Give that ache to me, my pet.
And I obeyed.
You're making me cry again, my Master.
You do know that this is beyond erotic, my Master. Even if I were allowed to masturbate, that wouldn't help. It's the nearness, the intimacy...
To just lie with you like that, my Lord... to feel with our bodies the intimacy we've created with our words... to have the luxury of time... to lie there, to smell you, to feel you...
You're hurting me, my Lord, making me feel all this...
I love you, my Master - though in a way that I can't define and that doesn't seem to connect with any definition of the word that I can imagine. I am confused and in pain and I am yours.
I'm going to take a shower now.
I am going to wash my hair.
I am going to stand there under the water, reaching up my hands to lather my thick hair, caressing my body with naturally scented goat's milk soap, cleansing my breasts, cleansing my pussy, cleansing that cleft, that tiny hole, between my butt cheeks, and hoping that you are seeing me, feeling me, wanting me.
Want me, my Master.
Grow hard for me.
Burn for me.
Feel me lying soft and yielding against you.
Yearn for me yearning for you.
And then drink my tears.
I long for the impossible, my Master.
I long for what only time can give.
I long to be with you.
To be with you.
And I have no idea how to give that word enough weight.
I long for integration, for the hours that we would need to piece together these precious parts of our relationship that now come only in snatches. We write, we chat, you come, you take, you hurt, you cum, like a McDonald's drive-through except the food is of the finest, though eaten in the car.
I bury my nose in you, my Master, in your crotch, in your chest hair, and the scent is nothing more than you. Fresh, sweet, honest, sometimes a touch of stale urine... I've never treasured the scent of a man this way. It is you, my Lord, you without pretense, you with nothing to prove, nothing to hide... for those seconds the clock isn't ticking, there is no agenda item to be ticked off in the limited time that remains...
Oh, well, yes, my Master. There may indeed be. Item: 10 seconds sniffing chest hair. And yet no. Your scent betrays you, my Master. In those moments I am so close to you, feeling your body beneath mine as I pull myself up to bury my nose in those hairs...
I find it interesting, my Master, watching [your talent for manipulation]. And I know how you do play me like a tightly-strung harp, knowing more and more as time goes on how to get from me the exact notes you seek. But it doesn't matter. There is the closeness beneath it all, and I am allowed these tiny tastes and, in a phrase you like to use, it's killing me.
Those moments of painful beauty... when you kiss my eyes... when you stroke my hair... not only the gentle times... when you lie on top of me... when you push behind me... when you strum my pussy, my Lord... not because of my arousal, my Lord, but because of the touch... to have more time... time enough to feel... to be allowed to feel... to be allowed to lose myself in the closeness... to lie next to you and listen to you breathe... to lie next to you all night and do nothing more than feel your presence... to not let myself fall asleep because I don't want to waste a moment of it... and to go to the goddamn opera with you and feel you by my side, your large hand over mine, to feel the intensity of your response, to feel the warmth of your hand and the warmth of your breath on my ear as you whisper to me little things I should be sure to notice.
You are dehydrating me with crying, my Master. You are torturing me. There are many kinds of knives. You are cutting gashes in my heart by making me say these things. But perhaps this is your revenge for what that video of my crawling is doing to you.
I can't sit here and cry all day, my Master. I have things to get done. You are forcing me to remember, forcing me to face my desire and pain, forcing me to think about what I can't have. And it hurts.
[still more to come]