Rope

Rope

You teach me to tie the knots with painstaking patience in your eyes, your voice. Your hands are on top of mine on the rope, showing me how to smooth it, stretch it, train it to go the way you want it to go. I sit beside you on your couch and feel you watching me, feel the way your eyes are never leaving my face.
You tell me I will learn to care for your rope. I will be responsible for its care, to clean up after you use it, after you use it on me. You tell me that this is important to you, that this is intimate and between us. I am concentrating, hanging on to your every word, your very breath, focused only on my effort to do this task you have given me the way you would like me to. I can tell by the way you watch me that you are pleased.
I am dying. I am touched in ways I cannot even begin to explain to you. I cannot even look at you. I cannot, cannot bear the love I feel at this moment, the submission. I am too shy to speak of it, nearly too shy to speak at all, even the whispers you draw out of me, my face hiding in your neck, my voice trembling. I am utterly overwhelmed with feelings I have never felt before and feelings I cannot even describe, not even to myself in my heart, except maybe to tell you that I have never felt so purely submissive in my life, so purely wanting to surrender everything to someone and I adore that that someone is you and I have wanted that for so long and needed it - yes, it is a need - and I cannot believe I get to feel it with you and I have cried every single time I revisit those moments in my thoughts and I have sat up at night in my bed at home trying to write about it, to capture that feeling with words so I can express it to you but it feels impossible to grasp and make you see.

How to tell you of this? This desire to give you everything.

You are training me to please you, to love you, to serve you.

This is what I know of my heart: your whip lands across my bear flesh, my thighs, my back. An accurate slice, and I do not move.
It is for you that I do not move. I am bowed down on my knees at your power. I am overcome with the intensity of my desire to comply, to acquiesce, to belong to you in this moment as never before. I give over to you, all of me, as if you reached for my skin and imprinted yourself upon it. I love this: that it comes from you and I, I receive it. It comes from you and I get to take it, I am allowed to accept it. YOU allow me to accept it. I would stand there for hours if you asked it of me, each blow you deliver a gift I savor – no, devour wholly and willingly and with such joy that you have chosen me. That your gifts are bestowed upon my skin, that your marks are mine to wear and adore, is love as I have never known.

You tell me to serve you and I kneel before you and offer my mouth for your cock, a cock I worship. Sometimes I suck you off sweet and slow, savoring each stroke, each slip of my tongue along your shaft, each teasing lick of your head, playing at it, working my mouth and I hear you moaning and I know, I know you are coming apart with desire and I am pouring my love, my adoration, my need to please you into every movement, every lick, every suck, every moment of my mouth on you, my mouth adoring you, my opened lips an expression of such devotion and love.
To please you.
Sometimes you force my head down on you hard. “Get to sucking girl,” you growl and I am no longer aware if it is I devouring you whole, or if I am being devoured, your cock down my throat to its base, my lips straining, my mouth working your cock, pumping up and down the length of you, my eyes streaming, my spit gagging me, my jaws aching, my mind racing, a pounding of blood and prayer – please, please let me be pleasing him, let him be happy with me, let him cum, let him tell me I am a good girl, his girl, that I make him feel so good. And I am crying. Please.

To serve you. I live to serve you.

I want my every day, my every waking moment to be of service to you.

I worship you.

I fall in reverent hush at your feet every single time I see you. That is my reaction. That is my truth. That is why I have this heady consuming desire to comply. It is for both of us that I comply. And you never demand, you never assume. You ask. You ask and allow it to come from me. This is not obedience. This is love. It comes from love, my surrender. It comes from love, me on your couch, your rope heavy in my fingers, my little hands held in yours. The power to crush or caress, that is yours. I gaze up at you with a devout heart and the prayer that you will be able to read all of this on my face tonight and know beyond doubt, beyond the need for language that my submission is for you and you alone.

It always has been.

Splash

Your hand fist deep in my cunt in a parking lot, I am bent over the seat of Your bike, You are pumping into me hard, rapid fire thrusts shooting pain like vast magnificent longing through my limbs, I swear to god You are in up to my throat, steel erection barreling into my flesh, I am devoured, devoured and pouring myself into You, soaked in Your need and splashing onto Your hands and the motor of Your bike and this racing earth and there is a tremor deep inside my cunt and I am released and flowing, liquid passion, a flying outward, a wave tearing me open at my core and moving me toward You; I am willing my body, yes, to move toward You. Powerless surrender, utter loss of control – that is what I feel when You fuck me like this, my body no longer mine, Yours and open and I am dazzling fireworks on display.

This, this is the first time I have released for You, surrounded in the parking lot at Loca Luna by passersby and noise and lights and my liquid display. You step back and gasp and I am drawn toward that intake of breath and brought back down to earth. Racing. I would soak that bike a thousand times if You would only leave me there, ass in the air, Your cock in Your hand, Your other hand forcing the juice from some deep unreachable core place inside me I have been unaware until now was clamoring to get at me, at me and outside of me.

“I cherish your release,” You tell me.

And then, later, Your cock fucking my mouth by the dumpster, and it's so big and I try to take it all down my throat to please You and then I am choking and gagging and terrified I am not going to be able to take it and You are slapping my face so hard I have tears in my eyes and I am still not pleasing You and You are hissing "taste yourself on it" and my knees are raw and I just peed down my legs and onto my 8 million dollar shoes and I am humiliated and horrified and ecstatic and so turned on I feel I may implode or explode if You don't cum down my throat but I don't want You to yet because I don’t want it to end. Ever. Don’t take that cock out of my mouth where it feels so perfect and delicious and fits, as big as it is it fits, and I crave it, crave it as far down as You can fuck. And then more. And then You are done and lifting me off my scraped up knees and into Your arms, those strong arms I could curl up into and just stay there forever or at least as long as You would keep me, and I feel so precious and safe and beautiful, I feel gorgeous despite the pee and tears and stained dress and bruises and dirt and cockroaches in my hair and then I am kissing Your neck and moaning and You slam my back against that filthy horrible dumpster and I need You all over again. It never ends, this need. Nor do I want it to. And again, You are in me, Your hand and face and desire asking me for something I am not clear yet how to give You. You are tearing me apart, a ferocity of hands and pouring and Your arm drenched by a need that has carried me this far, carried me to the limit and now beyond, and I am sobbing and I hurt and I give it to you anyway, it spills out of me as if it has been there all along, a desperate tension on the verge and You only had to ask, demand that I make it Yours which is all I have ever wanted all along and how can I find the words, how can I find the answer within my own body if I do not even have the language or the knowledge, if I do not have Your hands and Your eyes and Your need?

And yes, all of this is running through my mind and heart and cunt along with blood and juice and my tears pour, pour down my cheeks and I can not even whimper Your name.

No. I am screaming it.

You tell me you want to see if I can release for you without being on display, without a public scene, just because YOU want it. For you.
I am for you.
I have waited a lifetime for what you make me feel. I have held desire in my body, cradled and screaming and restrained, for decades. My need, my need confined and undelivered.
“Don’t fight me,” You say when I am tightened up, locked down, shut off from my own desire. Your eyes never leave my face. Your hand is in me so deep I am split open, coming apart. You hold me to this earth. You open me, open me, and I want nothing more than to give of myself and show you this, this sudden unlimited surging inside me. And I release, every time, for you, yes, and for me.

I release.

