This should be a happy entry.
We'll pretend, okay? Close your eyes now.
...
...
Okay. Happy.
She is covered in tiny bruises, he worked hard to give her.
There was a moment, when it occurred to her that they had no safe words.
And as he pressed harder on her neck, she decided she didn't care.
Perfect love, perfect trust.
Besides. If he wanted her life, she'd happily give it.
It was a good weekend.
It was a quiet weekend.
And that was good.
It is agreed, it is in the running for best ever.
She spent large chunks of time buried in his hips.
And that was so peaceful.
He brings her quiet and calm.
He tells her such beautiful, terrible, things, that he means.
He eats her, with his words, and their purity and utter truth.
She loves his laugh.
A couch, and opium, and terrible children's programming.
A picnic on the floor, with china.
A last minute shopping trip to a fabric store.
And a buckle, with a hole for a lock.
A park bench, in the shade.
A warm lap, and the dearest deep voice rumbling through her closed eyelids.
(Her cheek aches for his shoulder)
She practises, now, so she need never be reminded.
Position is important.
(Thank you, sir)
She carefully tends and trains the limbs for compliance.
It is not hers, afterall, anymore.
How could one possibly answer, "Why should I make friends with my body?"
Because it is yours, the only thing that ever is, and it is beautiful.
Because of the joy of muscles stretching and vibrations rocking.
Because of the discipline of crafting and refinement.
Because we are spiritual being in physical bodies, and they are BOTH important.
This does it no justice.
She wishes she could take a switchblade to language, communication, and her own mind.
(She should write while it happens. Stupid. So much is lost already.)
She needs to do something.
Something productive. Something to move forward.
Something more than just her exercises, as important and vindicating as they are.
Tomorrow. Is anti-procrastination day.
(Is she not doing dishes because she's depressed, or is she depressed because she let her house get dirty?)
She needs to sleep.
Come, mare, ride me if you dare. |
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