Heat and desire, lust and surrender...how does one write about sex without using all the old words? Without submitting to the useless conventions of language? Which language? Any language. Sex is a universal, I don't have to talk to you to fuck you. How often have *I* proven THAT? With people I wouldn't be caught dead conversing with, I've fucked. How many? More than a few.
God, but I love sex. Why? Who knows? I've had so SO much bad sex, MOSTLY bad to tell the truth. Why do I allow it to continue? Why do I like it, love it, revel in it? Dunno. Maybe never will.
Now sex with Raven is different. He doesn't just fuck me, it's never-well, almost never-just about His prick in me, His hard cock finding my wet opening. It's also pain. Painful pleasure, and oh GOD but He knows what He's doing. He knows how hard to swing the whip, how tight to bind me, how deep to cut. He knows, somehow, what I'm capable of, what I can handle, what I want and need every time. How does He know? How does He DO it?
Last night we fucked. Just fucking, no pain. Well, ALMOST no pain, it's never entirely without it, not when fucking Him. The way He watches me embarrasses me sometimes, the intensity of His stare, the focus of His attention. He listens to me breathe, sometimes even holding His own breath to notice mine. And then it's over. He comes, I don't. At least last night, every now and then I can and do. Afterwards He just holds me, tracing His fingers along my skin, lightly brushing the bruises or cuts He's given me. I love that touch, the sting of it, the reminder that He's given them to me, the knowledge that HE likes the feel of them and the reminder that I allow it, that I like it, that I revel in it.
And sometimes when He's holding me I cry. Dry sobs, quiet, so He can't feel the moisture on His skin, the heaving of my body. I cannot break down. Not because of Him, not because I think He would turn me away or love me less or want me less. But because I would not stop. I'm stuck in this space between a blink and a tear, and once I cross the line-towards tears, there's no other way to go, no going back to the blink, no regression, only advance or stagnation-I would forever be melancholy, always be confined to depression and heartache.
But aren't I already?
I really, REALLY loved him. A dream, a lie. "I didn't think it was possible." Oh, but it was. For me, it always was. But I have always been sorely underestimated.
Laters
God, but I love sex. Why? Who knows? I've had so SO much bad sex, MOSTLY bad to tell the truth. Why do I allow it to continue? Why do I like it, love it, revel in it? Dunno. Maybe never will.
Now sex with Raven is different. He doesn't just fuck me, it's never-well, almost never-just about His prick in me, His hard cock finding my wet opening. It's also pain. Painful pleasure, and oh GOD but He knows what He's doing. He knows how hard to swing the whip, how tight to bind me, how deep to cut. He knows, somehow, what I'm capable of, what I can handle, what I want and need every time. How does He know? How does He DO it?
Last night we fucked. Just fucking, no pain. Well, ALMOST no pain, it's never entirely without it, not when fucking Him. The way He watches me embarrasses me sometimes, the intensity of His stare, the focus of His attention. He listens to me breathe, sometimes even holding His own breath to notice mine. And then it's over. He comes, I don't. At least last night, every now and then I can and do. Afterwards He just holds me, tracing His fingers along my skin, lightly brushing the bruises or cuts He's given me. I love that touch, the sting of it, the reminder that He's given them to me, the knowledge that HE likes the feel of them and the reminder that I allow it, that I like it, that I revel in it.
And sometimes when He's holding me I cry. Dry sobs, quiet, so He can't feel the moisture on His skin, the heaving of my body. I cannot break down. Not because of Him, not because I think He would turn me away or love me less or want me less. But because I would not stop. I'm stuck in this space between a blink and a tear, and once I cross the line-towards tears, there's no other way to go, no going back to the blink, no regression, only advance or stagnation-I would forever be melancholy, always be confined to depression and heartache.
But aren't I already?
I really, REALLY loved him. A dream, a lie. "I didn't think it was possible." Oh, but it was. For me, it always was. But I have always been sorely underestimated.
Laters
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