Yield

Yield
Snapshots of Femme Power

1.
The first time you asked me we were in Boston, our first trip together. You were leaning back on the couch, the lights of the city spread out behind you, and I was crazy in love with you. “Kneel down and take my shoes off,” you said it, you did not ask, it was not a request. As if it would cross my mind for a second not to comply. I would do anything for you, anything you asked of me, give you anything. I knelt. I felt terrified, a trembling, quiet and below the surface of my skin. I felt elated, wings opening in my chest, a taking flight. Such a giving over of power – mine? - someone’s. Such an acceptance of my place with you. Such joy. Such desire to surrender to you. Such devotion. Such heat, an ache between my thighs for you, for your need, for your power to grow when I kneel before you. Such submission, yes, that moment feels enormous with submission. Such tenderness, private little devotion, a wife’s endless care of her husband. All of that in my head and heart and cunt, all of that and more and you pulled me up onto your lap after I removed your shoes and I buried my face in your neck and I know you did not have any idea that I was crying while I hid my face against your skin. I was too afraid to show you, show you all I felt and longed for in that moment.
I die still, now, it evokes such feelings in me to kneel at your feet and remove your shoes…and you have only made that request (command?) of me once since then and I wonder why…and I ache for it.
I worship you. Worship your strength, your vulnerability, your care of me, your cock, your power, your love. I worship you when you are taking care of me like the femme princess I am, a doting and adoring husband. And I worship you when you are occasionally demanding, precise in your needs and wanting them met. I am on my knees for you constantly, a bowing down to you in my heart, a melting, a surrender.
To be allowed to kneel before you and do something as intimate as removing your shoes? Mmmmmmmm. Allowed. That word stirs images of dominance, of waiting in deference, of receiving a gift, a gift earned and cherished, a gift I long for. I am grateful, so grateful in that moment - I am moved, touched, raw, turned on, flooded with lust and love.
Such tenderness moves between us at times, I feel it as a held breath, intimate energy that connects us. “This is rare, isn’t it?” you asked me one night. Yes. Yes. Rare it is indeed to find someone you ache to belong to. It makes me shy at times, that ache, shy with fumbling fingers, fingers that tremble a bit when I undo your laces, slide your boot off your foot, lay your foot back down on the floor gently, reverently. Both times you have asked me, I have wanted to cover your feet with kisses, move my mouth across your skin, show you how I adore you like I do when my mouth is on your cock, reverence. A whore at the feet of a prince. A wife at the feet of her husband.
2.
I take your cock in my mouth and you tell me I have all your power, all the power you possess in that moment. “How does it feel to have all the power in the world over me?” you ask me and I do not know how to answer. Like everything I have ever wanted. Like nothing I could ever want or know what to do with.
At the Eyedrum, I knelt in the hallway outside the theater, my hands on your legs to hold me up while you fucked my mouth. Your back was against the wall, your hands in my hair. My heels scraping the ground, my knees raw on the cold cement floor, my jaw stretched wide. I felt completely vulnerable, yours, open and receiving and powerless to refuse you. I cannot say no to you, cannot bring myself to deny you. Anything. Anything you asked of me I would give you when I am taking your cock, on my knees for your cock, offering you my mouth for you to use and take. My mouth is for your pleasure. My mouth worships your cock. Feel it when you fuck deep down my throat – feel that I worship you.
In this moment, this moment when I am on my knees for you, when I am taking your cock, I feel my vulnerability as if it is stitched across the fabric of my femme desire. You are pouring yourself into me. You are forcing my mouth apart, my jaws open, my throat closing around you, gagging and gasping and unable to breathe and desperate for more. When I am kneeling for your cock I am pliant, open, accepting you and taking you and taken.
Taking you. Can it be, then, that it is YOU who is offering? You told me later in the night that when you fuck my mouth, I am taking all your power with each thrust. You are wrapped around my finger, you would do anything for me. I shivered. Fear. Pleasure. Desire. I long to own it, own that power over you, the thought of bringing you to your knees with desire for me. The thought that I have you – you belong to me as completely and irrevocably as I to you. Yet I am seized with confusion at the idea. Power. How, then, to own that power when I am simultaneously offering my body to you out of the deepest love, respect, and desire to please? There is submission inherent in the thrust of your cock taking me, possessing me, using me. There is power inherent in the thrust of your cock entering me, tearing into me, claiming me. Can it be that there is power too in the taking of your cock, my mouth open, accepting? I am allowing myself a new openness, a fresh understanding. I am pulling from you your vast need, your desire, your lust – you are powerless to stop it, the rising of your excitement, bubbling up and out of you and down my throat, the shaking heat of your body, the clutching of your hands at my hair, my skin. I am pulling your power from you with each jackhammer thrust down my throat, your cum and my spit and tears, my knees ragged, our hearts pounding a crescendo – yes. Yes. YES.
3.
You have given femme back to me. Denied and stifled for years, it lay beneath the surface of my skin, dormant, a scream fermenting in my throat, a breath I drew in and forgot to release. Tentative at first, it has slipped back to me through the ways you touch me, the ways you fuck me, the ways you care for me, the ways you command my femininity. My response to you, a persistent tugging at my femme heart until it sprang open and unfurled into you and stayed there, lodged and cherished in your arms.
I am your princess. You require nothing of me but beauty and love. I watch the ways you strive to earn that love. I watch your care of me, the ways you ensure I am taken care of, worshiped, and I feel angelic and enfolded in something unspeakably delicate. I must attend to this always, I think, cherish it. Appreciate it. I must. I must.
I think for you, it is the same, although we do not speak of it, the way your vulnerability is masked behind incredible strength, the way I pull you to me and hold you in my arms is suddenly home. For both of us, home. I trail my fingers over your shoulders and you tell me you adore my touch, the ways I know how to touch your body, without hesitation, without fumbling, without need for you to teach. I know. I know you, and I know how to be your femme. I know you, and I know what you need. I take your cock in my mouth, in my hands, and I draw your desire out of you, taking your cum in my mouth, spilling on my hands, between my legs, and it is the same. No hesitation. I belong to you and you to me as if a fixed constellation.
“Such power in my touch, in my hands, the absolute femme power of my touch draws out your masculinity.” This is an awareness I felt but could not name, could barely bring myself to hold inside my heart, until you put it into something tangible and handed it to me and I felt the delicacy of femme contract and solidify inside me and I was no longer afraid.
The power of my hands on you.
I asked you once what you thought our dynamic was, how you would describe the way we move together, what you would name this energy that flows gossamer between us. For it shifts, a dance I have come to crave, the reciprocation of devotion a constant, a base from which we move in and out of power, a handing over and acceptance; an offering and a taking. A taking care of each other I have never had and now, now, it is mine – mine and yours, ours. “Femininity and masculinity are the only things that never shift.” Your answer heralded my truth, my desire.
You call me your little kitten, say I purr like a kitten in your hands. Clabbered cream, I melt at your touch, I fold into you, I release my need for control in the safety of an embrace I can no longer make do without. And this, then, is the crux of my femme power – to allow you to hold me together until I feel ready to take it on again, your presence beside me the root, and I the cherry blossoms decorating your branches with fragrance.
4.
You lead me in our ballroom dance class and it is a constant struggle for me to allow, I am fighting you, unable to relax into you, unable to let go, unable to give you my body. Surrender. My will. Is this about trust? You tell me it is, but I FEEL trust for you, implicitly. I feel emotional risk when you are taking me, when I am opening up for you. And in that risk lays my trust – for I want it from you, want to go there with you, want you to take me there. I want to yield, to follow, to learn to follow your lead. It feels fragile to me, this need to yield. I need to practice this, this alone, far more than I need to practice the simple steps we are learning together. A fine art, to learn to yield. Grace. To yield with grace is to belong completely to you.
I love being in your arms moving about the dance floor, the subtleties of your touch as you guide me. I feel you, every cell of my body aware of you against me, the push and pull of your arms, your hand on my back, your breath. You are patient, coaxing, laughing with me when I fall apart and trip all over your feet. I cannot tear my eyes from your face, for therein lies my safety, my trust of you, your sparkling adoring eyes. I watch you, the intensity of your focus, your concentration, the pride when you hold your hand out to me. And I think, never have I loved him more than at this moment. And that love makes me yearn to please you, to give in to you. My disappointment in myself when I cannot follow you is all encompassing. And I wonder, can this be learned? Can I learn to let go of my fear and relax into you so completely my body responds to yours without barrier or reluctance? Or is it innate, the surrender this dance requires of me, innate - and my struggle lies in recognition, a tapping into of some primal way to move when held to you.
Our instructor Julio has quickly acquired an understanding of us, our Queerness, your masculinity, masculinity that still stuns me into silence, your power. He teaches you how to hold me, and yet we know, you and I, exactly how to move together, move into each other. You are the frame, Julio says, and I am the picture - your strength setting off my beauty.
Your strength setting off my beauty. Your power setting off my fragility.
We have gone here, into this conversation. I feel like a small delicate bird in your arms and I adore it. I adore it because we both know I am strong and fierce and exploding, and you offer me a safety that allows me to let that go and become your kitten, soft and mewling. And there are beautiful perfect moments of time during which I am able to step away from my frantic racing mind and give in entirely to the feeling of being wrapped into you, cradled, no need to control, just moving where you lead me. Heaven, those moments. Priceless treasures. Heaven because you are so dear to me and I could dance and twirl in your embrace for hours. And heaven because it is so rare for me to be without fear, to move through the world without the awareness of my need for self-protection. THAT is innate, that need.
With all my heart, I want not to protect myself from you. I dream of the kind of trust that will spring me open, unleashed and unafraid and moving on the dance floor, an angel with your protective wings surrounding me, lighter than the air you move me through, laughing and sparkling up at you, sparkling, following you without a hint of resistance to every place you take me.

