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.

Return of the Beast

I'm sitting here at work, and I simply cannot get anything done. My head, my soul my body most especially are drowning in a cloud of sex. He's reaching his peak, the Beast is. I can tell, because my thoughts turn from mere sex to S-E-X. Savage sex. Painful sex. Obsessive sex. Brutal sex. The kind of sex that isn't shown in soft core porn, or in Playboy or Penthouse. Slamming, kinky, wild, abandoned sex. The kind that scares me a little, and probably scares P more. And just behind it, underneath, the beginning of the pain. Currently at titillating levels, but showing promise of taking over, and becoming Most Unpleasant.

I do hope P has eaten his Wheaties.

And I wonder if I will have the backbone to lead our play to what I need.

Balance

One of the things I love about you is that I don't know what to expect. Occasionally, this leads to misunderstandings and hurt feelings, but far more often it brings tremendous rewards.

I shudder when we're cuddled on the couch and you slide your hand down to brush my nipple. Part of that thrill is just the basic touch on an erogenous zone (there's a zone?) but a larger part is the anticipation. How will it be tonight? Will you be tender and loving and vanilla? Will you be Master, hard and punishing? Creative? Will you focus on my pleasure, our yours, or ours?

The answer comes as we're kissing slowly, tender, stroking, teasing. The Master enters as you grab my hair, forcing my head back. I gasp as your knee forces my legs apart and your lips attack my vulnerable throat. When your teeth snag my nipple, the bottom drops out, and I am lost. All awareness is gone. There is nothing but you. Your touch, your taste, the things you make me feel. Your hair is loose tonight, and the silky softness of it trailing my skin only heightens the roughness of your hand spanking my pussy. Already I can hear the moisture in that slap. Tonight, you don't make me wait. Pinning my hands over my head, you enter me, fucking me hard and fast. Unexpectedly, I come quickly, but you barely pause, still fucking hard with a low growl. I watch your face as you begin your ascent, and the sight and the sounds of your pleasure hit me full force again, and again I come hard, sobbing with the intensity.

This was one of the best times, when your mood matched mine so perfectly. Just the right amount of tenderness, just the right amount of control. Love. Love. Love.

The Phone Call

"Touch your breasts."

Panic. I've just answered my cell phone at work, and Master is on the line. Just the sound of his voice is enough to make my legs shake. The command, barked without consideration of where I am or who might be watching throws me into a spin. Trying not to glance around I raise my right hand to my left breast, cupping it over my clothes.

My quickened breathing tells Him I have obeyed, and I can almost hear him smile. "Tease your nipple for me."

I open my fingers to let my now extended nipple slide between them, and I pinch it between them, pulling slightly.

"No." I freeze. "Under your clothes."

My mind racing, and my pussy dripping, I slide my hand into my blouse, inside my bra. I let out a soft sigh as my fingers brush the nipple that is so hard it hurts.

"That's better," he says. How does he know? Does he truly know me so well that he can hear my compliance in my breathing?

"Treat them nicely now. Tonight, they will receive much harsher treatment."

White light explodes in my head as I flash on images of what that statement could mean. He laughs at my gasp. "I love you, my slut."

The rushing of the blood in my ears is so loud it takes a minute or two before I realize it's the dial tone, and hang up.

Anticipating the Moment

Darkness.

Silence.

Sensory deprivation, I think it's called. It does interesting things to your mind. And body, at least in my case.

Expectation and Anticipation. At some point, I know you will touch me. When, where, how, I cannot say. I stand bound, with enough slack to prevent injury. I am blinded though the room is dark. Even my ears have been closed, that I might not hear your soft footfall to warn me of your approach. Naked, I can do nothing but wait for you, thinking of nothing but that first touch. Imagine a sudden smack on my ass, or even more intense, the softest brush against my nipple. How is it, how can it be, that often the most featherlight touch can slam into my body harder than the ruler you so love to spank me with?

My head is filled with every sensation you've ever given me. Lacking actual external stimulation, I recall every touch, every smack, every whipping you've bestowed on this vessel. Empty vessel waiting to be filled. My knees so weak, my pussy so wet, my nipples aching, waiting. Are you in the room? Are you sitting quietly, watching my need, reveling in the discomfort you've brought me? Are you out, watching TV, unknowing of my need, careless of my wants, knowing I will be there when you need a vessel to accept your cock?

And still I wait, tortured by my own thoughts and desires and needing your pleasure to release me.

Exhausting

This has been some week.

There are powers in the Universe, and I can feel them hammering, molding me, saying it's time to pay some attention to the greater things right now.

Fuck them.

But one can't dismiss the Universe so casually, can one? It has a way of making itself known. Persistent bugger.

I've been trying to figure out what my place is, where I fit, and the energy it takes has been amazing. Exhausting. Starting the week with the Beast, and only being partially able to attend to it's needs, was draining. Trying to reconcile my physical sexual self and my spiritual sexual self, and tossing in the emotional self results in far too many selves in one spot. A sudden, recent spate of self injury, or near injury, leads me to wonder if I'm intentionally looking for an out, or if Someone out there is trying to tell me something.

Since I'm not feeling particularly self loathing at the moment, I'm wishing that Someone would make the message a bit clearer.

I hadn't really intended this blog to become a journal, or a therapeutic means, but to be a place to put my erotic thoughts. Maybe they can't be walled off so easily. Maybe I need to address the whole of me, and learn how to integrate all those selves into one Being.

Or maybe I'm just a full of shit, self absorbed, accident prone, pathologically sexually obsessed deviant with a mystical Julian of Norwich complex.

I'm sure the Universe will fill me in eventually.

What does it say about me?

Here I am at work, reading some new sites that I've followed from Vespertine Erotica (amazing site, btw!) and my browser is full of d/s sites, and I hear the door open.

What does it say about me that I hide the bag of pretzels I'm eating BEFORE I close the compromising browser pages?

What would Freud say? Especially since the pretzels are RODS, not twists....