the aching, empty sensation that builds over weeks of edging.
having to rip my hands away at the very last second once, and then 2, 3, 4 times in a row… my eyes roll back, I forget to breathe, and whines of “no, no, stop,” come out of me when I get close.
“no, no, no!” chastising myself holds the edge for longer, keeps me from going over, and then I keep rubbing. For Him.
by the end of every ordeal I’m barely coherent, my mind is blank, my limbs are jelly, I’m shaking, still thrusting against nothing in the wake of the loss of stimulation, and a sense of overwhelming need settles in; a blend of desperation, devotion, gratitude, loss, longing…and utter fulfillment.
Satisfaction at a job well competently done, a purpose partially fulfilled.
sometimes I cry, but always I’m grateful. In those moments I feel like I’m high on denial, I never want to cum again – I don’t deserve to anyway.
And so I rub some more. I rub until I only know Him, I only see Him, I only feel Him.
Can you believe i’m lucky enough that he allows me to violate his property this way?
Some will say that a cunt like you shouldn’t enjoy pleasure. That’s silly. Pleasure’s fine… it’s completion you don’t deserve. Because while you make an acceptable hole, you’re not much of a whole.
Looking through your blog and just loving how strict you are. Makes me imagine coming home from an awful terrible day and I come home and you’re immediately impatient with me bc I wasn’t listening to you talk and then you start to raise your voice and I just start sobbing and you look down and smile at me starting to laugh a little at me
Hmm… I really don’t believe anyone who knows me would call me “strict”. I think of “strict” as the relentless policing of a set of important rules, and that’s just not how I operate
I mean, rules are great for ritual’s sake… symbolism is important to me. But as often as not, I’d rather skip the rules and just talk to you. Talk until you get it. Talk until you somehow feel both heard and overruled. Talk until you see that your priorities are really mine. Talk until you remember that your insides are a dark and shapeless wilderness, and I’m drawing the map that describes you and defines you and makes you real.
Because dumb little girls don’t need a strict man. They need a cartographer.