5.
My mouth crushed to yours, soft and yielding. Yielding to you, yielding to your strength, yielding to your mouth, yielding to your arms. Soft. Available. Soft and yielding beneath you. You tell me you love how I feel when you kiss me, how available I am. And I am. Yours. You kiss me and I crumple, fragrant petals crushed in your palm. You kiss me and all of me moves to my mouth, my essence, my being, my love for you – you kiss me and I pour all of that into my return. Available. You use that word and I melt golden into you. All I want, to offer that availability to you. All I want, to make you feel more loved than ever you have been in a lifetime. All I want, to show you I belong to you, to kiss you like I may never kiss you again.
Surrender. My mouth bleeds surrender.
All I want.
6.
When we met, you told me I was irresistible. That you simply could not stop yourself from approaching me, you were so drawn to me, the way I moved, my energy. I asked if you were intimidated, and you said sometimes, sometimes – I was such a powerful femme. Coming from you, I felt that as a celebration of my self, I felt as if you saw ME. You welcomed my power, my femme energy, it made you hard, appreciative. You said you were bowed down on one knee before me and I could not breathe.
I have been called an ice princess, unapproachable. Cold, those words portray my way of being in the world as cold. You tell me anyone who is afraid of me is a lightweight. You tell me I am warm and melting like butter on a morning muffin. You call me your sunshine. You say your day is without sunlight if your eyes cannot feast upon my face. I turn into you in your bed in the morning and feel the warmth of our bodies, the heat, the beams of our radiating light blazing in my core.
Ice princess.
The first time I heard those words, it slayed me. I felt betrayed, betrayed by my crippling shyness. Betrayed by my newly felt and newly owned femme energy and power.
I was at a Trans conference in DC, the first time I was brave enough to move through the world with a high femme presentation that mirrored my heart, my core, my identity, my desire. I could not wait to flaunt the deliciousness of femme power in public, to try it on, feel it out, experience it.
I was so young and so shy I could barely leave the hotel room. Quick dashes into workshops, back to the room to hide in between, dinner alone. I was there with 2 Transmen I barely knew, one whose advances I had turned down during the trip. He told me at some point during the weekend that no one would approach me because they thought I was an ice princess, cold. Unapproachable. Transguys were saying this to him about me, he said, laughing. I was destroyed, too new in my femmeness to know how to take that on, make it work for me, too shy to behave any differently.
Years later, at a Butch/ Femme Ball in San Francisco, I asked a dear friend and fierce Old-School Butch why no one was talking to me, when I felt wholly as if I was oozing femme sexuality and appeal, confident and secure in who I was making myself into. He said I was such a powerful femme, I gave off “top energy” and most of the Butches at the event were Tops looking for submissives. My friend was proud of this for me, admiring and praising my strength and power. I was horrified. A submissive at my core, I ached to be taken by one of those Butches and forced to my knees, I longed to be broken, slapped down off my 5 inch heels. I was tired of always being the one to take a Butch on, ask for his attention, the seeker rather than the sought.
Again, “unapproachable.”
I vowed then, in that moment, that I would not waste my time on anyone who was not strong enough to come onto me, take me, demand my attention. I would not waste my time on anyone unable to top me, look past my femme ferocity and find the fragile soft yielding creature longing to drop to her knees.
And now, many years and a lifetime later, you, in the lobby, a smile that cast a spell upon my heart I swear to god, taking my hand in both of yours. I was on my back the moment I saw you approaching me. Courted, wooed, swept completely off my feet, floored, blown away - every cliché one could imagine – it all comes to this single moment in time – you saw deep into the very core of my decorated femme body. Secure in your own incredible powerful strong Butch self, you do not need my power. Your confident adoration allows it to expand in this room and surround us, an inferno, pouring heat, your beloved princess, warm and blazing and encircling you with my light.
At last. At last.
7.
Unwavering devotion. I offered this to you one morning and you said you both feared and craved it. Unwavering.
In the evenings, after your long day at work, I like to play at being your housewife - serving you dinner, baking you cupcakes, pink apron tied around my waist, cleaning up in your kitchen. I kiss your face, the top of your head, your neck. I curl in your lap and whisper to you silly stories about my day, my arms around your neck. I feel the tenseness in your shoulders and rub the parts of you that hurt, the parts of you I utterly adore. You take me to your bed and I am so full of love and devotion. Your wife. We both know I am not playing. We both want it to be true and real.
You reach for me late at night, one arm around my waist, your head in my lap. This is an unspoken dance we both know to our core. This is where you come to rest, perhaps the only place you are ever truly able to rest, the only place you are safe, the only place your Queer butch masculine self is recognized. Seen. Cherished. I wrap one arm around your back, my hand finding the strength held there, smoothing you, soothing you, my other hand reaches instinctively for your hair, twirling my fingers through it, rubbing your head for hours sometimes while you sleep. I cradle you. You are cradled. I listen for your deepening breath, a sound I have come to know as well as my own skin. I know the exact moment you drop off. I know how your body moves, tiny movements nearly indiscernible that tell me you are dreaming. I whisper to you when you are in this place – a place far far away from me in your deepest dreams; a place intimately close to me that I have created, wrapping you in my love. I whisper – I love you. I whisper – I am yours. I whisper – my prince, my husband. I am worshiping you with my murmurs, my hands, my arms, my lap where you come to escape. I know you can feel me, I know you are taking in my words, barely a breath, taking in my love, taking in the ways I care for you.
Always you stir again, roll over, kiss my mouth before you sleep again, this time on your side. I am always crushed at this loss, my lap bereft of you. Always, I long to stay awake through the long hours of darkness, cradling your head, cradling your dreams, listening for the secrets released in your breathing that are mine to hold. Unwavering in my vigil.
8.
I am fucked up about power.
You told me once that I make it sound as if all you do is take, take from me, as if I felt precious only when used by you. You use me and I feel desired, loved.
It was true in the beginning, my ideas of power and subjectivity firmly implanted in my brain, my behavior, my beliefs. I was worthwhile only when submitting to another’s whims and needs. I lived with the fear that I was only worth fucking, not worth loving. I wanted you to love me. More than anything, even in the beginning, I wanted you to love me. But I was so hellbent on my struggles with submission I could not see what was happening between us for what it was – that you desired my femme power, drew it out of me. That you craved caring for me, taking care of me, treating me like a princess, your princess. Did I feel precious only when you were taking from me – my body, my submission, my offering? Yes. Yes, but only because my fear was closing doors even as you were flinging them open.
