I want him to make me beg…but I’m no good at it. Generally by the time I get to that point, the only words I have left in my vocabulary are “Yes,” “Please,” “More,” and “No.” Sometimes I have such advanced linguistic skills as “Harder,” and “Hurt me,” but even those generally die under the haze of coming and needing to come and being on the edge of that great wide-open void of bliss.

The other day I dreamed (and have been polishing in my mind since then) a fantasy of begging him. Not our usual power exchange games, the ones where I give up my identity to him, and let him shape it into something new, a beautiful object for his gratification. No. This dream was about something deeper, darker, more intense. A new way of shattering my self on the hardness of him.

I knelt. I wore what he wanted me to wear, some confection of plaid or frills or lace. It isn’t terribly important, the set dressing. My hair fell down my back, until it wrapped easily through his fist. One hand caressed my cheek softly, his eyes meeting mine. “I’m going to hurt you,” he whispered softly. Tenderly. A promise, not a threat or an angry expletive. “I’m going to hurt you, and I’m going to watch you cry, and I’m going to make you tell me how much you like it.”

His hands went to work, finding the soft places in me. Waking them to attention with teasing little touches, with the warm strokes of his tongue, with the heat of his breath and the barest edge of his nails. And then, when I shivered, when I gasped softly, the only begging I know, he gave me the promised pain. He found each of those soft places and pushed me harder than I thought he could into them, pushed me over the edges of sensation until I was whimpering, sobbing, needing more from him. Wanting it to stop and to never stop, and to be taken into his arms and told I was a good girl…and wanting him to push my face into the bed and tell me that if I had been a good girl none of this would be necessary.

Instead of these things, he lifted my chin, tilted my head up to look at him, stroked his thumb through the trail my tears had washed down my cheeks. Purred in that inimitable growl of his, “And now…now you’re going to beg.” I’m certain that even in this chimerical dream, he could see the fear of my ineloquence in my expression.

The hand that touched my tears slid lower, tracing the salty wetness down the skin of one breast, stroking it as he whispered the words he wanted to hear in my ear. Growled a little as I hesitated and stuttered, his hand stinging my cheek easily with the slap. “I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t stutter. You won’t either.” The game continued, words being fit to my mouth, his hand finding home on my cheek, my body, as I failed to repeat them…or finding new homes, soft and pleasing homes, as I succeeded. Rewards and punishments, dragging me further from my shell, turning me into this new thing for him. An extension of every object he’d ever derived pleasure from, directed to his exacting standards, and willing…more than willing, wanting to be this for him. To give everything to him, to empty the shell of identity and let him fill it for these few hours with his needs and desires.

I’m not sure that it matters that it ended in fucking, in climax, in lying sweaty on the bed claimed thoroughly as his, able only to summon up the presence of mind to breathe “yours” in response to his claiming.


2 Responses to “mirage”

  1. I love how you write. I am totally crushing on your blog right now.

    You paint pictures with words in the most unique, beautiful way. You don’t describe what I could see, but rather, what I would hear and feel. Brilliant.

  2. Thank you lovely!

    I spent some time trying to pin this one down, but I wanted to share it as the counterpoint to all that emotional outpour I do. (This *was* supposed to be a sex blog after all.)

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: