Wednesday, February 3, 2010


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.