You tell me true submission lays in the allowing of you to give. If I want to please you, you said, I should defer to your desire to take care of me, treat me like your princess, give me anything I want and need. Submitting to your will = allowing you to treat me as you wish.
I am fucked up about power.
When I think about power, I think about giving all of mine to you, yielding to the strength and power you wield seemingly so easily, power that brings me to tears – sobbing when you fuck me and beat me, quiet tears in my eyes throughout my day when I think about how beautifully you love me, how perfectly you treat me.
I am so afraid I do not deserve such beauty.
I am fucked up about power.
I ache for sexual submission, physical submission – I crave emotional submission, so I tell myself, but only on my terms and is that, then, submission? I am resistant to emotional submission, mistrustful, afraid to give over emotional power outside of fucking. I know I have strange ideas in my head of what constitutes power, what constitutes giving up power, who has power. I have warped ideas about power - from years of being collared, a consensual obligation that in no way worked for me – from years of listening to voices of negativity and self-doubt clamoring in my head. I am so afraid to have any power, I am horrified at the mere suggestion of it. Part of me feels like I don’t deserve to have it, part of me craves being seen as a good submissive and how can I then be a power femme and a submissive simultaneously? It is a learned response, these mixed up notions about femme and submission and the roles I can allow myself in my own life. I am relearning my own power around my femme identity in many contexts, shifting in and out of it still, but mostly, now, owning it.
With you I have it all. I know instinctively I can trust you and can go there with you…am learning to go there with you, slowly, a slow melting, a creaking forward of faith, a progressive undoing of my fear and resistance.
It is all about who decides. And if I am allowed to decide, if it is an offering stemming from a choice made by me and me alone, than it flows from me eagerly and without hesitation.
You do not require my submission, do not demand, do not impose limits. Rather, you accept it so appreciatively when I offer it to you, allow me the space to defer and the safety to need it. Devotion. Never obligation.
I spoke of reciprocal devotion to you and you asked if I felt that between us, you longed for it you said, you longed to possess it. It ensnared your heart, the thought that it could be yours.
Yes. Yes.
I feel an opening in my fear at this, a devoted wife who places herself in her husband’s hands, who defers to him, who takes care of him from a place of worship. I am opening because it feels safe and tender to me, our mutual care-taking, the ways you allow me to express my adoration, the way I am learning to trust that you truly want to dote on me – need to dote on me, get off on it – the way I am learning to love it and count on it and trust I will not lose it. It will not be taken from me, no, you belong to me as assuredly as I to you.
I adore this mutuality, revel in it, feel it as a blossoming of my truth, feel it as a growing into of self. I am letting go of this strange panic I used to feel when you waited on me, this sense of not being good enough, this sense of “shoulds.”
I am so strong. I am beginning to believe I am so strong and adored and I deserve that adoration that you wrap me in every single moment of our lives together.
9.
I sit across from you in your favorite chair and paint my toenails blue, a color you chose ages ago, before I even belonged to you. “Paint them true,” you said. This is a ritual that has filled me ever since with utter adoration and acquiescence, a ritual I love for the way it feels like an act of service. Serving you. I am wet and dizzy at the thought. It is my private little devotion.
It is a femme ritual of seduction.
I know when you watch me apply polish to my nails, it makes you heady with lust. Hard, hot steel shooting through your cock, you are shifting uncomfortably on the couch and seething with desire. And I am ignoring you completely, focusing entirely on coating my nails with dripping paint, biting my lower lip, my tongue at the corner of my mouth. I hear the sudden intake of your breath. If I were to glance at you, I would see your hand resting on your swelling cock, and I may not be able to control my own mounting desire. I do not want you to see how I am slick and breathless with my own need for you. I want to pretend I could not care less that you are in the room. And this, this I know makes you even harder, my pretended indifference, my seeming unavailability – I am far too busy at the moment to banter and toy with you. Is this a roleplay? An exchange of power? And whose power is it exactly? Mine over you, your huge swollen cock, your visible need, the way my femme rituals slay you with longing and buckle your knees? Or is it yours, the way we both know the polish will not even have time to dry before you will growl, “come over here, woman,” and I will go to you immediately, your hands grabbing my forearms, and press my heated body against yours, my own knees crumpling, my mouth raised up to you, an invitation.
10.
I let the silk strap of my camisole slide off my shoulder before I remove it, pull it slowly over my head, turning from you coyly, my soft curls spilling over my shoulder. I know you are watching from your bed, up on one elbow, your gaze raking over my body, your breath suddenly jagged. Swelling beneath the sheet for me, yes, I do not have to look at you to know you are hard with your desire. I know you are imagining the butter-cream of my skin, its scent, how my hair feels between your fingers. I let the fabric of my slip catch for just a second on my tits before I pull it over my head, turning my body again so you can catch a glimpse of your name tattooed on my breast, bending at the waist so you can see the curve of my ass. I ask you, “Darling, will you tie me?” and move toward the bed so you can do the straps of my slip for me. Your fingers linger there for long moments, your hands on my back, and I tremble for you. My breath is caught in my throat, I am holding it, aching. We both know I will crawl into your bed, warm and pliant, and open my legs for you without being asked. I will shift so you can enter me more easily, wrap my legs around your waist and raise my hips so you can slide in to your base and we both will feel you deep, deep. And I will clench my tight pussy around your cock, squeezing you to me, until you cum again, again, spilling inside me, filling me, filling us both with far more than just your cock. Yes. This is unspoken between us, and in the meantime, your fingers on my ribbons, my eyes meeting yours over my shoulder. In the meantime, you grab at my curls and press them to your nose, inhaling my perfume. In the meantime, I have you exactly where I want you, exactly where you long to be. In the meantime, you are mine, utterly mine, wrapped around my finger, we both know you would do whatever I asked. What will I ask of you? I will ask you without words to accept the offering of my skin, to accept my heart, my femme desire, to hold me to you, to cherish me. I will ask you to take this, the gift of my surrendered power, and cradle it in hands that do not need it, no, you do not have a need. But I want it to be yours - I want to be yours - and because in this moment I have you on your knees, you will take it, take me, allow me the space to yield.

