January 2016
“HURT ME.”
But of course, sweetest lover. You need but ask.
I had to be extolled not to do this—what I propose—in days gone by, because, as it turns out, subsequent women didn’t like what the first woman I slept with did, but, I always suspected you would. I’ve been waiting. Expectantly, at that.
Usually, for this, you’re on top, so your magnificent breasts, your boobs, your tits hang down and sway as you rock and bear down on me to increase the shear between your legs where we fit so nicely together: conjoined, secret, personal.
As you rasp out what you just asked for—and the word is “please,” darling, along with such appropriate calls as can be made to some fool deity out there who listens to these sorts of prayers, peppered with oh-so-insistent profanities that are best pronounced with a low desperate husk—my hands come up off the bed, to the sides of your attractive udders, with my fingers curling slightly, to give me just a hair of leverage, a smidge of grip as I roll your boobs in the frictions of my palms for some moments or twos until your eyes close with how you wander off from presence into relish as to what I might do to you.
My thumbs press skyward onto your nipples, right in on the middles, upwarding and inverting them from pebble-like erections that extends their reaches from disinterests and chastities into invitations and lures of thrills and delights as you dangle your upper half over me with your hands safely behind your head, unobtrusive and benign, in your singular-meaning gyrations, and you moan and wiggle your shoulders a little, beaming in the dark, exhaling through your nose your contentments at these sort of treatments as the pressure increases on beyond paltry ripplings and foldings of your surfaces to where I am denting you, gouging your whore-tits in further than they are supposed to be handled—were we engaged in modest, decent, subdued lovingkindnesses that would be approved by the church—firing spirits and generating heats in you that you reflect back onto me with hot exhales, and I don’t let go: I push you steady, persistent, relentless.
Up, in, prodding, manipulating, I look for something, in beyond pliant tissues and milk sacs and lymph nodes, to the thin layer of muscle that covers your ribs, ah, there it is, and I begin to move my thumbs around in circumferences and meridians and orbits, mapping constellations over your skeleton in minuet-tempos, spending considerable spans and junctures digging around in and excavating your sensitivities and responsivenesses through the troughs and grooves of the good solid cage of your heart and soul.
The reason most women don’t like being subjected to these ministrations and embraces is because the coy thews of my focus here are ordinarily only used to breathe, and the little miracles of such subtle and necessary oscillations for life don’t earn much otherwise brave communication with men’s horrid passions, as they are deep, and fortressed, protected with sensuous distractions of curves and skins and temptations of moistures and movements and the alluring mesmerizing sounds that human females have taught themselves to make in the midsts of depraved and shocking lust, over eons to maintain mankind’s kinder interests in gentlewomen that we fall for in every era without fail—which isn’t such a heretical doctrine, not in and of itself; not historically—as proofs positives that the lechers and rakes need not wander further down affection’s darker hedgerows to obtain the coveted results and rewards, but I have a plan, a goal, an objective to live up to to fulfill your humble petition, and I am committed. At first I present you with just a near-bashful risqué message, written on some tender sinews you didn’t know you had, rubbing over the bones of your chest through your bosom, except the undercurrents and subtexts of my dispatch eventually bring to the fore the askanced notion that I’m not trying to get these rarely-contacted fleshes to merely relax.
I’m trying to bruise them. Slowly. Severely. Gently. With ungodly force and yes, my treasure, my most beloved, it is going to hurt. It does hurt. It hurts. Your surprise at this bows you upwards to get some relief, to catch your breath to no avail, because what I’m doing effects your persistent respiratory mechanism in a way you have never had happen to you before: it’s a constriction choke, thwarting your ability to inhale. Lo, how I have made the room, the chamber spin for you.
