A sexual lustful memory
A small word about this piece:
This is dedicated to the woman I will call I-330 for reasons of personal pretension and protection of names. I have not seen her for weeks and this is the story of the last time we were together sexually. I loved I-330, and I don't know how she felt about me, she owned me, and she knew it.
I would like to apologize in advance if this material offends anyone out there, but In a mad desire to get some of this out, I wrote it, and you will be the first to read it.
This is a sexual piece, but the sex is secondary to the meaning behind the actions.
Without further digression here is the piece...
A sexual lustful memory. One I am not likely to forget, and yet, to not record this would certainly be a tragedy. Because, for all its triteness and clichéd themes, it did happen, and there was never a better moment.
“Hurt me,” she said in the dark of the room. “Please.”
It was the only time she ever said please to me. The only time she ever allowed me to deny her anything.
“Tell me a secret,” I said in her ear. I pinned her arms above her head with my right hand in a way that made me feel more powerful than any god could. I drew my left thumbnail down her chest pressing the nail into her in what I believed to be a communication without words that I would be capable and willing to do as she asked of me if my desire were fulfilled. The change in breath and the sharp moan which rose from her red lips made my feeling of power increase as her arms tensed against my firm hold on her wrists.
“I don’t have any secrets,” she protested. Her eyes were closed. There was still a pleading edge to her voice. I shivered as I pressed her arms into the pillow. I knew this would be the only thing she would ever let me hold from her, and still it was a failsafe bet considering the sexual power she held over me, but I would be damned if she would get out of this for free.
“Then lie,” I whispered in the darkness, “Tell me a beautiful lie.” A lea meant pain for me and I knew she wasn’t the only one getting the bittersweet sex with pain out of this. I wouldn’t be left out of this one. Lies would hurt more than nails or teeth to me. She moaned as I tightened my grip on her arms. “Tell me something I want to hear.”
“Do you want me to tell you I love you?” My heart stopped in my chest the room faded and there was nothing other than her, naked, pleading, lovely. My grip loosened. There would be nothing I would rather her than for her to tell me that. I would give her the world to hear that, and I would even hurt her to hear that. But to know it was a lie, would break me. Before I could protest and stop her she cried out in the emptiness of the void we created in this act of lust.
“I love you.” Crystalline pain like diamonds flashed through me. My world collapsed under the weight of the knowledge that it was a lie, and likely never to be said the way those words should. Not by her. Not to me.
My grip on her wrists grew tighter and I covered her mouth before she could say it again, before she could break me again. “No,” I said. “That’s not an appropriate lie.”
“Perhaps not,” she whispered, “Perhaps it’s my secret.”
“That was beautiful,” I said, and hurt her.
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