Brazen

I want You to hurt me.


Every time You touch me, it is like this: my need expands and moves beyond me, outside of restraint, and I feel utterly incapable of controlling it. I am dissolved before You. I am disintegrated into a river of liquid desire that cannot be quenched unless You hurt me, use Your hands on me with a violence I recognize as Your love, a violence I know to my core I cannot make due without, and I am left waiting. Sobbing and waiting for Your fist to soothe me and break me and bring me back down to this earth. Gravity. Your fist is my gravity.

The first time You marked my face we had been fucking for days. Hard, You fuck me hard, Your cock entering and claiming me as if You had waited a lifetime for my cunt and my need matches Yours every time. My need for Your cock. I need Your cock. I push You with my hands and plead "no" sometimes because it is so big it hurts me and You call me Your whore and make me take it anyway and in that moment, the moment I am just taking, I would do anything, anything for You. You fuck me without lube and sometimes, sometimes it takes my cunt too long to open up for Your cock and You want it now, in to Your base now and You slap my face and tell me to hurry, You do not want to wait for me.
The first time You marked my face You were slapping it in the front seat of my car, Your other hand gripping my hair, slapping me while I sobbed and calling me filthy and I felt cradled and precious and I was Yours. The next morning there it was, purple and blue, Your hand splayed across my cheek, Your mark, Your love. Possession, I thought. And I was both terrified and elated.

You hurt me and I am terrified and elated.

I have craved. For an eternity it seems, I have craved. And I thought tenderness happened at the moment when I broke and began to cry and the person who was beating me stopped to hold me. Yes, tenderness. Now, now I realize with stunning certainty that I was wrong. I was so wrong and so I lived without. Tenderness is the moment I break and You push me beyond, beyond my fear, beyond my limits, tenderness is the way You carry me straight into my craving and stay there with me while I struggle and then a moment snaps inside me and I am flying, flying toward You and You knew all along I could take it.

I have never been so safe in all of my life.

You call me Your whore. Beloved whore when I have pleased You, and I swear to You I feel as if I live to please You, to hear You say those words, to see the look on Your face when I know I have been a good girl for You, when I take Your cock, when I make You cum down my throat, when I spread my legs for You without being told, when I open up for You, when my cunt is saturated with my longing for You, when I am available - my heart, my body, when I show You how I need You. Other times, You call me filthy whore. I am a filthy whore because I beg for Your cock, You tell me, because I am a gaping cunt of insatiable need, and I cry. I cry because I want You to tell me I am good. I cry because being called Your whore creates, awakens a massive desire inside me that I both adore and fear, a desire I am at times unsure what to do with, how to hold it, how to call it mine. I cry because a core part of myself needs to be filthy, to be debased, to be hurt, to be told I am used by You only for fucking. And I cry because I worship You and do not know how to make You see, make You believe, make You know what You are to me.

I cry because I want so much. Everything. I want everything.
.
Every time You touch me, I sob. I sob....I am relieved and home and moved and broken and terrified and safe and so turned on I am not even sure how I can be anything more than heated flesh, an inferno of longing, a vast vast need molded into skin by Your hands and cock. And when my need reaches a ferocity I am so afraid I am incapable of holding, I reach for Your eyes to remind me I would do anything to please You. Hurt me, please hurt me - I tell You this one night after dinner, a dinner during which we were nearly fucking at the table, so hot and hard was our desire for each other. Hurt me, I need it, I need it. Again, I am sobbing. I cannot even look at You, do not reject me now, with all this need and no where to go with it except to You, because I understand in my gut You know what to do with it, what to do with me. And You take me to Your bed and punch my face, my mouth, and shove Your cock in, bury it in my cunt and ass and I am sobbing in my hands and in Your neck and all over the bed and I can taste blood in my mouth. Your fist. And then time stops, inexplicably, You are in my cunt so deeply I cannot move, pinned to the bed beneath You, the full weight of you, You are holding me to the ground. Gravity. My gravity. And Your eyes are not leaving my face, my filthy tear-streaked, make-up stained, puffy and bruised face and I know, from Your eyes I know, I am so beautiful. And You are whispering - my princess, You whisper. And I am precious.

Brazen

I want You to hurt me.


Every time You touch me, it is like this: my need expands and moves beyond me, outside of restraint, and I feel utterly incapable of controlling it. I am dissolved before You. I am disintegrated into a river of liquid desire that cannot be quenched unless You hurt me, use Your hands on me with a violence I recognize as Your love, a violence I know to my core I cannot make due without, and I am left waiting. Sobbing and waiting for Your fist to soothe me and break me and bring me back down to this earth. Gravity. Your fist is my gravity.

The first time You marked my face we had been fucking for days. Hard, You fuck me hard, Your cock entering and claiming me as if You had waited a lifetime for my cunt and my need matches Yours every time. My need for Your cock. I need Your cock. I push You with my hands and plead "no" sometimes because it is so big it hurts me and You call me Your whore and make me take it anyway and in that moment, the moment I am just taking, I would do anything, anything for You. You fuck me without lube and sometimes, sometimes it takes my cunt too long to open up for Your cock and You want it now, in to Your base now and You slap my face and tell me to hurry, You do not want to wait for me.
The first time You marked my face You were slapping it in the front seat of my car, Your other hand gripping my hair, slapping me while I sobbed and calling me filthy and I felt cradled and precious and I was Yours. The next morning there it was, purple and blue, Your hand splayed across my cheek, Your mark, Your love. Possession, I thought. And I was both terrified and elated.

You hurt me and I am terrified and elated.

I have craved. For an eternity it seems, I have craved. And I thought tenderness happened at the moment when I broke and began to cry and the person who was beating me stopped to hold me. Yes, tenderness. Now, now I realize with stunning certainty that I was wrong. I was so wrong and so I lived without. Tenderness is the moment I break and You push me beyond, beyond my fear, beyond my limits, tenderness is the way You carry me straight into my craving and stay there with me while I struggle and then a moment snaps inside me and I am flying, flying toward You and You knew all along I could take it.

I have never been so safe in all of my life.

You call me Your whore. Beloved whore when I have pleased You, and I swear to You I feel as if I live to please You, to hear You say those words, to see the look on Your face when I know I have been a good girl for You, when I take Your cock, when I make You cum down my throat, when I spread my legs for You without being told, when I open up for You, when my cunt is saturated with my longing for You, when I am available - my heart, my body, when I show You how I need You. Other times, You call me filthy whore. I am a filthy whore because I beg for Your cock, You tell me, because I am a gaping cunt of insatiable need, and I cry. I cry because I want You to tell me I am good. I cry because being called Your whore creates, awakens a massive desire inside me that I both adore and fear, a desire I am at times unsure what to do with, how to hold it, how to call it mine. I cry because a core part of myself needs to be filthy, to be debased, to be hurt, to be told I am used by You only for fucking. And I cry because I worship You and do not know how to make You see, make You believe, make You know what You are to me.