You throw yourself toward the buttresses and struggle to ascend off the mattress, to get away from my fetters and outrageous guidances into the rafters, making wordless shallow micro-inhalant noises as you arch your back and throw your hair around, and I’m not having any of that escape nonsense. I follow you up, and growl at you to lie the fuck back down, to assume the position of whores, whore, to spread your whore-legs, wider, god damn it—the linguistics of which does your libidinous humor no end of good; praise be—and I roll over onto you as you are wheezing and grasping at air whilst I plunge my cock, my club, my yard back into your sopping invitation to men without warning or waiting for your ridiculous and superfluous say-so of readiness, and I slam my hands right back to where they were, where they belong, to pick right back up where I left off with the worrying, the distressing, the damaging, only now, the bed prevents your retreat, and there’s nowhere for you to go but into my infamous clutches. Your choices and strengths to resist me and what I’m doing to you diminish and falter away as you accept what I donate and deliver unto you; your eyelids flutter polyphonically as you narrow down and rivet your attentions onto that which is erotic and imminent to you, hollowing yourself out to drool and ultimately offer up what you came here for: to let me have my unholy way with you, regardless of what it does to you as a result, so help you, god.
I get my entire weight onto my thumbs, suspending myself up off you through your nipples, boring into you with the sheer force of irresistible planetary body-potential urgently beckoning me down toward the iron core through you and your pitiful and weak earthly form, propelling the dynamics of creation’s energies and lay lines and magnetospheres to condense into lightning strikes of pain onto delicate tendons and fibers that are already sore. I bounce a little in cadence to the geared differential apparatus of rapines and conquerings below my waist with the glees of dominances, authorities, and privileges, threatening to make a forbidden crack ring out that would be difficult to explain at the monastic infirmary to the alchemists and physicians, never mind being indentured to endure the tragedy of living with the fact that they can’t do anything about your suffering and doom, you submissive fuckable cunt, and you cannot facilitate oxygen exchange, or maneuver into any form of reprieve from my onslaught, or countervail the dogged impelling of my tillering us and our navigations toward our mission, toward our cliff, toward the edge of the fucking world, and I fuck you and I fuck you and I fucking fuck you until I cum at god damn fucking last which takes a lengthy while on whatever clock you may point to, because I’ve already sinned and jerked off this day, and let’s face it, I am not a young man any more. Not virile, or witless, or full of haste at all.
You panic and attempt to fulfill the natural canon of “thou shalt scream” when gifted with such bedeviled pangs—or at least strive to, what with your breathing restrictions and thrashings—when I finally fucking expend, sweating, gasping, rolling off you, muttering “good fffucking bitch,” admonishing you to shut the fuck up in response to your pathetic groanings and recriminations of what the fuck did I just do to you before I slap some sense back into you and pull your head down between my legs for the rest of the night to give you the opportunity to express your due appreciations towards my living up to your dreams, your desires, your wishes. As you yield to this wisdom and apply your unsettled adorations and reverences of incantational murmurings and soft lips and the fiery gift of tongues to my vain and fragile manhoods, not to mention my frivolous and filthy childhoods, the gravity of the ache in your heaving bosom proves that it abateth not, it instead amplifies, because I did in fact bruise you, hard, underneath your breasts. It gets worse and then becomes dreadful fierce as it overwhelms you and keeps you awake to remind you to be diligent in your whore-duty that I fancy rejoicing to wake up to in your deliberate and capacitating gaggings around my nobled member in the postliminary mornings by kicking you onto and then across the grounds, compelling you to lap up whatever foulness I dribble, so you may greet me with a thrilled and blithe visage crossing your demeanor, as this, too, is your dirty idea to reinforce your status and standing to me that you crave for all to see as you so willingly enslave yourself to me, to crawl naked on my command, to obey my every whim and law regardless of expenses and costs to you in your abject humiliations and unspeakable agonies forthwith.
In general, you hurt so long and so bad, you won’t be able to wear a corset as you are now obliged to bend over far into meeknesses and timidities when you sit at chores, to futilely stab at holding still in your scandalously loose and open dress that nearly reveals your shames to everyone you meet despite your best faux-aspirations to appear blushing and demure that only inspires me to ruminate on as to how we shall henceforth explore just how to expose you publically—perhaps offering your beleaguered form to be gazed upon and immortalized by artists, to demonstrate your duressed fealties to me forever in museums and parlors. Despite your prevailing self-centered paper-shynesses, your crescenting sensitivities drive you into madness and play more and more into your despondent concerns to get even the bare and feathery tensions of laces and habits off your exquisite boobs, your choicest of fruits that, at previous dances and fetes, always got you to have to remind so many awkward suitors, before I came along, as to where your eyes really were as if your unteared oculi were somehow important to their edifications and enlightenments and possibilities.
