Look me in the eye and let me tell you my true desire.
You fill me with a thousand fierce longings. To know and touch each intimate part of your body’s wet recesses. To feel the soft give of your muscles in smooth handfuls. To taste the inches of orbed pale splendour, drawing slowly at each pink and tender tip with my teeth. These are the desires that fill my mind in the hours in between. But they are not what I really want.
When I look you in the eye, I can see the need to uncage that rabid beast. And I feel your trembling hands that start to stroke, pull, placate and pressure. Positioning me precisely until it is right. I’m prone, lying restless, waiting for your work to begin. Our faces nearly touch as you fix my shoulders, grab my wrists and wrap them roughly with a rasping old rope. But your eyes are fixed on the detail of the ritual. I watch you as I lie, waiting for the point when you can tell me your lusts through the movement of your body and the instruments it wields.
Is it a broken desire, this need we share? The entropy of your energy that brings chaos to this place where we meet. Your need to break me down and my need to surrender. To offer all my parts completely. To be rearranged. To feel your tearing at me and then to give you the cries you need to take more and more. The cane, the paddle, the belt and the hand. Accessories, after the fact.
When my need to look is too strong, you blindfold my eyes, shutting out my right to know. It’s not my privilege to see what you are planning. Only to feel its force and your power when the moment comes. Because you know my real desire can’t be reached through this physical compulsion we both feel. So you avert my gaze to keep it at bay.
And when it is over, the first thing I see is your face. Calmer, brighter. A distant look as you tenderly touch my aching limbs. Cracked lips, sticky skin, a generous smile. A kiss for the wounds.
We sit in silent repose, your fingers idly tracing the evidence on my body. I’m feeling the freedom of release. Unburdened by the raw hunger that weighs down my belly on the days when I need to feel you take me.
Look me in the eye and tell me what you feel when that striking hand meets skin. Not after the moment has passed, and your ire is down. When my welted flesh has melted back from fiery red to blushing pink. And your healing fingers have touched the pain you loved me with.
Don’t use your words, only your eyes. Because I need to see that flame. It hurts me more than your hand that, when you force that desire from my body, I cannot see your face. When the flat of your hand smashes into me, I want to be looking at you. Seeing the longing in you to beat and beat and beat me until I cannot quiver any more, only subside, crying, into your lap. Face down, the liquid shame that fills my eyes, and I cannot see straight.
Can I truly look you in the eye?
See who else has been wicked this week by clicking on the rings below.