I cry because I want so much. Everything. I want everything.
.
Every time You touch me, I sob. I sob....I am relieved and home and moved and broken and terrified and safe and so turned on I am not even sure how I can be anything more than heated flesh, an inferno of longing, a vast vast need molded into skin by Your hands and cock. And when my need reaches a ferocity I am so afraid I am incapable of holding, I reach for Your eyes to remind me I would do anything to please You. Hurt me, please hurt me - I tell You this one night after dinner, a dinner during which we were nearly fucking at the table, so hot and hard was our desire for each other. Hurt me, I need it, I need it. Again, I am sobbing. I cannot even look at You, do not reject me now, with all this need and no where to go with it except to You, because I understand in my gut You know what to do with it, what to do with me. And You take me to Your bed and punch my face, my mouth, and shove Your cock in, bury it in my cunt and ass and I am sobbing in my hands and in Your neck and all over the bed and I can taste blood in my mouth. Your fist. And then time stops, inexplicably, You are in my cunt so deeply I cannot move, pinned to the bed beneath You, the full weight of you, You are holding me to the ground. Gravity. My gravity. And Your eyes are not leaving my face, my filthy tear-streaked, make-up stained, puffy and bruised face and I know, from Your eyes I know, I am so beautiful. And You are whispering - my princess, You whisper. And I am precious.

Collision

COLLISION

Your cock fucking my mouth...by the dumpster...and it's so big and i try to take it all down my throat to please You and then i am choking and gagging and terrified i am not going to be able to take it and You are slapping my face so hard i have tears in my eyes and i am still not pleasing You and You are hissing "taste yourself on it" and my knees are raw and i just peed down my legs and onto my 8 million dollar shoes and i am humiliated and horrified and ecstatic and so turned on i feel i may implode or explode if You don't cum down my throat but i don't want You to yet because i don’t want it to end. Ever. Don’t take that cock out of my mouth where it feels so perfect and delicious and fits, as big as it is it fits, and i crave it, crave it as far down as You can fuck. And then more. And then You are done and lifting me off my scraped up knees and into Your arms, those strong arms i could curl up into and just stay there forever or at least as long as You would keep me, and i feel so precious and safe and beautiful, i feel gorgeous despite the pee and tears and stained dress and bruises and dirt and cockroaches in my hair and then i am kissing Your neck and moaning and You slam my back against that filthy horrible dumpster and i need You all over again. It never ends, this need. Nor do i want it to.

And yes, all of this is running through my mind and heart and cunt and i have to fuck myself hard, hard, until I cum all over my hand, blood and juice and my tears pour, pour down my cheeks and i can not even whimper Your name.

No. i am screaming it.

whore

beloved whore.
It is tattooed on my left tit, indelible mark across skin that ignites when You trace Your fingers lovingly, possessively across the letters, an ink as blue and as deep as the bruises You leave when Your fist finds my flesh and kisses me there. I touch the words a thousand times a day, reverently. Sometimes it makes me cry. Other times it makes me gasp, as if seeing it for the first time, as if I had forgotten it was there and I am suddenly, explosively reminded of my place, my place with You. Your mark. Yours.

Your beloved whore.

The first time You laid a hand on me it was an afternoon in July. I had invited You to lunch, an invitation heavy with far more than the words implied. I had no idea if You understood that, understood the claim that was being laid, the skin You were being offered, all that was at stake. I was burning. I was burning alive, a fire disintegrating my core and bringing me to my knees. I had to stop and catch my breath twice on the way to Your office. I waited in Your reception area, trembling, convinced You could hear me pounding. I knew what I was coming for. I did not know if You would see it for what it was, accept it, take it, want it, make it Yours, make me Yours. You beckoned me to You from across the room. You put Your hand on the small of my back. You led me exactly where I needed to go. You pulled me against Your chest and asked, "Is this okay?" Yes. Yes. YES. I had no way of knowing that from that moment forward I would deny You nothing. Nothing. Have what You want of me, take what You will, Yes.

I could not breathe as You walked me through campus, sat across from me at the restaurant. Your eyes never left my face. I felt them as a caress. I felt them as a violent tearing open. Your hands ran over my legs, my feet, my arms, my breasts. You touched my naked aching cunt and I laid a hand on Yours. I had a lover. A lover I was leaving but You and I did not speak of that. We had only that one moment, You told me, no more. I wanted to grasp that moment and ring out of it all the longing I had carried in my body for years. I was in tears when I left, and soaked. Soaked. My desire for You felt impossible to hold.

Hours later You called me and asked me to be Your whore. No, You did not ask, it was not a request - "Tell me you are My whore," You said. Again, a tearing open. A flying open, flying forward, flying toward You of wordless need I could not have expressed, could not have asked to have answered, could not have even known I was cradling and now I could give it all to You. Take it.

Yes. Yes.

I was consumed by those words, that truth – “my whore.”

Months later, I awoke in the morning wanting only to come to You and offer myself to You if You wanted me. It consumed me so at 5am, I barely could restrain my need to get to You, to give myself to You, waiting blindly until 6:30 when I know Your alarm goes off. I didn't care what You did with me, I didn't care if You sent me home so You could finish sleeping, I didn't care if I got to cum, I just wanted You to know I was Yours and You could do what You pleased and it could be so easy to come to You at any time You may desire and yes, that is what I live for. To come to You when You desire.

I am Your whore. It is in the offering that I am Your whore.

Sometimes when You use me I am raw and sore and can barely take Your cock and it is agony, it is with an agony that I open my legs and offer my holes for You to fuck. And You know this, and You fuck me anyway. You fuck me with a gusto, a fury that shatters me from the inside out and I am sobbing and You cum, again and again You cum inside me and I am shouting “Yes. Yes.” My entire being, every cell, is vibrating with my acquiescence, my desire to please You.

I have never been so filled.

My pleasure comes from Your pleasure.

You asked me this week what whore meant to me now, what I am evolving into, what I am becoming, what I am making myself into with You. We were sitting in the front seat of my car after a beautiful dinner during which I called myself Your wife, and then in the parking lot I sucked You off, Your cock down my throat, gagging and choking from the girth of You. I take You in my holes without hesitation every time You ask me, demand it, tell me You will take it anyway when I offer my mouth, my ass, my cunt to You. “It is not yours to offer,” You tell me and I die a thousand deaths of desire. Yours. That is all I want. To be Yours.

You asked me what whore meant to me now, and I said, “my pleasure comes from Your pleasure” and I cried. My face buried in Your chest, I cried while You held me and whispered how precious I am to You. Your whore. Beloved. I cried because I was so afraid I am only able to offer myself to You sexually, as a whore, and that my heart is locked away in dark places I have denied myself access to for years. And You said when You fuck me You see me, ME, You see me and cherish me and know I am there with You, all of me, nothing held back, Yours.

Whore. It took me months to embrace it, to claim it as mine. Months to name it, name a desire I have spent a lifetime guarding. Months of struggling with a crippling fear that whore was not enough – how could I ever be enough if all I am is devastating wanton need, a hole for Your cock, a body You use when it suits You - and how, how could I want it so badly?

Unanswerable, my questions. Unanswerable, my need.

