he allows his release. Sobbing, I bury my face in his chest, holding so tightly, repeating "I love you so" over and over.

For the moment, I am content.

Asleep in my chair, I feel his arms move over the back of my chair, sliding gently past my face, down my neck, going further, to cup my breasts, tease the nipples, brush the sides oh, so gently. Eyes closed, my back arches into the soft caress of his hand. Again, his fingers travel languidly over my curves, tempting, forcing those deep shudders I call shivergasms. His fingers now replaced by his cock, so hard and soft, damp. He places the tip barely at my lips. I smell the fragrance of clean, aroused male and inhale deeply. My tongue flirts with the head of his cock, teasing in it's own right. I open my mouth to take him deeper and he whispers "Not yet..."

My eyes snap open.

It is not the Beloved.

And the shock, the mind splitting realization of who it is, wakes me quite effectively, to discover I remain enclosed in the arms of the Beloved.

Heart pounding, I fly through all the thoughts and feelings I can separate in my head. What the fuck did that mean?

In all our years together, I have never had a sex dream about another man. Women, sure. Plenty, as a matter of fact. And daytime fantasies; harmless passing,drifting "what-ifs." Dreaming? Well, that means something, doesn't it?

Worse yet is this betrayal. The Son of the Beloved. My stepson, so close to me in age I could be an older sister. The fact that we are not blood relation does not comfort.

Faster the thoughts come now. More frightening, more shameful. Fear and fantasy play through my mind. I think of the Beloved as Master, and remember how often he has wanted to see my mouth full with another man's cock. Fantasy or reality? What would I do should he ever demand such, for real? If he knew of my dream, would it please him? Disgust him? Would he command such a performance?

What would I do?

All this complicated by the fact that this man, this younger version of the man I love so dearly, is at this moment only yards away in the guest bedroom. Close enough, perhaps, to have heard my orgasms earlier, not to mention the spanking... I want to melt into the earth.

In the morning, I make coffee. I can look neither man in the eye. Suddenly shy, uncertain, I finish my tasks and flee the room, certain that they both read easily the guilt and shame, and yes, excitement, in my face.

I am again betrayed by my body. The storm is upon me and even my skin has a direct line to my clitoris. The briefest brush against me is pure torture, and I have to fight not to gasp aloud. I wonder if the dream is merely a product of my raging hormones, his face simply the most convenient target. Often in hormone storm, I cannot look anyone in the face, afraid that my desire is broadcast in my eyes, afraid they'll do something about it; afraid they won't. And even now, I cannot give up the dream that continues, the dream of both men inside me, thrusting, filled, being wrapped in so much virility and love, surrounded, drowning in the Charybdian pools, sucked down, not breathing, reclaiming my Self from the Void.

It's been a while

I haven't been feeling well for some time, and it's left a mark on my libido. There are stirrings, however, that foretell an improvement in that area. The vibration is back. The longing is back. My mind is leaning towards the dark side. I'm hoping there will be writing tomorrow to remember tonight's experience.

Hum

Or maybe it's buzz. Like a bee, or a hummingbird.

My skin vibrates. Touch me, it telegraphs. Or perhaps it's reaching out, trying to find the stimulation it needs. I shudder, shaking out the longing.

The Beast is in his early, tentative state. He intrudes on my thoughts, but is not yet insistent. My body longs, but is not yet consumed. This is the warm bath and candles stage, the soft lights and softer touches stage. Slow, lingering, warm. The dancing stage, teasing back and forth.

It's pleasant, right now. But I know what's ahead.

Clockwork

Clocks should be this regular.

The Beast is always worse at work. The tedium of work just isn't enough to distract me from the thoughts that torture my body. My mind just wanders over every experience I want to remember, every fantasy becomes larger, more intense. Rope work is my current obsession. Not having experienced it, my mind imagines the feel of the rope being pulled across my skin, feeling it tighten and restrain me. How I would feel to be so tied, so dependent, so vulnerable. How would my body look splayed open or tied closed on the whim of the one who tied me. How would it feel to be teased, acted upon, with no means to respond physically.

The need for intimacy at this point becomes pain. I wish it were as simple as needing orgasm; that would be easy. A short trip to the restroom with my teensy bullet would result in blessed relief, and I could get my brain back on track. But that's not what I need. I need touch, to be touched and to touch, to taste and kiss and moan. Maddening.

Spoiled

A little too much wine. Justified in my mind, because the beast has not been fed. He turns nasty, he does, when he's left hungry. Petulant, and sometimes downright mean. Because he doesn't like the fear. And when he's hungry, and doesn't get fed, the fear pours in, invading, consuming. Not a pretty picture at all.