when he keeps it “right-there”, biting against your swollen and “jazzed” wet flesh - and there’s nothing you can do…just empty yourself for him…
nor would you change a thing…
And this is why we need rope and something to bite on. Don’t want the neighbors, or someone outside, getting worried, or me biting his arm off. *g*
Suddenly, I have this image of a large scratching post. Perfect to claw, dig right in, and be chained to. Shackles would be nice. Soft leather.
Purr. No, Sir, I am not sleeping. I’m trapped in your love, possessed and taken, protected and oh-so comfortable in sitting here.
I absolutely love when he does this. While watching a show that I abhor, I could be writing, musing just a few feet away, but I choose to slink out of my chair and crawl on all fours over to him. He sees me out of the corner of his eye, and I’ll watch him for a moment, sitting in display all clothed. He’ll either pat the empty space next to him or his lap, and I’ll climb close and curl around him. His pets are soothing and sweet, and I drift, content on just being.
Be wretched and worthless and broken before me. Go low, and push yourself lower. Abandon all hope, all purpose, all pride, all self respect in front of me. Kill all your petty dreams and fantasies. Know that it is only by my grace that you will ever recover, that you will ever become human again. It is through me - and your total obedience and submission to me - that you will find your path again. But not until you have sacrificed every drop of blood, every beat of your heart, all your love and lust, every drive and desire, to me. And only to me.
I am very, very hungry, my dear. Your life and soul are my feast.
Sensitive as I might be, I crave this moment. Or to be marked and have it last for more than a few hours. There are times when after my husband takes me so splendidly and I go off to wash up that I stare into the mirror and inspect his work. I frown, upset that the scratches are leaving already and the welts are fading. All that is left is the bruise near by shoulder blade where the only people will know are him and me and the memories. That should be enough, shouldn’t it? Alas, it is not. I crave more. I need more.
This is a craving that I have. To be brought to a public place and stripped down except for my collar. My husband, lover, and owner attaches a leash and leads me along on all fours, naked and silent. People are watching us. Men are staring with desire, but the look on my husband’s face speaks volumes: MINE. I am grinning on the inside, agreeing wholeheartedly. He’s immaculate. Stunning. Eyes might glance at me, but I am all his.
He sits down, and I climb up on him, my arms planting comfortably on his spread legs. He strokes my hair occasionally and scritches my chin while in midst conversation. Occasionally, I’ll nuzzle his crotch, yearning to lick and worship him. He whispers to me, “Later, kitty,” and I shiver. It’s a built up to when we are alone, the leash is detached, and I am free to take him as I please.
Why the Hell am I so dirty?
Via Mitch O’Connell
I don’t do V-Day but this is my kind of card.
Nope, not a care for V-Day, but if I did, I’d send this to my hubbie.