One night after a poetry reading I was in tears in Your bed for I thought I was nothing but a fuck for You. A whore. A whore is only good for fucking. A whore is only needed when there is desire to be met, lust to be answered, a call and response of heat and sex. You come to me and I roll over and open. Yes. I crave this…and yet, yet, I am in Your bed sick at the thought that You may only want fucking and no more and then what good am I when the fucking has been used up? How long until passion burns itself out? And is there passion only in the role of whore, of a sexual loan of sorts? When is the line crossed between whore and beloved? Is there even a line, or are the two entwined? Am I beloved because I am Your whore? Or are the two separate entities, both of which I have tried on for fit and find I no longer want removed from my body? They are stitched onto the fabric of my skin, of who I have become.
I feel You then, rising to Your knees in the dark, in the space between us. I hear the sound of the condom wrapper tearing, and my entire body stiffens with fear and desire. And then You are entering my ass, Your cock rocking in and out so rapidly I cannot breathe, my face smashed into the pillow, pressed to the mattress, ass torn open. After You cum inside me, You pull me into Your arms and quiet my sobs and ask me what I feel when we are together. “Beloved,” I think then. Do I say this aloud? It reverberates inside my chest. Beloved.

A whore waits to be wanted. Sometimes I wait and it is like foreplay, days of foreplay and I am saturated with my lust for Your cock. You tell me not to fuck myself, to wait for You. You tell me not to call You, email You, text You. I am cut off from You and I am insane. INSANE. I wait for hours for You to enter my apartment, for days, a lifetime, my cunt clenched, knowing when Your hand forces its way inside,
I will splash my hunger for You up the length of Your arm,
soaking us both. I cannot go any further than this, prowling and pacing my floor for days, my cunt slick and heavy with a need that is devouring me, my heat thick between my thighs. I can smell it, my fingers sliding on my juice, my moans stifled so no one will hear.
You are an obsession I carry, an inferno consuming me and still I must wait. I cannot go any further than this, clawing at Your back as You move me where You want me beneath You, clutching at You with a longing to surrender that has made me mad, mad and frothing and animalistic with need. Animalistic, how I am trying to tear us both apart with this craving that has upended me. “Oh, girl,” You say, shaking Your head as I crawl up Your body, sobbing because I need You to take me, beat me, give me Your fist and cock. Two days You have made me wait, Two days and now minutes And You are still not inside me.
You call this foreplay, making me wait and crazed and begging for it,
for You, and I cannot possibly go any further, no, not one more second, I am coming undone at my core. And then I am Yours,
with a lightening jackhammer thrust You have claimed me.

There is nothing I would not give to be used by You.

Your whore.


A whore waits to be wanted.

A whore waits. I never doubt how You want me but sometimes You tell me to wait and I am scattered into pieces that float away from my grasp - such pain, being made to wait, left with an ache that unsettles to the bone, that dismantles me, that sometimes causes doubt to creep into my heart, a doubt I cannot dislodge until Your cock is inside me once again. I doubt myself, my desire, this crazy blind frenzy that makes me need to be used by You. Can I be Your whore when it is unbearable to me that You do not want me tonight? I cannot bear it, I cannot. I wait. I cry into the palms of my hands the pain, the need I have for You. I try to be brave. I pray You will want me sooner than You have told me, please, please want me. You have created such ferocity in me and now I am left here with it. Waiting. And it is my choice, I have chosen this, I have asked for it, begged for it, offered myself to You for Your need and because it is the choice I make every day when I go to You and give myself to You and say “I am Yours,” I have to find acceptance. And this is my conflict. This fine golden shimmering line between my enormous hunger for You and the choice I have made to be used for Your pleasure. YOUR pleasure. My pleasure comes from Your pleasure, and when my passion is boiling and can no longer be contained and You are not here with me, not asking me to come to You, it is the refrain I repeat to ground my frantic aching heart – my pleasure comes from Your pleasure.

You said to me on the phone one night, it was 2 in the morning and I was spent from hours of a tough conversation trying to unfurl my longing into a language You could grasp and You finally, finally got it – You were right there with me in my craving - and You said, "it is all about who decides." YES. I NEED to have the ability to make the choices that are in my life. I need that choice making to rest fully on me. I need to know it won't be taken from me. I need to know I will now always have that. That is freedom to me. I have realized I cannot live without that freedom. I trust completely You will not try to take that from me. That relief is incredible. That is all I need. And it means - for both of us, and I think You understand this now - that when I come to You and offer myself to You and say I am Yours and I will do anything, anything for You - that is MY choice and it is therefore 100% genuine. It comes from my core.

But being Your whore is a different matter entirely. I want the choices around fucking to be Yours, not mine. I need that; as Your whore, and my desire to be Your whore has expanded and grown and filled in the empty spaces in my body, I need to know the choices are about Your pleasure, Your using me, I need to know that when You need, want, desire me You will tell me to come and I will come. Every time I will come. I don't care if it is inconvenient, I don't care if my cunt is so raw it is killing me, I don’t care if I am busy or exhausted, I don’t care if I am bleeding, I will come. Willingly I will come. I long to be available to You. That is my choice then, to offer that to You and to hope You are trusting it and will just use me as I crave to be used by You. Your whore.

We talk on the phone late at night, murmuring quietly in the dark and I am resonating with Your need from city blocks away. Resonating, my flesh vibrating between us, for I know You want to slam Your fist into me, Your cock, I can hear it in Your voice. Your need. We speak of choices, of submission, of freedom. We speak of a core need to give myself to You that I fear You will never fully understand. You question it, question a truth that sustains and feeds my desire, my sexuality, an identity that I call femme or submissive, an identity You called whore that first time and which I now own as I own my very breath. You question it because You are concerned my needs are not met, that I will tire of taking Your cock, Your fist, that I will not be honest with You when I have had enough. You are worried that I may be offering something of me from a fear of not pleasing You rather than a deep submission, a true and fervent need to defer. My desire to be Your whore is a desire built on and fed by acquiescence. Without it, my desire cannot exist.

Possession. Attachment.
What I want cannot be sustained.
What I want cannot be sustained.
This is my fear. This is my sudden startling knowledge at 3am when my heart is hammering and I cannot sleep for grief.
What I want cannot be sustained.
I have committed the cardinal sin. I have become attached to whore, to the idea of whore, to the idea of being Your whore, to the sheer joy I feel when You use me. Attached. And it cannot be sustained. My sexual submission cannot be sustained. Elusive, it slips from my grasp when I am not paying attention, when I have turned away for but a fraction of a second. It is gone. How can it be so fleeting when it arrived as an answer to my longing, landed in my arms with clamoring bells and heavens splitting open at the seams?
My need, I fear, is too big to be handled. Whore. A whore has massive, massive need that rocks her apart, elephants that trample a heart that desires too much, too much need, too much bowing down and giving over. You enter a room, and I am on my knees. Submission. It is an impossibility. Impossible to sustain.
And whore? Whore suddenly has become more than a roleplay. I cannot discard it, take it off with the pink lace bra I left on Your bed this morning, praying You would know it for what it was, femme marker of desire. And where, then, does the giving over of my sexual power go if it is not picked up and either cradled or torn open?
Submission. Possession. Whore. It is temporary. And I? I, with my wild blind blundering forward to grasp at my sexual desire, I do not know how to do temporary. I cannot accept this, this loss. It keeps me afraid of the dark, those lonely late hours when I need Your cock. My need. My need. It is unceasing. And I roll over and press myself to You and I want to be used and I want it to come from a place of submission. Your whore. Desperately, I want it to come from my submission, from giving over my power, from YOUR need, Your desire to drill into me. I do not want it to come from me. And my shame burns into me, a brand I carry on this flesh that is scorched, too, by hands that hit and caress and adore. Your hands. Your whore. The shame of a woman possessed who is not desired at this moment in time. And this moment grows into something huge. A beast. A whore who is not desired.

