I’d like to write a story for you. I really would. I even started one, and have words, paragraphs of them, for the several stories floating around in my head. But I can’t settle, you see. I can sit here and dash this off, something that pours from my head that is my experiences. I don’t have to do deep proofreading to see if all my “she’s” stayed female, and that my verb tenses are correct, and that I spelled “orgasm” (and all the other words) correctly. You wouldn’t believe how ofetn I misspell words. (see what I did there?) And because I started life as a secretary typing on a Royal typewriter, I backspace and correct as I go. Sometimes the words fly faster than my fingers can go, and anyone that I IM with can tell you I’m a super speedy typist (even with the typos!).
But more than just editing, I can’t make my brain focus on anything sexual just now. I haven’t had an O in 4 days and He’s ramped me up and made me so fucking horny. The thought of writing anything sexy just makes me MORE turned on … and it’s not time for fulfillment yet.
And I can’t focus. I’m flitty, flighty, bouncing around from thing to thing to thing. I try really hard to not speculate on what will happen because…well, with Him? Anything can happen. There is no ‘formula’ and I never know exactly what He will do and I doubt HE does, either. He doesn’t plan, exactly. No…that’s incorrect. He doesn’t script a playtime, though He brings a lot of things with Him to torture me with just in case.
Yet my mind isn’t blank. Rather, it’s filled, filled with thoughts of Him. The remembrance of His scent. The feel of His hands gripping my fingers (or some other convenient bit of my flesh). That wicked gleam in His eyes, the curiously compelling half-amused smile (see, too smart to call it a smirk!) He often wears when we talk. The way He can tie me up with words until I’m stumbling and stuttering, to His intense amusement. The way He ties me up and smacks the fuck out of me…
No can’t think of Him smacking me (I just got this *wicked* throb in my clit. tsk. I’m *such* a wanton whore.) without being deeply affected. Stopping that train right in its track!
We spoke tonight, briefly, the first time we’ve had time to talk (and okay, I was hiding from His devious tasks) all week. He has planned a half-o…actually more than a half-o…a “you better get right to the fucking edge nilla, right to that edge, where your feet are kicking the bed, and you’re moaning swears at Me, and hating Me, totally to the edge…
And fucking STOP. RIGHT. THERE.”
He paused, and my heart was thundering in my chest. His words excited me even as they made me cringe.
“I want you to be restless. I hope you don’t sleep a wink. I hope when you do your jobs tomorrow, that you’re tired and cranky, your cunt dripping in need. That’s what I want, slut.”
The Sadist has awoken, pervie friends, awake and plotting and enjoying every last task he’s gifted me with this week. And it gets more intense. I become *more* needy. And it won’t take but a touch for me to explode when we finally meet Sunday.
So for now, I’ll exist in liminal time, that time between. Soon enough (oh, so not true! Not soon enough at all!) it will be Sunday, and I’ll be ready. Pain is promised. Pain is needed.
And an orgasm or twenty wouldn’t come amiss, either.