Archive for desiderata


Posted in thoughts with tags on Wed, 29 Oct, 2008 :: 302/44 :: 20:26:14 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

He gets the carefullest of whispers, “yes sirs,” “no sirs,” each measured out in my head. Looking for buttons to push, or buttons I have pushed that I want to back away from, unready for the intensity I see myself staring at. No matter how much I want it, crave it, desire it…I can’t quite bring myself to tip over the edge into that blinding darkness of him.

But it isn’t just his darkness, I am forced to admit. It’s mine too, and perhaps that’s why it terrifies me so when I find myself snuck upon and startled, confronted with the angular planes of its shape. The way I flush to think of his hands pulling and pinching and scratching. The way I think of my flesh as a sensation, touch or taste. It is not skin, any longer, but the taste of sweat in the hollow of my throat or the shiver as his breath raises bumps on my arms.

I confess things to him, little tiny baggage sized pieces of the darkness. The strange fetishes I have, the fact that I find playing pretend in bed sexy. But I want to show it all to him. Not that I can. I can’t map the internal landscape of my sexuality, can’t spread it bare. Can’t explain that sometimes when I look at him I think of sliding to my knees while he sits at his computer, or plays his video games, and taking him in my mouth until he’s panting and as desperate as I am. Until pushing me down, face half pressed into the carpet to achieve his outlet is as natural to him as setting aside the controller and taking me to the bedroom.

This tiny scrap of my pillowbook. Remaining hidden between weightier pages.



Posted in real life, thoughts with tags , on Mon, 27 Oct, 2008 :: 300/44 :: 20:56:07 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

I’ve been trying to frame into words this desire. This fantasy. The lingering needs and wants tangling themselves into a knot and burying themselves in my core.

I want him to dress me, to pose me. To put my hair just so, and part my lips gently with his thumb, to tell me to stare glassy eyed at the television, or the wall, or whatever happens to be in front of me until he wants to play with me again. I want to be taken into public, and given only the basics of movement and speech. Enough to laugh at his jokes, or agree with his comments. To stand and sit and walk.

To be set on the bed, and feel the pressure of his hands, perhaps even the faint warmth. To be so perfect at the game we’re playing that I can hold still as he brushes a nipple lightly, or circles my clit with a fingertip. To be able to hold my head still while he presses his lips to mine, not kissing back but just receiving the kiss.

To find perfect stillness of letting go, and being his treasured doll.


Posted in cusak with tags , on Sat, 20 Sep, 2008 :: 263/38 :: 12:21:18 -0400 by anaïs' little sister

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.