What I want cannot be sustained.

Yes. The true internal struggle. I want to be Your whore. I want to be more. I want both. I want all. Greedy. I am greedy and attached to an ephemeral notion that to belong to You as whore can be translated/moved into an existence that is endurable and fulfilling to us both, an existence unwavering in sexual devotion and submission, an existence offered and accepted.

What, then, happens to that existence when You do not want me? Am I still Your whore when that need, that devotion goes unanswered, when I am unwanted, when I am undesired, when I am left alone with a need You created? What happens to a whore’s need when it goes unanswered? And am I only Your whore if I do not need, not desire, but only exist to meet Your need and Your desire?

The other night when I came to You with my need, You called me Your slut. When I desire more than simply to please You, You said, I have moved into a space beyond Your whore and have become a slut. My need is at that moment to meet my own need, not Yours. I do not like slut. Slut implies I want any cock, any fuck. It implies a need to get off without desire. It negates my desire, it negates my sense of self as whore, as Your whore. I am not a slut, I will not own slut, I will not claim it as mine. I desire You. I desire submitting to You. I want to offer myself to YOU. I want to be Yours, Your whore, and I felt “slut” upon me like a curse. I was crushed.

Whore is the core of my desire, of my sense of self, of my heart. Sexual submission. I do not want to be fucked because I want to be fucked. I want to be fucked because I am desired, wanted, needed -needed in ways that are base and enormous and voracious and demanding. I want to be desired such that it creates a need in You that is unceasing without the release of tearing me asunder. If that is missing, I do not want to be fucked. If that is missing, what, then, is whore?
I will claim my own desire. My desire is to be desired by You. A whore desires to be desired. A FEMME desires to be desired. A submissive desires to be desired. Has my own desire become subsumed by an identity that cannot exist without another? Have I then lost my own desire?
Whore is not a roleplay. It is an identity, a sense of self. The difficulty is that it is an identity coupled with Yours, an identity so entwined that it cannot exist if I am no longer needed to meet Your desire. How than can it be claimed? Or perhaps it is in the not-being-needed that I truly become Your whore. It is when I wait to succumb to Your need. My whoreness is tested when You have no need of me, for I must stay ready, prepared, emotionally eager to be Yours again. I must stay strong in who I am as Your whore, strong in the knowledge that this is feeding both of our desires. It is feeding both of our desires even in the moments between desire, moments I perceive as empty of desire. And yet, are those moments not in fact the very epitome of true desire, are they not actually moments of my own surrendered desire?

Last night You told me You want shifting dynamic, to move in and out of whore at whim, to allow for a need that may change between us. Conflict. Can I allow the core of my desire for submission to move through me and outside of me and into something else? Am I selling my desire short if I begin demanding my needs be met, if I begin resisting Your needs? My need is to meet Your need, head on, to acquiesce before Your swelling cock, to succumb to Your fist, to yield the moment You demand, to give it up until I can no longer and then You will just take it anyway…and that? That is what I live for. That is what feeds me, fills me, yes, sustains me. That is surrender.

A whore lives and breathes surrender.

Yes. You have my power. You hold the power to break me in Your fist, Your mouth, Your cock. A whore’s power comes from the surrender of that power. And You? You are the keeper of my power. You wield that power, that delicate balance of my power and Your power, with a natural authority and reverence that slays me. I feel so safe. And I am so turned on by my sexual compliance and the manifestation of Your power, Your need, Your desire.
I wrote to You one night of a whore’s fervent wish to be broken, used, beaten down. I wrote of an all-encompassing need I have to be hurt by You, my body Yours, possession. You were tormented by this offering, this gift of my skin, tormented and sick with longing to break me open, to annihilate me. You paced and howled for hours. And I? I was in an agony of my own longing for annihilation at Your hands. My power offered. Your power increasing in the acceptance. Your power increasing with the knowledge of the understanding we have between us – that my power is Yours for the taking. Take it from me. It is Yours. I am Yours. I want to be broken down until I have not the strength to offer any more. And then, I want You to continue to take from me. The ultimate surrender. The ultimate gift. For it is in that surrender that I truly come into my own power, and am truly able to give You all of me without hesitation or restraint.

A whore is always ready. It takes me hours to prepare my body to come to You, to offer it to You. This preparation, as I bathe and adorn and present myself to You is a ritual I adore, a private and sacred time of which You know naught, and thus it is all the more delicious. It is my secret, a private devotion that is the expression of how I worship You. It saturates me with lust, this ritual, preparing my holes, scenting my skin, my hair, with the fragrance I know You love. As I smooth lotion over my skin I can feel the marvel of Your fingers, Your touch, those hands I would starve without. As I carefully choose the lingerie and jewels that adorn my body, accoutrements of desire, I am slick with the vision of Your face as You remove them later. Your attention to the minute details of my body is breathtaking; a slow, languorous, intentional dance between us. And I love how we dance. I love to watch Your eyes, the expressions that cross Your gorgeous beloved face as You undress me. I love Your touch, Your tenderness, the way You worship my skin, how the slightest brush of Your fingers begins a trembling earthquake in my bones, limbs echoing the taut heat of Your hands playing my flesh. I am awakened. I am pure silk and flow.
I am ready; always when I come to You, I am ready. My body is for Your pleasure. With or without the fucking, I want my body to please You, to bring You joy, to make You hard and filled, to make You see how You are desired. With or without the fucking, my body is a gift offered. Offered and received, I am unwrapped and treasured and laid out before You to do as You wish. I carry and care for this body as if it were a treasure, and no longer solely mine. I carry You on this body, the places You have entered and touched. Not just the places I hurt after You have torn me open or marked me with Your fist, but also the places where Your touch is so gentle, so tender, so subtle You move me to tears. I carry You on my body, forever, with this mark, beloved whore, on a tit You both kiss and beat, and both, both Your mouth and Your fist, feel like love on my skin. I carry You on this body, this body that is no longer mine to offer, to give, for it has become Yours, Your body, Your holes, all of me, Yours to take at Your will, to do with as You choose, to mark or not mark on Your whim, to use and possess. A gift that I gave and You accepted. Yours. Beloved.

beloved.

Whore. Stone High Femme. Princess. Performer. Queer. Cupcake. Lover. Wife. Slut.

Beloved.

I am beloved. I am liquid heat at the touch of the Prince who loves me. I am slut on my knees begging for cock. I am Princess fragile and strong and fierce and as breakable as glass. I am performer, hurling my sex and desire from the mic, weaving it into words that you carry with you whether you wish to or not ;). I am Queer, worshipper of Butches, that incredible masculinity that brings me to my knees, lays me on my back, legs open, ready. Ready. I am his cupcake, sweet and cream and desiring only to please him. I am Stone Femme, a lover who reciprocates in ways that are not subtle nor delicate nor passive; ways that are rather an explosive dance between us, a dance that flows effortlessly and passionately, a dance of trust and desire. I am wife, my devotion to him a savage tenderness that consumes me.

And I am whore, my pleasure coming from his pleasure, my pleasure coming from knowing I am pleasing him. I offer myself to him, the choices around fucking his entirely, an offering given and received. When he wants, I come. Without hesitation, I come. What he wants, I do. When he asks, I comply. My answer? My answer is always "yes."

Yes.

I am beloved, cherished, adored, beloved.