There's a satisfaction in being worn out for the right reasons, those who do sports and suchlike must get it, the pleasing ache along leg muscles and the not-quite-with-it feeling that lack of sleep causes. Then there are the endorphins, buzzing around the brain and adding a caffeinated feel to tired neurones, making electrical impulses judder along. After a serious night in, nothing feels quite real the next day, there's a pleasant screen between myself and the world, I'm cocooned in the memory of sensations gone past, exacerbated by their cousins, the physical mementos of the morning-after: stiffness, bruises, tenderness in soft areas. I'm topping it off with a lazy grin, tired but happy.
Every now and then, The Photographer will decide to use me throughout the night. There's a real sense of ownership, of slave-desire, in having him reach out for me, pulling me from my dreams and push his cock inside me. The ease with which he is able to slake himself with me comforts me, assures me of my function and purpose, which makes me want him more: cyclic need. My body responds before I'm really aware of what is happening, hands reaching down to hold my already wet cunt open for him as he pushes me onto my back and starts to use me. He doesn't say anything. In the pitch blackness we are both silent, lips brushing skin and part of me wants to rise up and kiss him, but I remember myself, and the remembrance of this prohibition serves to turn me on further. Negation and regulation define and sharpen our interaction. That which is not allowed is just as important as that which is mandatory. Each time I must or must not do puts me in mind of what we have, and I smile.
Further into the night, I'm getting tired. I never sleep properly in bondage, there is a weight of expectation to it, as if a small part of my brain does not shut off but instead remains watchful for if I might be needed. Alongside the tiredness is pain, my cunt is getting a little raw with use, especially at first penetration, before I've started to get wet and he's fucking me hard. Foreplay is for lovers; slaves get used without warning. There's a pleasure in the pain, not just within the body as my nerves fire hot and cold so I am both sore and enjoying the feel of him inside me, but there is a psychological value to it. He likes that he can use me whenever he wants, regardless of whether I am sore or otherwise, I will open myself to him. I like the pain, and I like the meaning of the pain. His pleasure is my pleasure and I can ride his orgasm almost as if it were my own.
His words cascade over me as he uses me. Cool, calm and collected, as always. They are soft little snowflakes pricking my exposed skin and landing in a heavy thick mass. A landslide of thought and fantasy, pressing me down inside myself where I become his object. Ripe for the taking.
Abandoned to his fate in inescapable rope
3 months ago