Not to me, of course. Quite the opposite.
They are brown, by the way. Full of spark and plead. True lights of beauty. And you, of all people, need to cry.
But starting now and ever after, when your teats shall then sway and creak and twinge, as you trudge and kneel and offer homage, worship, and service to that which is now holy to you, with your optics full of wetnesses and blurs, you must agree and conscript yourself to continually be reminded of what, yes, you asked for. Begged for, as I recall. Your wealths and royalties and revenues for your dire and self-conflagrationary ambitions are assured: the ways to make such hallowed occasions happen for you are without blessed number. Such is our covenant.
When you call on me after the liturgy to complain that it still hurts—naming me a vicious, heartless, and wonderful bastard—I am most delighted to smile across the brickwork and say “Why, yes, luv, I’m sure it does; do you want to come in? I’m thinking…well. I’ll be honest. I’d want to lie you out slut-flat, nude on my floor, facedown, your hands reaching around behind you to draw back and open an embarrassing and most-private portion of your anatomics that we have all been taught to revile first in our infantile lessons of civilization, as I ordain you to present and sacrifice the most intimate and profane way in to your whore-shapes and figures to me and my delirious raptures. I long to behold you trembling, quivering, waiting for me to hurl down all my mass onto you and into you, pillaging my way in all at once, knowing you as I would a man with vile and bellowing sodomy as had so often happened in days of old in condemned Gomorrah, crushing your poor tits onto the rugs, abrading and chafing their softnesses and smoothnesses into burnings and usage marks on top of everything else I intend to fist and pummel you with, sincerely endeavoring and exerting myself to get you to shriek out for all the angels to hear how you truly joyously feel about me for more than one reason this time as we once again pay divine homage to the heavens for the grand debauched joke we are such happy victims of…”
You, naturally, rebuke me with the words we began with, complaining that, despite my pedantic philosophies, I have not yet truly done as you charged me anywhere near enough to suit, that such silly games and reservations and timidities we have rehearsed so far simply will not suffice, beseeching me with a wink to please take this commission more seriously and that I should not fear holding back any effort any further toward its fulfillment. You casually ramble on about immediacy and then onto something perhaps important about breaking things within you of note and structure, as their jaggednesses and crags might prove occasionally useful in extracting the odd confession and litany and the like. Such wounds also make you easier to catch. I laugh and express my thankfulness for your patiences and indulgences of my meager chivalries and considerations, and we grin at each other in an over-lengthy silence, coming to understandings and peaces and troths as the setting sun again marks the passage of ages in henges everywhere, before tearing each other’s garments off as we race inside, where the harmonic feedback loop cycles again. And then again.
And then yet still again, powering our vessel for this, our adventure, with a mythical perpetual motion engine scoffed at and belittled by the physicists and scorned and fretted over by the clergys. Fortunately, the stars are much more distant away from us than we think they are, and the mights and the courages and the currents of our connection do captain us greatly further than we think we can sail, on our voyage to offer our final courtesies and gratitudes in the end to some nitwit infinity out there for extending us a little defilable grace for us to sing about and chant over in the bleeding serrated languages of wreckages and blemishes and the rococo mean-tone hymns of screeches and whipstrokes that it deigns fit to be bespoken toward in the undeniable truths and beliefs of a savage and brutal providence—wrought from the hidden more blasphemous lyrics of scripture—that we so eagerly practice upon you, to grant you the pleasures and honors to act as such a beatific interpreter for such blisses and damnations, in lows and highs, forging obscene difference tones of inquisitions and bondages, creating a mysterious pitch out of nothing but each other’s good communion and cheer in the light of such glad and merry tribulations we put you through together, hand in hand, for the most righteous sake of our glorious fuck.
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