How can you sit there and offer me your body and your soul, offer me everything? To offer to soothe me, to nourish me, to lay your cool hand on my feverish brow and relieve me? How can you show this soul-wrenching trust in a monster?
How can you sit there and earnestly say that you find me sexy, that you want to suck the marrow out of my bones? You who know me the best, you who know exactly who and what I am? You who know exactly what goes on in my mind and how deeply I hunger?
You know me. The real me. You are supposed to run away screaming, warning others of me. And yet you stay. You nestle your fingers between mine and you smile your infectious smile and you are not afraid. You know me and still you are not afraid. You are inviting me and welcoming me and you are not afraid at all.
Doesn’t it bother you that when I look at you I see a source of nourishment? That I look at you like a starving vampire stares at a pounding vein? That I look at your smooth skin and can taste it between my teeth?
Doesn’t it bother you when I bite your lips until I taste blood and then suck on them? That I pinch your nipples until you scream into my mouth and I breathe in your agony? That I yank you around by your hair and shove my fingers down your throat?
Doesn’t it bother you that I study torture methods and evaluate them to maximize pain and minimize harm? That I say that it’s to keep you safe, but how much of that is in reality just to prolong the torture and my enjoyment of you?
Doesn’t it bother you that I won’t even ask for your obedience? That I relish in taking from you, pillaging, rummaging inside you, imposing instead of requesting? That I won’t even tell you to kneel, but simply make you do so?
I can be the tenderest and most caring of lovers, and yet, when I think of you I can only think of your scream, of your shuddering breath, of your total and brutal surrender.
What the hell are you thinking?
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Khandroma is right. I know this woman too.
I’m thinking that…
I need this. That you see me. You can smell me miles away. You know when I shift from my head to my body; micro-movements to others, but a whole world of difference to us.
You’ve shown me how to reclaim the key to my own heart, and you excite me, and my screams evaporate in the viscous nature of your blood and when you breathe, my heart beats, and when I purr, you can finally exhale.
And nothing has ever felt as right as this.
This is a world of magnitude previously unknown to me. It has caressed my dreams, waken me awake, caught me breathless and crying and mewing. I am watching you. And learning. And when the curtain of night descends, and blankets us, we can touch peace, together. This, I know. It has happened. And it will happen as often as you will it.Who cares what it looks like? Who cares about the label for this kink or the other? The only thing that matters is that we journey, hand-in-wing-in-hand, soaring toward the stars, bursting them open with our own flavor of bliss.
You write like this. You question me. You interrogate the layers that comprise my soul. You call forth my integrity. Yet, your little kitten isn’t distracted that easily. On your time, I feel; I don’t think. Sadist’s orders.
It’s all about seeing, isn’t it, my dear Khandroma? It’s about seeing and paying attention and losing oneself in… what? Losing oneself in oneself? Losing oneself in the Other? Losing oneself with the Other?
It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you are lost. Because when you are lost is when the adventure begins, that’s when you are free to explore because the outside world isn’t reachable, and if you can’t reach it, does it really exist?
Nothing else matters anymore. Only the present. Only this. Only the descent into the Elemental. Only the embrace of the primal.
Yes, on my time, your role is to feel. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll guide you deeper and deeper into yourself. Your task is to feel; I’ll do the thinking for both of us.
I have mostly come to terms with my urges, with some exceptions. Not sure if I like myself because I came to terms with my urges, maybe I feel that I shouldn’t have given in so easily (it wasn’t easy), maybe I should continue fighting it.
I may be afraid to allow someone to love me because my desires and urges may be too much for her to bear. It is a bit of a Catch-22; what gives me the right to inflict myself on someone who is worthy of my love?
There is this deep, primal urge in a male to protect his female, and I am caught in the predicament that I feel I need to protect her from myself.
…On protecting her from yourself…
You owe her to be you.
She pines for your happiness. She holds her breath until the moment that you can finally let out your own. She is waiting for you to accept yourself. She is cheering you on inside of her heart, inside of your heart, from the sidelines, too. She is praying to the gods of man and the creatures of the organic. She is draped across your altar, across the Altar of Truth, waiting for you to possess the key to your own heart and never give it away again. She is there, patient, waiting, yours. She is yours for the taking. And in the taking of her is the reclamation of You.