This glorious post is written and read by Joy As It Flies.
I want more. I want all of you, all of it. Everything you have to give, every inch of it. I want every pore, every wrinkle, every drop of sweat and tear and come. I want the hair and ink and breath of you.
I want you inside me. Fingers, cock, tongue. I want your cock in my cunt, your fingers in my arse, your tongue in my mouth- and then, next time, swap, exchange, turn and turn about. I want you to lick me faster and fuck me harder and I want your fingers in me to the knuckles and further. I want the weight of you pressing me into the bed so I don’t fly away, soar into the sky. I want to drink you in sips, drafts and gulps, breathe in the goodness of you like oxygen.
I want you to hurt me. I want you to look into my eyes and see just how much I want you to hurt me. I want you to bend me over, spread my legs, render me immobile, engage with me in the petty pretence that I’d ever want to get away. I want your hands stroking and slapping my arse red, I want to hear the flurry of blows as your cupped palm lands.
I want to feel wood, leather, cane. I want pain that heats and burns and spreads and soaks, sets me laughing, wriggling, jerking back and forth so I tug at my bonds, so they saw sweet and sore against my wrists.
I want to hear you whisper in my ear. I want you to ask me if I want more and to know that the answer is yes, but I want you to make me say it. I’ll need to pause every now and again, so I can breathe and rest and calm and throb and ready myself… And then more. Please, more, until my back arches with every stroke, until sigh and squeal becomes yell and squawk.
I want you to mark me, dark marks, bruises and welts: bruises of grape purple, sea blue, cunt red. I want to wear my pain like a grin and hurt for days. I want to run my fingers over the marks when no one’s watching, remember your breath in my ear and your palm at my nape and the wait, the pause, the flash the jerk the cry the arch the slackening… and then another, please. More.
I want you to kiss me. I want you to hurt me and kiss me and hurt me more and kiss me again and again and again.
I want a lot. Maybe I want too much. It’s not impossible. But I want you to know that I may never be satisfied and to glory in it, stand ready to meet the challenge, grin at the thought. And of course you also know that sometimes I’ll need you to tell me that I can’t have what I want. Wait. Not now. No more.
I want to live without shame. No: I want to embrace shame with open arms and open legs, make my holes a refuge in front of watching crowds. I want them to see me wet and full, obedient and willing, greedy, voracious. If they judge me, fuck them. Fuck their judgement. Their judgement makes me wet.
I want them to see exactly how much I want: I want everything. I want all of it, pain and shame and orgasms, and I want you to give it to me. I want you to make me come again and again until I beg you to stop, and I want you to know that until I say Red I don’t mean a fucking word of it. I want you to fuck me and to look into my eyes and see who I am: a woman who wants everything and finally believes she deserves it, all of it. And more.